The traffic was clogging the exit for Key Bridge. Georgetown was just on the other side of the Potomac; it would have been quicker to get out and walk, but it made sense to stay out of sight. By now Kelly's face would have been in the newspapers, maybe even on posters. The police would be putting in a lot of time and effort to find her abductor.
I leaned over the front seat, picked up the map, and directed the driver to the river end of Wisconsin Avenue, the main north-south drag. I remembered Georgetown as almost self-contained, with a genteel and quaint feel to the town houses that had reminded me of San Francisco. The sidewalks were redbrick and uneven, and every car seemed to be a BMW, Volvo, or Mercedes. Every house and store had a prominent sign warning that the property was guarded by a security firm. Try breaking in and you'd have a rapid-response team down on you before you even had time to rip the leads from the back of the VCR.
Wisconsin is a wide street with shops and houses on either side. We found Good Fellas about four blocks up the hill on the right-hand side. As restaurants go it looked like one of the moody, designer-type places: the whole front was black, even down to the smoked-glass windows; the only relief was the gold lettering above the door. It was now nearly lunchtime;
all the staff would have punched in.
We entered through two blackened glass swing doors and were hit by the frosty blast of air-conditioning. We were at one end of a dimly lit hallway that ran the length of the front.
Halfway down was a young receptionist sitting at her desk, looking very upscale and friendly. I was impressed with Pat's taste. The girl smiled as we walked toward her, Kelly's hand in mine.
As we got closer I realized that the smile was a quizzical one. By now she was standing up, and I could see she was dressed very smartly in a white shirt and black pants.
"Excuse me, sir," she said, "we don't.. ."
I held up my hand and smiled.
"That's fine, we haven't come for lunch. I'm trying to find a friend of mine called Patrick. He used to come here a lot, maybe six or seven months ago. Does that ring a bell? As far as I know, he was going out with one of your staff. He's an Englishman, speaks like me."
"I don't know, I've only been here since the beginning of the semester."
Semester? Of course, we were in Georgetown, the university area; every student was also a waiter or waitress.
"Could you maybe call somebody, because it's really important that I make contact with him." I winked conspiratorily and said, "I've brought a friend of his--it's a surprise."
She looked down and smiled warmly.
"Hi, do you want a mint?" Kelly took a small handful.
I went on, "Maybe one of the people in the back might know him?"
While she was thinking about it, a couple of guys in suits came in behind us. Kelly was looking up at them, lumps in her cheeks.
"Hi, little lady," one of them laughed.
"You're a bit young for this, aren't you?"
Kelly shrugged. Not a word.
The receptionist said, "Excuse me a moment," and went off to do her hostess bit, opening the door beyond the desk for somebody else to meet the two diners and take them to their table.
She came back and picked up the phone.
"I'll call."
I looked down and winked at Kelly.
"We've got somebody here with a child, and they're looking for an Englishman called Patrick?" she said, then listened to the response.
She put the phone down.
"Someone'll be here in a minute."
It rang again almost immediately, and she took a reservation.
Kelly and I just stood there. A minute or two later a waitress appeared from the dining room.
"Hi, follow me."
Things were looking up. I got hold of Kelly's hand, and we went through the door to the dining room.
People here obviously liked eating in semidarkness, because all the tables were lit only by candles. Looking around, I noticed that all the waitresses seemed to be wearing snug white T-shirts that exposed their midriffs, with tight shorts and sneakers with little ankle socks.
On the right-hand side against the wall was a bar with over head lighting. The two suits were the only two customers. In the middle of the room I noticed a small raised stage, with spotlights above.
I laughed to myself: nice work. Pat!
Ass or no ass. Slack had always been successful with women. At the time of Gibraltar he was single like me, and rented the house next door. For about a year he'd been having what he called a "relationship," but we all knew better. They'd met at a Medieval Night fancy dress party; at four o'clock the next morning I was woken by the sound of a vehicle screeching up outside his house, then doors slamming and lots of giggling and laughing. We lived in a small subdivision, the sort of houses they threw up in about five minutes all through the eighties, so I could hear his front door crashing and thought, here we go. Then I heard a bit of music, and the toilet flushing, which is always nice at four in the morning.
Then lots more laughing and giggling, and they were at it. At noon the next day I was in the kitchen washing up when a taxi pulled up, and that was when Queen Elizabeth I and one of her ladies-in-waiting came scuttling out of Pat's front door, hair all over the place, looking incredibly embarrassed as they jumped into the cab hoping no one would see them.
When we grilled him, it turned out he was doing it with a mother and daughter combo. We hadn't let him hear the end of it ever since. Now it looked as though he'd got his own back.
One of the girls waved to Kelly.
"Hi, honey!" Beneath her T-shirt was what looked like a dead heat in a zeppelin race.
Kelly was loving it. I held her hand tight. As we followed the girl, Kelly looked up at me and said, "What is this place?"
"It's a kind of bar where people go to relax after work."
"Like TGI Friday's?"
"Sort of."
We came to another set of double doors and went through into a world of bright light and clatter. The kitchens were on the right, full of noisy chaos; on the left, offices. The walls were dirty white plaster with gouge marks from where they'd been knocked by furniture.
Farther down the corridor we came to another room. Our friend led us in and announced, "Here he is!"
This was obviously where all the girls hung out--in some cases, literally. If I'd had to imagine a changing room in a lap-dancing bar, I'd have thought of semmaked girls in front of mirrors with big bulbs around the edges, but this didn't fit the bill at all; it was much more like somebody's living room. It was clean, with three or four couches, a couple of chairs, a few mirrors. There was a no smoking sign that I could smell was observed, and bulletin boards full of university meetings and goings-on.
Everybody went "Hi, how are you!" to Kelly.
I looked at a policewoman wearing a skirt that was very nonregulation length.
"I'm trying to find an Englishman called Pat. He told me he came here a lot."
Kelly was getting dragged away by two of the girls.
"What's your name, honey?" There was nothing I could do to stop it.
I said, "Her name's Josie."
They were all in their fantasy outfits. One held out a Native American outfit, with fringed buckskin sleeves, feathers, the lot. She said to Kelly, "Do you like this?" and started to dress her. Kelly's eyes widened with excitement.
I kept on talking with Washington's finest.
"It's just that there's been a big mess-up on the dates. We were supposed to meet Pat so he and Josie could go on vacation. It's no problem; I'll look after her, but she really wants to see him."
"We haven't seen Pat forever, but Sherry'll know, they used to go out. She's late but she'll be here any minute. If you want to hang out, that's fine. Help yourself to the coffee."
I went over and poured myself a cup and sat down. I watched Kelly giggling. For me, this should have been like dying and going to heaven, but I was tense about Kelly letting something slip.