Chapter Four
You can drink till four a.m. in Manhattan, but some restaurants with bars set their own time for last call. Pete’s Chophouse was one of those, which was where Velda and I headed for a late-night supper after taking in Ain’t Misbehavin’ at the Ambassador Theatre. There were plenty of places closer to grab a bite and a brew, but as usual I had a hidden agenda.
After a warm greeting from Pete in his shiny tux and suspiciously black hair and mustache, I deposited my coat and hat with the check-stand blonde. The lovely Sheila, in another green gown, nicely low-cut tonight, complimented Velda on her oversized black blazer and white turtleneck, then acceded to my request for seating in the bar area. The green-eyed redhead escorted us there with a smile and not a word about my last visit to the restaurant or to our previous, ultimately tense encounter at Bellevue. She still had an eye swollen up but camouflaged with cosmetics.
On a weeknight, at around a quarter till eleven, the old-fashioned, less-than-spacious supper club was sparsely populated, the not-too-smoky ambience going well with the low lighting.
Velda had a small chef’s salad and I put away a rare steak sandwich and fries, and a couple of Miller Lites. We took our time, and in low tones discussed the Colby job, and a job is what it was now that we had deposited the old man’s check for ten grand. We kept our voices low while Sinatra, Dino, and Davis sang to us from the sound system.
“I’m still not sure,” Velda said, “what it is you think we can do that the Motor Vehicle boys and girls can’t do better.”
“Maybe nothing. But we only have one hit-and-run to look into. Plus, there are aspects of this thing that they don’t know about.”
She was nodding. “Colby’s mental state post-concussion, you mean.”
I nodded back. “That, and the cast of players hugging the periphery.”
She bobbed her head almost imperceptibly toward the bar. “Like that kid back there mixing drinks?”
We were both old enough to call anybody under forty a “kid,” even if Velda’s looks still made her a babe.
“Like him,” I agreed. “He seems to know who I am, or anyway my face rings a bell.”
“You’re a regular here or nearly so. Maybe that’s why.”
I shook my head. “No, I never saw him before that night when Colby got clipped by the Ferrari. He might have noticed me when I went out into the street to see if Colby’s Wall Street cronies needed help hauling their pal’s ass to shore.”
The bartender in his black bowtie and white shirt was glancing our way now and then with the kind of blank look that in a bartender reads as a scowl. He had a few filled stools to tend to — for cliff dwellers around here this was a neighborhood bar — and was going through the usual routine of making drinks to fill waitress orders, cleaning glasses, and wiping down areas after a customer exited. It was just that he seemed more interested in Velda and me than he did his work.
“Maybe he just digs older dolls,” I said to her with a shrug.
She kicked me under the table. Gently. Fairly gently.
After sipping her Miller Lite, which they had on tap, she said, “You can’t really suspect a bartender who’s, what? Twenty-eight, thirty? Of having a friend with a Ferrari who he hired or talked into trying to run down his competition with that redhead.”
“I don’t rule anything out. And I suppose it’s worth noting that Ms. Ryan, over there manning her post... and with that shape, ‘manning’ doesn’t seem like the right word, does it? Don’t you kick me again or I’ll kick back. Anyway, it’s worth noting that she denies being involved with Vincent Colby, and appears to be involved with this specimen... and she won’t even admit that one of her male harem gave her that shiner.”
“Which she still has to cover up with concealer,” Velda said, “assuming you’re enough of a detective to have noticed that when she seated us.”
“I’m not only enough of a detective to’ve noticed that,” I said, and sipped Miller, “I also noticed it was the other eye this time.”
Don’t be impressed. Velda couldn’t have copped to that, not having seen Sheila with that other black eye, and only knowing about it second-hand from me.
“It has been a couple of weeks,” Velda said, her own lovely eyes narrowing. “Plenty of time for that first mouse to stop squawking.”
Pete rolled over to our booth with a big smile, leaning in to see how we were doing.
“Join us for a moment,” I said.
He glanced around, saw nothing needing his attention, and slid in on Velda’s side of the booth.
“It’s good to see you again, Mike, so soon. Been too long between visits. I can’t promise you one as memorable as last time, though!”
“Well, that’s fine by me,” I said. “But Velda and I are here for more than a late-night snack, good as that steak sandwich was. This is actually business.”
“How so?”
I was keeping my voice down, way down, Sinatra providing cover. “I’m looking into that hit-and-run,” I said, “working for young Colby’s father.”
My client had given me permission to drop his name if I felt that would help, which with somebody like Pete it did.
I continued: “Vincent Colby himself isn’t pleased to have me poking in, but that can’t be helped.”
Pete was frowning; he didn’t seem thrilled that this was turning out to be more than host/patron happy talk.
“Young Mr. Colby dines here frequently,” he said, “but I don’t know him beyond that.” He lowered his gaze. “But, Mike — I’m not comfortable talking about my customers.”
“You’d be helping him.”
He raised a palm. “You said Mr. Colby was unhappy with you looking into—”
“His father feels otherwise. I feel otherwise.”
Shaking his head, Pete said, “I still don’t see how I can help.”
Velda put a hand on his sleeve and said, “Just answer a few questions, Pete. Please. What could it hurt?”
The restaurant owner swallowed. “Well... all right. But I reserve the right to decline to answer.”
Velda smiled. “Take the Fifth all you like, Pete.”
“So,” he said, “what do you want to know?”
“You can tell me,” I said, “if your hostess is banging your bartender.”
The crudity of that made him blink, but his answer was damn near a non sequitur. “I have several bartenders on staff.”
I gave him a narrow-eyed look that was less than friendly. “Not tonight you don’t. You know what I’m talking about, Pete. Who I’m talking about.”
He shrugged. “You mean Gino.”
“If that’s his name, I do. The dark-haired jamoke working the tap right now.”
“Yes. Gino Mazzini. Does a good job. Doesn’t cause trouble. Not super-friendly, not a tell-your-troubles-to type bartender, but skilled. Efficient. Not surly.”
Not surly. What a commendation.
I said, “So. Is he involved with Sheila?”
Pete shook his head, but that didn’t exactly mean no. “You should ask her that.”
“Okay. Fair enough. But do you think she might be? Hooking up with him?”
After a moment, he nodded.
“Could she be involved with Colby, too? Banging both at the same time?”
Velda frowned at me, then quickly smiled at Pete. “What Mike means, could she be seeing both of them?”
“Right,” I said, “I wasn’t talking ménage a twat or anything.”
Velda rolled her eyes.
Pete was shaking his head again. “You’d have to—”
“Ask her, right, right. I will. But right now I’m asking you — which of them gave her those shiners?”