The dining room was to the right of the entrance, its walls adorned with photographs of Venice, Naples, Rome and Lake Como; of family and friends; and a framed copy of a piece about La Venezia from City Gourmet Magazine entitled “The Ritual Prince of Mott Street.” The bar to the left was also crowded with revelers, among them two older gents playing dollar poker.
Uncle Tony was a man of tradition, disciplined and habitual. A small, joyful fellow, barely five-six and weighing at best 140 pounds, he dressed impeccably, always a dark blue suit, white shirt and a carnation in his lapel. He looked up from the maitre d’s desk as Bergman entered. “Sergeant Bergman,” he said. His creased face lit up.
Bergman towered over the little man who rushed over and hugged him around the waist. Bergman laughed. “Not yet, Zio Tony,” he said. “Still just detective.”
“Well, you should be,” Tony said firmly.
“I’m working on it,” Bergman answered. He held up Handley’s book. “Thought I’d grab a bite to eat while I’m doing some homework. I forgot it was Friday night. I should have called first.”
Tony waved off the suggestion. He looked at his reservation book, glanced around the room, and snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. “Kenny,” he said. “Table nineteen for our friend. Clean it off quickly.”
“Yes sir.” The waiter rushed off.
“So, you are working something, eh?” the little man said, nodding at the journal.
Bergman smiled. “We’re always working something, Uncle Tony.”
“Perhaps a drink? Soothe the nerves.”
“I’m on the job.”
“Who’s to know?” Tony said with a wink. “A little vino. Stir the appetite.”
“Okay. Maybe a Chianti, please.”
“Excellent.”
The waiter returned to tell them the table was ready.
“Bring Chianti for the detective,” Tony said as he grabbed a menu and led Bergman through the room toward a small corner table for two. As they passed a hallway to the private dining room, Tony cocked his head toward the room which was particularly noisy.
“Magpies,” he said, “cheep, cheep, cheep. Rich ladies. A charity thing tonight. They come once a year before their annual shindig. So…” he waved his hand slightly, “they get a little buzzed, laugh a lot, tip the waiters big. They can cheep all they want, right?”
“Right,” Bergman agreed.
They reached the table and Tony held the chair as Bergman sat down.
“Take your time. Do your homework. It’s my honor to have you.” He leaned over and added, “Try the special, bistecca Maria, my mother’s favorite. A little filet mignon, wild mushrooms soaked in brandy and Gorgonzola sauce, wrapped up a nice fluffy pastry.” He kissed his fingertips and flared out his hand.
“ Grazie, Zio,” Bergman answered.
Tony patted him on the shoulder and left.
Bergman put Handley’s black book on the table in front of him but the waiter arrived with the glass of wine so he set the book aside and turned his attention to the menu.
The ladies started heading out for the shindig, one in a red dress offering him a whiff of her exotic perfume as she passed his table.?
At about the same time, Cody and Amelie Cluett were parking near an intimate Thai restaurant on 66 ^ th Street. They both had agreed on Thai food and Tiger Thai, one of her favorites, was a few blocks from the Wildlife Center. Before they left the car, Cody called The Loft.
“Hi, Captain, it’s Si.”
“Hue off?”
“Taking a nap in the back. He’s on recon later tonight.”
“Heard from Bergman yet?”
“Yes sir, he’s eating at Uncle Tony’s. He needs to talk to you.”
“Did he score something with Nevins?”
”No, but he needs to give you his report. He doesn’t want to put it on tape.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
“I’m at Tiger Thai on 66 ^ th. When Cal calls back, tell him it can wait until morning, he’s been at it since dawn. I don’t want him walking around in his sleep.”
“Right.”
“You working anything?”
“I’m not sure yet. Tomorrow maybe. Trying to get a fix on Linda Stembler’s whereabouts so we can talk to her.”
Cody knew better than to push Larry Simon. He didn’t like to talk about his works in progress.
“Okay. If anything important comes up call me on the cell. It’s on the hummer so it won’t annoy everybody in the restaurant.”
“Gotcha.”
“Later.”
He rang off and entered the restaurant with Amelie which, while crowded, was less boisterous than La Venezia. They found a quiet table in the back.
“How about a drink?” he asked when the waiter arrived.
“I’ll have a Thai beer,” she said.
“Good. I’ll have Thai tea, iced.”
The waiter nodded and left.
“You don’t drink?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I don’t have to…”
“Hey,” he said with a smile, “I have absolutely nothing against it. I just never got around to it.”
She started to laugh and smothered it with two fingers pressed against her lips. “Never got around to it. That’s funny.”
“Funny stupid or funny-to-the-point?”
“Oh, succinct. I can’t imagine you saying anything stupid.”
“Oh. Well, I can be stupid, believe me.”
She thought a moment and said, “Dave says you’re a prophet. I always think of prophets as being profound. And you have visions. Are you psychic?”
“Well, not exactly. The visions are very brief and…uh
…metaphoric.”
She laughed and said, “So you’re, let’s see…” she thought a moment and said, “Profoundly psychimetaphoric.”
They both laughed.
He shook his head. “I’m only profound on Halxpaawit.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. I wouldn’t even try to pronounce that.” More laughter.
The waiter came with their drinks and Cody told him they weren’t ready to order yet. Then Micah stared at her and said, “ Halxpaawit is like Sunday, if you’re a Christian. Or Saturday, if you’re a Jew. It’s Nimi’uuputimptki, the language of the Nimiipu — the Nez Perce. So, on Halxpaawit, the Nimiipu m eet in a large communal house and practice walabsat, which is the Religion of the Seven Drums as told by the miyooxat, who are spiritual leaders, and interpreted by the weyekin, who are, as you put it, profoundly psychimetaphoric. Oh, and my mother was a Catholic. How about you?”
He started to laugh and she joined him and said, “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“Very succinct,” he said and raised his glass of tea to her. “You’ve eaten here before, what’s your recommendation?”?
Jonee Ansa offered to drive Kate Winters over to the Hospital. He was running recon in South Manhattan and, as he said, “As long as you’re going south of 42 ^ nd Street anyplace is on my way.”
Munching from a bag of chips, he drove up to 14 ^ th Street and headed east.
“You picked quite a day to start,” Ansa said.
“And how,” Kate answered. “Is it always like this?”
“Nah. Sometimes we’ll go a couple weeks working with the precinct guys, then we’ll catch one. But it’s never dull. Think you’re gonna like it?”
“I do already,” she said, fingering the whistle under her blouse. “I couldn’t believe it when he gave me the whistle.”
“Yeah, he’s full of surprises. Let me tell you, they come in handy. Me and Rizzo caught a double homicide report one day monitoring 911. It was over on Avenue D. We get there, we can see a dead guy in the hallway. His brains are all over the place. The door’s locked so I go around to the side of the house, jump a little fence, and just before I get to the back door I am looking at the biggest fu…friggin
…Doberman I ever saw. Waist high and all teeth and just itchin’ to have me for lunch. So I grab my whistle and blow as hard as I can and that dog’s ears damn near fly off his head and he starts yipping like I kicked him in the nuts and he disappears. I think he went under the house or something. Anyway, it turned out to be a guy who popped his wife and then ate the gun. We had to call animal rescue to come find the dog.”