“I’d guess she was playing hide-and-seek with Luigi that night, keeping her own stash safe and sound,” Mercer said.
“Think of it, Mercer,” Mike said. “If Luigi found out that night that Lisette had a criminal record-”
“How would that come up?” I asked.
“Easy. Suppose she bragged about where she got the skulls, trying to prove her mettle? Suppose she thought he’d be impressed that she’d been a bad girl-a thief, a shoplifter, and who knows what else?”
“Yeah.”
“The problem is she would have been revealing that she had a criminal history. A rap sheet, a record, fingerprints on file.”
“Useless to Luigi,” Mercer said, “as an international burrier. With a record, Lisette wouldn’t have made it past the customs line at JFK.”
“So that’s a reason to kill her?” I asked.
“Depends on how much she knew about Luigi’s plans,” Mercer said. “That could give him a motive. So could stealing his dope supply. And then he slips a matchbook into her pocket, to keep the heat on Luc-knowing all the while Luc has an alibi.”
Mike tossed his head back to finish his last shot of vodka. “Also could be how Lisette knew about Luc’s plans. Poker face, blondie. Just you keep a cool poker face. I’m not fingering Luc, I’m just saying he’s in the middle of a maelstrom, and we’ve got to help him get out.”
The door opened and Ken Aretsky came in. He leaned over and kissed me, and I was instantly disarmed by his warmth. Ken was the epitome of a mensch-a total stand-up guy for whom friendship and loyalty were paramount.
Mike and Mercer stood to shake hands with him. Ken was a little taller than I, slim and fit in his smart tweed jacket, with an irrepressible smile and tortoiseshell glasses that did nothing to hide the sparkle in his eyes.
“I know you wanted to talk to me, Mike. Am I interrupting anything?”
“Please sit down with us, Ken. We need your help.”
“Sure,” Ken said. “Where’s Luc?”
“He’s got lots of stuff to do,” Mike said.
“He’ll be okay in all this, won’t he?” Ken was talking to Mike but looking at me.
“That’s a work in progress,” Mike said. “We’re on top of it.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Talk to us about how the business end of this works, Ken. Where’s the profitability? How do you deal with investors? How do they make their money back?”
“Have you got all night?”
“Start talking.”
“It’s different for every restaurateur, Mike. Luc and I get along well because I think we’ve got pretty similar interests. We’re about giving our clients great hospitality and really good food,” Ken said. “Luc’s got the same gift his father, Andre, had. He takes an interest in the people who eat in Le Relais. It’s not about his ego at all.”
“But he’s talking about six to eight million to start up a new place like Lutèce. How do you make a go of that?”
“Well, you certainly can’t do it alone anymore.”
“So Luc’s got partners, right? Rich guys who throw money at him. How long will it take him to pay them back?”
“You can be sure that his team has spent plenty of time with their accountants. This all has to be managed down to the last dime, Mike, to the very last penny. It’s plotted out to the price of the candle that sits in the middle of a table, or whether or not you can afford to put truffles in a reduction sauce you’re using on a veal dish.”
“What else?”
“The numbers guys tell you how much you’re going to have to spend-and make-to turn a profit,” Ken said. “It can easily take five years for an owner like Luc to earn the first dollar that’s free of debt.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Say he has a hundred and sixty seats to fill at dinnertime at Lutèce. They’ll be counting on turning them over for a second seating on the high-traffic nights.”
“What are those?” Mercer asked.
“Thursday, Friday, Saturday. The other nights you’re lucky if you turn over a quarter of them, in this economy. Appetizers for as much as thirty-five bucks, and entrées between forty and sixty. You do the same figuring for the luncheon business. If you get lucky and fill the tables more times than you expect, it’s all money in the bank.”
“What’s different about this economy?” Mike asked. “It always looks to me like the rich boys still like to eat well.”
“I count on that,” Ken said, with a smile. “Luc’s very fortunate. Even though he’s the new kid in town, he gets the instant name recognition of Lutèce, one of the greatest restaurants ever created, which lasted more than forty years. But when he started to plan this opening, it was before the bloodbaths on Wall Street. A lot of those over-the-top bonuses are what kept my private rooms full and my wine vaults empty.”
“What’s the deal with all you guys and private rooms?” Mercer asked.
“They’re a surefire way to make more money.”
“Why?” I asked.
“People like the exclusivity, Alex. And on our end, we get to charge the patrons for renting the room, beyond the price of the food. You reserve our Sporting Room upstairs for a dinner of thirty, let’s say, and you choose the menu for your guests in advance? The chef knows exactly how much food he needs to prepare, so there’s no waste, and I know you’re good for some expensive wines to wash it down.”
“So this wine cellar of yours,” Mike asked, looking around at the elegant display of cabinetry holding the bottles, “is it modeled on the idea of the one at ‘21’?”
“Same concept,” Ken said with a wink at me, “only mine is nicer.”
“And those stories about the secret door at ‘21’?”
“All true, because of Prohibition. It used to be the best-kept secret in town, but now it’s a familiar story. The architect ultimately revealed his design.”
“How many investors does it take in today’s market to create a place as classy as Lutèce?” Mercer asked.
“It depends how much money each one wants to put up. I’m not sure how many backers Luc has.”
“Neither are we,” I said.
“Well, we know about Peter Danton and Gina Varona for sure,” Mike said. “But Luc said something to the cops today about another silent partner or two, people that were giving money to Danton and Varona in order to get a slice of the pie.”
Ken shook his head. “It’s a bad way to go.”
“How so?” Mike asked. “Too many cooks?”
“That’s the general idea. You get four, five, or six people-it’s bound to happen that one doesn’t get along with some of the others. There’s too much at stake. In the end, it’s Luc who suffers. It’s Luc,” Ken said, “who’s likely to go under.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
The three of us devoured the feast prepared in the Patroon kitchen. We’d all been working so hard that we’d existed on junk food, caffeinated drinks, and pure adrenaline. The conversation was bland. We stayed away from Luc and his situation, and the latest revelations about Baby Mo.
The restaurant was only ten minutes from my apartment. I took my place in the backseat for the short ride.
“Are things so bad you’re not going to let me call Luc and say good night?” I asked. “Do you even know where he is?”
Mercer took his eyes off the road to glance at Mike.
“He’s working, Coop.”
“Where? On what?”
“He’s at Lutèce. I dropped him off at the building when we left Brooklyn. He was meeting the designer there, and some of his suppliers. You want to call? Go ahead.”
I leaned forward and took hold of the collar of Mike’s blazer. “You’re going to see him, aren’t you? You two are planning to drop me off and go talk to Luc, am I right?”