“Then how come you don’t wear one?”
Dave answered, quite seriously, “Because I’m a veterinarian. He’s a warrior.”
22
“Shall I call you Daisy?” Ward Hamilton clinked his crystal glass of Prosecco against Victoria’s, and squirmed in his arm chair with the delight of knowing that, beneath her filmy white crushed cotton slit skirt, she was almost certainly wearing nothing at all.
“Why, Mr. Gatsby,” she purred. “I do believe you’re treading closer to the informal every moment.” She smiled at him lasciviously, and finished her drink in a single sensuous sip-her eyes never leaving his as she swallowed. In the distant background, in what could indeed have been scene from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, archers also dressed in white dotted the country club’s impeccable green lawn.
“You must admit it, darling,” Victoria continued. “I bested you roundly this afternoon.”
“You did indeed,” Hamilton chuckled affably. “But I am not surprised. While I’ve been slaving away at the Public Library and in front of my screen, you can practice any time you like.”
“Not that you did too badly,” she allowed. “Four bull’s eyes aren’t exactly a shabby score.”
“I am becoming,” Hamilton said, “an increasingly good marksman. Un bon tireur, as General Idi Amin used to say. Though he was talking about his rate of impregnation.”
“Why is it everything has to come back to sex with you?”
“Because you are my lover,” Hamilton said. “In your physical presence, there is nothing else worth thinking about.” He took her hand, and brought it to his lips, savoring her delicate perfume.
“If only it could cure what ails you,” she said, her eyes misting for a moment until she covered by reaching for the bottle.
Hamilton brushed her hand aside, took the bottle, and poured for her.
The waitress in the French milkmaid’s pinafore approached the table, a look of sweet solicitation on her innocent face. “May I bring you another bottle, madame et monsieur?”
Hamilton shook his head. “I think we finish this one,” he said in a teasing tone, “take it and you with us to the back seat of our limousine for dessert.”
The waitress put her hand to her face to cover a blush.
Under the table Victoria’s white-stockinged foot found its way into Hamilton’s crotch and gave him a playful nudge. “Don’t worry,” she said to the young woman, “he’s just joking.”
“Not at all,” Hamilton insisted. “We would take you to places you’ve never imagined,” he purred to the waitress, who was slowly but surely backing away from the table, glancing around for the nearest exit.
Victoria put down her champagne glass and reached for her cell phone. She pushed a speed-dial and spoke into the mike: “Bring the car around, please. Mr. Hamilton is being naughty again and needs to be attended to.”
Hamilton loved the look she gave him. He knew he was in for a treat.?
“The privacy window is up,” the chauffeur whispered to Victoria as he held the door for her.
“Thank you, Patrick,” she said. “Care to join us?”
“No, thank you,” the driver answered, flicking a speck of pollen from his otherwise impeccable gray lapel. “Awfully jolly to invite me, though.”
Victoria gave him a look filled with erotic promise, then ducked inside the car, taking care to allow Patrick a glance of her braless decolletage.
Hamilton was waiting.
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” she said, reaching for his zipper and pulling aside her skirt.
“You’ll see,” he said. “Viagra goes down very well with champagne.”
“Then I will too,” she said, releasing him from his white linen trousers. “Pretend I’m wearing a white pinafore.”
“I’d rather pretend you’re wearing nothing at all,” he said, moaning as she took him into her mouth. He pulled her hair away from her neck, so he could focus on the heart-shaped tattoo at its base.
23
Cal Bergman was frustrated. He had taken no notes during his interview with Nevins but the details were swirling in his brain; details he was not sure how to handle. How much should he reveal to Cody? How much should he dictate to himself? What had he learned that would advance the case?
That one he was sure of: nothing.
Should he suggest another run at the Yellow Door club? Perhaps shake up the bartender a little more or perhaps bang on the Manager, whoever he was? It seemed to him that would be a waste of time though as Cody often reminded them, “Nothing is a waste of time.” Dog work, which is what the captain called it, was necessary if for no other reason than to close the book on a string of the investigation. As he wove his way through the Friday evening traffic he considered the only clue they had: The woman in the red dress and the vampire mask.
Someone had to know who she was and at that moment the only someone was the killer. And at that moment who was the only person whom he felt certain knew who the killer was? The woman in the red dress.
A classic conundrum.
The only other person who knew was Raymond Handley and Handley most certainly wasn’t talking and he laughed at that thought. Not a humorous laugh, a laugh of vexation. What was it his grandmother used to say? If two people know something, it’s a secret. If three people know, it’s a headline.
The only headline the third person in this case could be assured of was when the details of his lurid death became known to the media.
And so Bergman’s lissome brain turned back to Handley. His detailed journal might still contain a secret; some address, some name, some hypocorism that may have eluded him when he was poring over the black book. Perhaps a phone number scribbled sideways on one of its pages. Anything.
He had decided on a simple method to reduce the overwhelming contents of the book to a workable monograph. He would narrow his focus to the previous two months and use ratiocination, string logic, to connect names, dates, possible codes, even scribblings, in search of any clue that might reveal the identity of the woman in red and hopefully lead to Handley’s killer.
But his tenacity was encumbered. He checked his watch. Six fifty-seven. He had not eaten all day and lack of food had drained his energy and was giving him a headache. And so, as he drove south on Bowery, his thoughts turned from homicide to sapid delights; to fettuccini Crosetti, a big bowl of minestrone, a rich Italian salad, perhaps even a glass of red wine-to La Venezia Ristorante, which was right on his way and a few blocks from the Loft-the perfect place to parse Handley’s black book while satisfying his hunger.
He turned right onto Hester Street, drove a block and turned into a parking lot. He called the Loft from the car, and told Simon, who was working the desk, where he was, then headed for the entrance.
The Venezia was near the intersection of Mott and Hester, the bustling tourist tract where Little Italy morphed into Chinatown. It had occupied the same one-story building since the mid-fifties when Tony Crosetti and his brother Bernardo, whose father had left them a modest inheritance, had pooled their resources, bought the building and started the restaurant, with their mother as the grand chef. Their first menu was hand-written from the recipes in her head. Dishes she had been cooking for them all their lives. Tony, who was twenty-five and had a head for numbers, would handle the business while Bernie, who was twenty-seven and had a stomach for cooking, would learn cuisine at his mother’s elbow.
It was the neighborhood trattoria where locals-especially cops and hangers-on of the law-gathered to drink, eat, trade lies, argue, and celebrate first communions, birthdays, and other treasured family moments. It was no secret that Lo Zio, Uncle Tony, loved cops, knew the regulars by name-most of who worked the 1.2 square miles of the Fifth Precinct or were members of the TAZ-and treated them as family.
As Bergman entered Venezia through the Mott Street entrance his senses were overwhelmed by the tantalizing aroma and the noise: thirty tables crowded with Friday night revelers, their conversation and laughter virtually drowning out the music playing in the background; real people joyously welcoming the weekend. It had been a long time, Cal wishfully thought, but quickly brushed off the idea. He had work to do.