Night Watch (21 page)

My elbow was on the table, my head in my hand, as I gave Mike all the details of today’s interview. He kept one eye on the TV screen, and when Alex Trebek announced the Final Jeopardy! category, he walked over to turn up the volume and then came back to me.

“Famous Misnomers,” Trebek read the large letters on the single blue square to the three contestants. “Famous Misnomers is tonight’s category.”

Mike opened his wallet and took out a twenty, our usual wager. “This could be tricky.”

Two contestants were neck and neck with about eight thousand dollars each. The third one had less than one thousand.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m in. My money’s in the car.”

Trebek read the answer as it was revealed on the screen. “The
Rembrandt painting actually named
The Company of Frans Banning Cocq and Willem van Ruytenburch
is mistakenly called this.”

The two women contestants both looked as stumped as Mike, but the guy tied for the lead put his head down and started to write a question.

“Total fraud,” Mike said. “They should have said the category was art. This one has your Wellesley art history bullshit all over it.”

I laughed for the first time in hours. “Double or nothing?”

“Hardly.”

I sipped on the second Scotch. “What is
The Night Watch
?”

“
Night Watch
? Like my duty assignment?”

As Trebek was congratulating the man with the correct answer, an image of the colossal painting flashed on the screen.

“These are the citizens who defended the ramparts of Amsterdam—but the painting actually depicts them in daytime, off duty. It was just so dark a canvas that it was given the wrong name for centuries. It wasn’t night, and they weren’t on their watch.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the peanuts because that may be all you get tonight,” Mike said as I picked up his twenty-dollar bill and pocketed it.

We were almost done with our drinks when Mike’s phone rang. He put a finger in his left ear to block out the noise and held the phone to his right one.

“Chapman here.”

He listened to the caller for more than a minute. Then he responded. “Yeah, I can do you that favor. I know the place. I can head over there before I sign in. Call you back.”

“What?” I asked.

“I always hate it when my vic turns out to have a better name than the one I gave him.”

“You mean Adonis of the Gowanus isn’t Adonis anymore? They’ve ID’d him?”

“Luigi Calamari,” Mike said. “Louie the Squid. No wonder he winds up dead in the most toxic waterway in the world.”

“How did they make him?”

“Three distinctive tats on his back. He’s in the NYPD computer system. Got locked up once for gun possession. They found his brother this afternoon, who just ID’d him.”

“Thank God he’s not French,” I said, leaning back in my chair, relieved that there wasn’t an obvious connection to Luc.

“That’s the good news.”

“Is there something bad?”

“He’s a waiter, Coop.”

“There’s a million waiters in this town.”

“He was just fired from one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city ’cause he has a problem sniffing white powder.”

“So?”

“His brother says he didn’t care about losing his job. He’d already lined up another one at a swanky new place called Lutèce.”

We were in Mike’s car, headed back to Manhattan, and I was arguing with him because my anxiety had been ratcheted up another few notches.

“It’s not possible, Mike. You don’t understand the restaurant business. Luc would never hire an Italian to be a waiter.”

“Doesn’t that smack of Blanca not putting out for black men? Listen to yourself, Coop.”

“That’s not what I mean. Go to any of the great French restaurants. La Grenouille, Le Bernardin, Daniel—”

“I can’t afford to.”

“They’re all staffed by Frenchmen. And I do mean men—you rarely ever find a woman working in them. And French for the language, the ambience—the chefs are French, the sommeliers—most of the staff. That’s how they all communicate with one another.”

“Except for the Mexicans chopping onions.”

Mike was right about that. The lowest guys on restaurant staffs were always the latest pool of immigrants in the city. And the bottom of the totem pole was currently Mexican.

“But not waiters.”

“So according to Luigi’s brother, Coop, their mother is French. The whole family is trilingual. Seems to be there’s a French connection after all.”

I was staring at the skyline of Manhattan as we drove onto the Brooklyn Bridge. All the lights were glittering against the deep blue backdrop of the night sky.

“Have they called Luc to ask if he knows this Luigi person?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s the favor you told the detective you were going to do for him?”

“Save the lazy bastard a trip to Manhattan. Go talk to the manager who fired Luigi. Find out why and when. And where he was living. His brother didn’t know that.”

“What’s the restaurant?”

“Tiro a Segno. Ever been?”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s Italian for ‘shoot the target.’ Otherwise known as the New York Rifle Club.”

“Is it a new place?”

“Try 1888.”

“That’s a well-kept secret, then. Am I in?”

“I told you I’d feed you tonight, one way or another.”

“Is it as good as Rao’s?” I asked. The East Harlem eatery was one of my favorite places in the city, but scoring one of its twelve tables was harder than winning the lottery.

“Nothing’s that good. But Luigi didn’t work at Rao’s, so those roasted peppers and lemon chicken are gonna have to wait for another day.”

“Where is this place?”

“Five minutes away, hiding in plain sight. Right on MacDougal Street in the Village. Three brownstones next to one another, with a discreet little sign out front. You’ve been past it a thousand times. You’d just never get by the ‘members only’ thing.”

“But you did?”

“Remember a couple of years ago when I had the detail bodyguarding the prime minister of Italy?”

“Silvio Berlusconi.”

“Yeah. That guy. The one who liked teenage girls a little bit too much. This was his favorite place to come whenever he was in town.”

We were off the bridge, and Mike was maneuvering through the narrow one-way streets—some of them still cobblestoned—from Tribeca up to Greenwich Village.

“It’s a private club?” I asked.

“Very much so. Prospective members have to be nominated by a current member, and there’s a tight quota on non-Italians. Enrico Caruso belonged. So did Fiorello La Guardia.”

“I wonder if Paul Battaglia does. He’s never mentioned it.”

“He withdrew, Coop. Every distinguished Italian-American businessman—or -woman—wants it. But once Battaglia ran for office the first time, it didn’t help to be part of something so ethnically exclusive.”

Mike parked the car in a spot that said
NO STANDING
and threw his laminated NYPD plaque in the windshield. We walked to the door of 77 MacDougal Street and he rang the bell.

Seconds later, a well-dressed young woman—Ferragamo from the scarf around her neck to the grosgrain ribbon on her shoes—admitted us to the entryway and politely asked who we were with.

“We’re not with anybody,” Mike said. “I’m a detective, and I’d like to talk with Sergio Vico.”

“Mr. Vico is in the dining room, Detective. Can this wait until after the dinner service?”

“Give him my card. He might let somebody else take the orders for a while.”

She glanced at the business card and seemed more attentive when she saw the word “homicide.” “Certainly, Detective. Allow me a minute.”

It barely took that long for Sergio Vico to come out to greet us.
He was as tall as Mike, with a thick mane of silver hair and a broad smile. He was dressed in a tux and looked as elegant as a movie star.

“Detective Mike,” he said, putting both hands around Mike’s and shaking it firmly.
“Come stai?”

“I’m good, Sergio. Everything’s fine.”

“Are you working tonight?” he asked, with an accent that oozed Roman charm. “Bringing us the governor, maybe? Someone important?”

“Just got a friend of mine here. The workingman’s Sophia Loren. Meet Alex Cooper.”

“It’s a pleasure, Ms. Cooper.”

“I need to talk to you, Sergio. Can you give us twenty minutes?”

The manager glanced down and took note of our jeans. “I’m afraid I can’t seat you in the dining room, Mike. And it’s my busiest time of the evening. Perhaps you can come back in an hour or so?”

“It’s about a murder, Sergio. I’d like to get started now.”

“Something to do with Tiro?” Sergio asked, losing his smile.

“A former employee of yours. Luigi Calamari.”

“Has he done something?”

“Got his throat slashed, Sergio. He’s dead.”

“Then we should talk, certainly. Downstairs, perhaps, in the basement?”

“That will be fine.”

He started to lead us through the dining room. “May I offer you something to eat or drink while you’re here?”

“Good idea.”

Sergio stopped one of the waiters and spoke to him, while Mike and I took in the large dining room. Well-heeled regulars—probably a hundred of them—looked us over in our scruffy clothes as though we were truly interlopers.

“New decor,” Mike said. “The place used to look like half a pizzeria, with garish frescoes of the Bay of Naples and the Tower of Pisa.”

Now there were Roman columns throughout the room and a large wooden fireplace, topped by a bust of Leonardo da Vinci. After the odors of the canal, the divine smells of garlic and oregano were like the most precious perfumes in the world.

“This way,
prego
,” Sergio said, leading us to an exit at the far end of the room. We went down single file and through heavy double doors at the bottom of the steep row of steps.

Just as Sergio pushed the second door open, I recoiled at the sound of a gunshot, and flinched again when another followed immediately.

“Coop, it’s a rifle club,” Mike said, putting his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “You knew that coming in.”

“It’s a restaurant.” I was flustered, and upset for the second time today by the sound of gunfire. “I didn’t think there’d be shooting in the restaurant.”

“Forgive me, Ms. Cooper,” Sergio said. “I thought you knew about us.”

“Not really, no,” I said, as we walked along the back wall of the room.

Two men in business suits were standing together, each holding a rifle, one of them instructing the other how best to aim for the target.

“I thought it would be quiet down here, Mike,” Sergio said. “Sometimes the members come down to take a few shots between courses. I’m sure these gentlemen will be done in a few minutes.”

“What do they do with their guns during dinner?” I asked.

“I assure you that all the rifles are kept under lock and key. Our club is a very old one,
signora
. We used to have a hunting estate on Staten Island—stocked with pheasant—but that was sold off long ago. It’s all just target practice now, right here in this room. Our members enjoy excellent food, the best wines, their cigars—despite the mayor—and shooting.”

“And you never had a case out of here, Coop, so it’s less dangerous than any other joint in town.”

Sergio seated us at a table, and apparently our conversation spoiled the concentration of the marksmen. They headed off to an adjacent room to store their guns before going upstairs.

“Some wine, Mike?”

“We’ve had our cocktails.”

“Then I’ve ordered you some pasta, and that rack of veal you enjoy so much.”

“That’ll hold us.”

“Now tell me about Luigi. What happened to him?”

“I’m working midnights all week. Got a call last night that there was a body in Brooklyn. Emergency Services pulled the guy out of the water,” Mike said, deliberately leaving the exact location vague. “Dressed in a suit. No wallet, no money, no identification.”

“But you know it’s Luigi?”

“He’s got three distinctive tattoos. And because he was arrested once for possession of a handgun, things like tattoos and birthmarks and nicknames are all entered in the NYPD computer system. Once they had his name, the police report from the old case showed he called his brother from the station house. So the cops got in touch with the brother and he came to the morgue this evening to make the ID.”

“That’s too bad. I liked the kid. He’s only what? Thirty-four, thirty-five years old? Smart boy, nice looking,” Sergio said, giving Mike the most sincere expression he could muster.

“A real Adonis. Except for the gaping hole in his neck where his throat used to be. His brother says he worked here.”

“He did. For three, almost four years. Luigi was good. Very charming, very popular here.”

Then why did you fire him?
I thought to myself. But Mike would go at his own pace.

“You two get along?” Mike asked.

“Very well.”

The double doors and ceiling were obviously soundproofed to keep the noise from the basement out of the dining room. I didn’t
hear the waiter coming until the door creaked open and he appeared with a large tray topped with food and setups. Sergio waved him over to the table.

Mike was ready to put away everything served to him. Despite the spectacular aroma, with the combination of my nerves, my concern for Luc, and my overindulgence in Sunny’s peanuts, I had no interest in eating.

Sergio chatted about the eighth-century Italian bow-and-arrow marksmen groups that had been the first Tiros, until the waiter left the room. Mike was already twirling his Bolognese and devouring it.

“You hired Luigi?”

“Yes, yes I did.”

“You supervised him every night?”

“Exactly that. He was my best guy on the floor,” Sergio said emphatically.

“Did he have any problems?”

“Problems? Here at work? Not so. I take you upstairs and you ask any of the important people here—especially the ladies—they loved him. Worked well with everyone else, too.”

“No petty theft?”

Sergio dismissed Mike’s question. “We’re a club, not a restaurant. We don’t do anything with cash around here.”