They thought it was a restaurant, they wanted to know how to get there. It’s in Spain, I said. Just walk to Paris and take a right.
Philip? Be sure you take good care of Jim here, and the commissioner.”
“H E R E I W A S T E L L I N G you how to find the place,” Jim Galvin said, “and she greets you like the prodigal son. ‘Take good care of the commissioner.’ ”
“‘Take good care of Jim and the commissioner.’ ”
“I gotta say I’m surprised she could come up with my name. It’s not like I’ve been coming here that much.”
“She’s good. Next time she’ll know your last name, too.”
“How do you know she didn’t know it now?”
“Either way,” Buckram said, “it would have been Hello, Jim. But then when she handed you off to Philip it would have been Take good care of Mr. Galvin.”
“And the commissioner.”
“Well, titles are for life, as far as the public is concerned. You run into Clinton, you’re not going to call him Bill.”
“How ya doin’, Mr. President? Except not everybody gets that treatment, Fran. It’s still Mayor Koch and Mayor Giuliani, but how about Dinkins? And it stopped being Mayor Beame ten minutes after Koch got sworn in.”
“So I’m the commissioner for life, is that what you’re saying?”
“Unless you get to be something else that trumps police commissioner.”
No, he wasn’t going to have that conversation again. “The mix is what makes this place work,” he said. “I started coming here after I got my gold shield, not all the time but every couple of weeks.
You remember a wise guy named Teddy Kostakis? We had him for something, I forget what, and he rolled over and was gonna make all kinds of cases for us. And we brought him here one night, we’re feeding him, we’re buying him drinks, and he’s feeling like a pretty important guy, like a celebrity. And it turns out Teddy’s one of those guys, the alcohol messes with his volume control. More he drinks, louder he gets.”
“There’s a lot of guys like that.”
“And they’re usually sitting at the next table, but not this time.
And here’s Teddy, telling his stories so they can hear him out in the street, and you can’t get him to pipe down. Now this is a nice place, you know that—”
“Sure.”
“And they get a decent crowd, but more often than not there’s a couple of made guys in the joint, and if they’re hearing what he’s saying, and if they’ve had as much to drink as he’s had, well, I don’t mind that much if Teddy gets shot, but I’m sitting right across the table from him, and whatever misses him could hit me.”
“Wha’d you do, yank him out of there?”
“You remember Phil Carnahan? A sweet guy, retired to Florida and lasted about six months down there.”
“Couldn’t take it?”
“Loved it, but he had one of those kinds of cancer that gets you out in a hurry. He called me to tell me he had this boat, I had to come down and go fishing with him, and then he called two weeks later to say he’d been to the doctor and got some bad news. And the next call I got was from his wife. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get off on this track. Where the hell was I?”
“He was sitting next to Teddy.”
“Oh, right. So he takes him by the shoulder, he shakes him, gets his attention, which isn’t the easiest thing in the world at this point, and he says, ‘Teddy, Teddy, you got to watch what you say.
Don’t you know where you are?’ And Teddy looks at him, like Huh? And Phil says, ‘This is Stelli’s, Teddy. The fucking place is crawling with writers. They’ll steal your material!’ ” S H E R E A D S T E L L I ’ S F A C E as she entered, and decided to improvise. “Hi, Stelli,” she said. “Did Maury Winters get here yet?” And she saw the woman’s expression soften. She’d greeted her by name, she’d mentioned a prominent local figure who was an occasional if not frequent patron of the restaurant’s, so she must be okay. Stelli told her that the lawyer hadn’t made a reservation, which didn’t surprise Susan greatly because she happened to know he was in Amagansett for the weekend.
“We made a very tentative date,” she said. “I’ll be at the bar if he comes in. It’s Susan Pomerance.”
“Of course, dear.”
Yeah, like you recognized me, she thought, moving to the far end of the bar, where there were several seats open. That’s fine, dear, she thought. I’ll pretend I’m waiting for Maury and you pretend you know who I am, and we’ll both pretend your first take on me wasn’t that I was a hooker.
She ordered a Cosmopolitan and watched the bartender prepare it. He set it down and waited while she took the first sip, and she smiled her approval. He smiled back and moved off, and he was cute, a little young but that was all right. But you had to wait around all night if you wanted to fuck a bartender, and even then there was no guarantee. He could be gay, he could have a wife or girlfriend. Too bad, she thought, because he was cute.
To her left, a man and woman were deep in conversation. To her right, two men were telling Tallulah Bankhead stories. That was before her time, but it was before their time, too, and it was the sort of place where you could horn in on a conversation if you had something to contribute.
She said, “The line of hers I always liked was My daddy warned me about men and whiskey. He never said a word about women and cocaine.”
They liked that, and at once turned to include her in the conversation. The one closer to her signaled for another round, and asked her if she was ready for another Cosmo. She smiled and shook her head, she’d hardly touched hers. “Next round,” she said, and when their drinks came she raised her own glass.
The man farther from her said, “To men and whiskey? Or women and cocaine.”
She thought about it. “It’s probably déclassé to admit this,” she said, “but I never much cared for cocaine.”
They liked that, too, and the man next to her introduced himself and his friend. He was Lowell Cooke, he told her, and his friend was Jay McGann, the writer.
“But don’t pretend you’ve heard of me,” McGann said, “because nobody has.”
“But that’ll change very soon,” Cooke said, “as soon as your book comes out.”
“He has to believe that,” McGann said. “He’s my editor. And you are . . . ?”
“Susan Pomerance,” she said. “I have an art gallery in Chelsea.”
“A woman of substance,” McGann said. “I have to confess, I’m partial to women of substance. They’re so . . .” He turned to his friend for help.
“Substantial,” Cooke supplied.
“That’s it, they’re so substantial. You see? I need an editor.” If she had to choose, which one would she pick? Neither was male-model gorgeous, though McGann had a rugged Marlboro Man quality to him that she liked. Cooke had a nice sensuality about him, though. When he moved his hands, she could feel them on her body.
Pie or ice cream? But why couldn’t she have pie à la mode?
God, she was wet at the very thought of it, and maybe it hadn’t been such a brilliant idea to go out without underwear. But it felt sexy, Jesus did it ever feel sexy, with her nipples (and they tingled, they always tingled now) rubbing the inside of the dress when she moved, and no cloth to bind her bare and dampened loins, and what if she did go home with the two of them? What if she fucked them both, one after the other or, better yet, both at once?
She’d never done that. Gary, that asshole husband of hers, with his oh-let’s-be-swingers number, had never really arranged any-
thing interesting. And men who drooled at the thought of two girls and a guy got uptight at the idea of two men and one woman.
Afraid they’d be shown up as less virile than the other guy, she supposed. Or, worse, scared of having some kind of sexual contact with him, and terrified that they might enjoy it.
Men . . .
R O Z H A D M A D E T H E reservation for nine, and he was ten minutes late. Stelli was there to greet him, and he said he was with Roz Albright.
She took his hand in both of hers, which surprised him. “She’s waiting for you in back,” she said. “I don’t know where Philip is, but go ahead back, you’ll find her. And John?” She was beaming. “I heard the news. Congratulations.”
He walked the length of the restaurant, feeling as though every eye in the place was on him. Roz was at a center-rear table, and there was an ice bucket on a stand next to the table, with a bottle of champagne chilling.
J I M G A L V I N I N T E R R U P T E D H I M S E L F in the middle of a war story. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “You’re not going to believe who just walked in.”
“Who?”
“Don’t turn around. Shit, he’s coming this way.”
“Who is it?”
“My fucking client, and how did he even know I was here? Wait a minute, he didn’t, and he doesn’t even see me. The champagne’s for him, and what do you figure he’s got to celebrate?” Buckram could see him now, giving the big blonde a hug and a kiss, then sitting down opposite her. The guy’s face was familiar, but he couldn’t think why.
He said, “Who is he, and what are you doing for him?”
“I’m doing jack shit for him, which I guess is why it spooked me to see him walk in like he’s gunning for me. Who is he? He’s John fucking Creighton is who he is.”
“The writer?” And he put his hands together and mimed wringing an invisible neck.
“Yeah,” Galvin said. “That writer. I’m supposed to turn up a witness that’ll help the defense. Like what? Somebody who saw him not kill her?”
“Be a neat trick.”
“I got one guy, says he’s pretty sure the two of them left the bar separately. But hell, there’s evidence puts him in the apartment with her. Maybe this muddies the water some, maybe Winters can do something with it, but—”
“Maury Winters? That’s who you’re working for?”
“Yeah, and I never thought I’d see the day. I’ll never forget how he made a monkey out of me in court one time. Anything comes of this, the DA’ll be trying to make me look stupid, and Maury’ll be objecting left and right. Funny how it comes around, isn’t it?”
“Maury Winters.”
“Is that the magic word, Fran? You and him got a beef or something?”
“See the brunette? Fourth stool from the end?”
“Changing the subject again? Yeah, I noticed her when she walked in. She’s a beautiful woman, I wouldn’t mind seeing more of her, but what’s she got to do with my boss?”
“The last time I saw Maury,” he said, “was in a fancy French restaurant.”
“Yeah, well, I guess he can afford to eat anyplace he wants.”
“He was all by himself at a table, and she was under it.”