“A penny for your thoughts, Lieutenant.”
Tom Bennett was watching him quizzically from across the table. The girls — aided by Dondero, who claimed he needed the practice — were clearing away the dishes. Billy Bennett had been excused to go back to his studies; Tim Bennett, a large blond man resplendent in his pilot’s uniform, was lighting his pipe. Tom Bennett was smiling at him. Reardon smiled back a bit ruefully.
“Well, I suppose I was thinking of how envious I was of you...”
Bennett nodded, accepting the statement as being a logical one. “I’ve much to be thankful for.” His smile faded a bit. “And some not to be, as is the way with most folks, I expect. However, it’s the way the Lord wants, or it wouldn’t be that way.” He took a deep breath and wiped away his serious mien; a twinkle came into his eyes. “How about an after-dinner drink, Lieutenant?”
“I wouldn’t mind at—” Reardon stopped abruptly, and then laughed. “I have a better idea. Why don’t we go down to a nightclub? I was thinking of the Belly-Button...”
Jan was reaching over his shoulder for some silverware. She paused and stared. “The Belly-Button?”
“It’s a place on Broadway,” Reardon explained. “They have an act there I’d like to see.”
“On Broadway?” Jan’s eyebrows went up; a mischievous smile was barely held back. “I knew I was right the other night when I checked the bars there looking for you—”
“Let’s keep our private quarrels to ourselves, eh?” He grinned at her. “Leave the dishes and let’s go—”
Tom Bennett frowned. “They’re very expensive, nightclubs. And Tim here will be glad to mix up another batch of Bloody Marys. We don’t usually go to places like that...”
“So tonight consider it in the line of duty,” Reardon said. “And as for the expense, this one will be on the police department. It doesn’t happen very often that they pay for drinks, but this will be one of those times.”
“A Broadway bar on the swindle sheet?” Dondero was amazed. “How come?”
“It’s a long story, but a true one, and I’ll tell you about it some time.” Reardon glanced at his watch. “Don, better call in and tell Communications where we’ll be, just in case. It’s a dive called the Belly-Button on Broadway near Kearny. One of Jerry Capp’s places.”
“One of Jerry Capp’s old places, you mean,” Dondero said, and headed for the telephone. He suddenly paused, grinning. “Hey — you mean maybe we can check on Pete Falcone’s spots on the expense account?” He saw the look on the faces about him and shrugged. “Sorry. Bum joke,” he said, and went on to telephone.
Tom Bennett looked around. “One car won’t do. I’ll take mine.”
“Good,” Reardon said, and came to his feet, crooking his arm for Jan to take. “Well, folks? Shall we see how the other half lives?”
Friday — 10:30 p.m.
The Belly-Button was neither the fanciest nor the sleaziest of the dives that lined both sides of Broadway in the North Beach section of town. It might well have fitted into the old Barbary Coast that once had provided the entertainment in that part of San Francisco. Actually, Reardon thought, following the sad-faced waiter to their table, take away the postage-stamp-sized stage and add a few lights and it really wouldn’t be much different than that old bar down on the Embarcadero where Jerry Capp was hit. You’d have to add a few tons of smoke to the old bar to give it the atmosphere of the Belly-Button, he thought; I wonder if they have machines to manufacture this smog, or if they buy it and have it delivered daily? In barrels, like beer? It seemed hard to believe the lack of oxygen could be attributed to the few customers the place was holding at the moment. He became aware of the waiter standing beside him and came alive to his duties as host.
“What’ll you folks have to drink?”
Jan started the ball rolling. “Scotch sour for me,” she said, and leaned back in her chair, inspecting the premises. They failed to impress her.
The waiter marked down the order with the resigned air of one who hopefully waits for someone someday to order something unexpected, but who knows no one ever will. Reardon nodded. “Gabriella?”
“I don’t know.” She turned to Jan. “What’s in a scotch sour?”
“With luck, decent scotch,” Jan said, and smiled. “All I can say is it’s better than a Gremlin’s Grampa.”
“A what?”
Even the waiter lost a bit of his lugubriousness at mention of the drink; new concoctions were rare. Reardon laughed.
“That’s another long story.”
“Oh.” Gabriella frowned, trying to make up her mind. At last she looked at the waiter, hopefully. “Do I have to have something to drink?”
“It’s your money,” he said. “Cover charge goes on whether you drink the minimum or not.”
“Oh.” She thought and then found a solution. “Could I have a beer?”
The waiter shrugged sadly and marked it down.
“That sounds good to me,” Tim said.
“I’ll have something a bit stronger,” Tom Bennett said, and looked at Reardon with a touch of defiance. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary, and heavy on the sauce.” He seemed to realize his words could be misinterpreted. “The Worcestershire sauce, I mean.”
The waiter marked it down with a sigh. Why, his mournful expression seemed to ask, doesn’t anyone ever surprise me? Why doesn’t a woman ever order a boilermaker, for example; or a man a Pink Lady? Just to shake the world up a bit?
“I’ll go for that Bloody Mary,” Reardon said.
“And I’ll make it three,” Dondero said, and reached for a cigarette, intent upon adding his small contribution to the fog in the place. “Far be it from me to ease up on an expense account.”
The waiter looked the table over sadly, as if trying to figure out why people who appeared reasonable enough on the outside, would want to waste either time or money in a place like the Belly-Button. He took a deep breath and started to move away. Reardon called after him.
“What time is the show?”
“Soon.” The waiter’s tone of voice indicated that anyone who called the entertainment in the Belly-Button a show, would probably be happy with their drinks.
“I wonder what he drinks in this place,” Dondero said, looking after the bent-shouldered figure as it moved unhappily toward the bar. “Whatever it is, remind me not to touch it.”
They looked about the place as they waited for their drinks; as if to prevent too close an inspection, the lights began to dim. A man went up to the stage, sat down at a piano, and waited, his hands in his lap. His tuxedo looked as if it had seen better days, as, indeed, it had. In a few moments he was joined by a young man in dungarees, with long hair and a guitar; he had the air of someone lost, and sat down and began to tune his instrument. The piano player sighed and gave him a note.
“Just a fun place,” Dondero muttered, and watched.
A bass fiddle player came to join the others, pulling his instrument from the wall and plucking on the strings; from the expression on his face as he leaned over the instrument, listening intently, the fiddle seemed to be telling him something, or promising him something. The drummer came up last, wearing slacks and a vest without a shirt; his hair was held in place with a headband. He sat down behind his traps and tapped restlessly with one drumstick against the edge of the piano; the piano player didn’t seem to object.