world. And the place is clean. Good suggestion, Steeg.”
“I was being metaphorical.”
“Oh. So they dragged Liam behind a car.”
“They did.”
“Messy, but certainly makes the point, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
“I told you Barak scares the shit out of me. The guy’s got razor wire in his head.”
“Scares me too.”
“A definite sign of intelligence.”
“Where are you on Torricelli’s files?”
“About halfway through, but I have some thoughts, and some questions.”
“Let’s meet.”
“It’s Saturday. I don’t work.”
“But you picked up the phone. Isn’t that work?”
“None of us is perfect.”
I had enough problems understanding the observance swings among members of my own faith. I wasn’t about to take on Judaism.
“We won’t be working, we’ll be talking. Look, I need to start making headway on something.”
It occurred to me that I could kill two birds with one stone. It was close to noon and Été should be open, probably not for business — I suspected it was a dinner-only restaurant — but there had to be a manager there to talk to. After that, Kenny and I could meet.
“How about we meet at one, on the pier at Thirteenth Street?”
Kenny thought about it for a few moments.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m not thrilled, but what the hell.”
I was at the door when a truly chilling thought occurred to me. If killing Liam had been Barak’s first move, there was a distinct possibility I was next on his shit list. I may not have had anything to do with the scam, but I was the only person on the planet who knew of Danny’s whereabouts. I went into the bedroom, opened the drawer of the bedside table, and pulled out my Glock.
I was right about Été. It wasn’t a lunch place, at least not on Saturdays, but the door was open. Inside, a white-uniformed crew was mopping, primping, and setting up for the dinner crowd. Tablecloths billowed like snowy white spinnakers, silverware was carefully inspected, and thin vases were stuffed with wildflowers. Rather than a paean to chrome and glass and sharp-edged design, the decor was casual, a place to kick back and spend a comfortable evening. Été may have been high-end, but it kept its pretensions in check.
At the bar, a harried-looking man in a designer suit that had lost its crease was inventorying the stock. I went up to him and flashed my business card. It got his attention. He put down his clipboard and snapped to attention. I had a business card, therefore I was important. If I had pulled the same stunt at a diner, I’d have been told to piss off.
To keep the illusion going, I didn’t offer to shake hands.
“Name is Steeg,” I said. “I’m investigating a murder that took place outside of your restaurant a couple of weeks ago.”
He looked properly contrite, as if Tony Ferris were a beloved member of his immediate family.
“I heard about it,” he said. “How sad. We’re not used to that kind of thing at Été. I guess the neighborhood still needs some, uh, work. By the way, my name is Stuart.”
“Did you work the night of March 10, Mister Stuart?”
He smiled. “Just Stuart. No Mister necessary. That was a Saturday night, wasn’t it? No, I didn’t. I mean, I usually do, but I was ill that evening.”
“So it would be a waste of time talking to you any further.”
He nodded. “Colossal.”
“What’s your job here, Stuart?”
“I’m one of the managers. Assist the general manager. Work the desk. Greet people. See that things are going the way they should. The beverage manager called in this morning and said that he’d be late, and I offered to, uh, fill in for him until he got here.”
“Who worked that night, Stuart?”
“That would be Richard. Richard Noonan, my boss. He covered for me.”
“Will he be in later?”
He looked at his watch, a fat chronograph with a blue face and lots of bewildering little dials. It was a wonder he could lift his hand.
“Richard should be here at
“I was being metaphorical.”
“Oh. So they dragged Liam behind a car.”
“They did.”
“Messy, but certainly makes the point, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
“I told you Barak scares the shit out of me. The guy’s got razor wire in his head.”
“Scares me too.”
“A definite sign of intelligence.”
“Where are you on Torricelli’s files?”
“About halfway through, but I have some thoughts, and some questions.”
“Let’s meet.”
“It’s Saturday. I don’t work.”
“But you picked up the phone. Isn’t that work?”
“None of us is perfect.”
I had enough problems understanding the observance swings among members of my own faith. I wasn’t about to take on Judaism.
“We won’t be working, we’ll be talking. Look, I need to start making headway on something.”
It occurred to me that I could kill two birds with one stone. It was close to noon and Été should be open, probably not for business — I suspected it was a dinner-only restaurant — but there had to be a manager there to talk to. After that, Kenny and I could meet.
“How about we meet at one, on the pier at Thirteenth Street?”
Kenny thought about it for a few moments.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m not thrilled, but what the hell.”
I was at the door when a truly chilling thought occurred to me. If killing Liam had been Barak’s first move, there was a distinct possibility I was next on his shit list. I may not have had anything to do with the scam, but I was the only person on the planet who knew of Danny’s whereabouts. I went into the bedroom, opened the drawer of the bedside table, and pulled out my Glock.
I was right about Été. It wasn’t a lunch place, at least not on Saturdays, but the door was open. Inside, a white-uniformed crew was mopping, primping, and setting up for the dinner crowd. Tablecloths billowed like snowy white spinnakers, silverware was carefully inspected, and thin vases were stuffed with wildflowers. Rather than a paean to chrome and glass and sharp-edged design, the decor was casual, a place to kick back and spend a comfortable evening. Été may have been high-end, but it kept its pretensions in check.
At the bar, a harried-looking man in a designer suit that had lost its crease was inventorying the stock. I went up to him and flashed my business card. It got his attention. He put down his clipboard and snapped to attention. I had a business card, therefore I was important. If I had pulled the same stunt at a diner, I’d have been told to piss off.
To keep the illusion going, I didn’t offer to shake hands.
“Name is Steeg,” I said. “I’m investigating a murder that took place outside of your restaurant a couple of weeks ago.”
He looked properly contrite, as if Tony Ferris were a beloved member of his immediate family.
“I heard about it,” he said. “How sad. We’re not used to that kind of thing at Été. I guess the neighborhood still needs some, uh, work. By the way, my name is Stuart.”
“Did you work the night of March 10, Mister Stuart?”
He smiled. “Just Stuart. No Mister necessary. That was a Saturday night, wasn’t it? No, I didn’t. I mean, I usually do, but I was ill that evening.”
“So it would be a waste of time talking to you any further.”
He nodded. “Colossal.”
“What’s your job here, Stuart?”
“I’m one of the managers. Assist the general manager. Work the desk. Greet people. See that things are going the way they should. The beverage manager called in this morning and said that he’d be late, and I offered to, uh, fill in for him until he got here.”
“Who worked that night, Stuart?”
“That would be Richard. Richard Noonan, my boss. He covered for me.”
“Will he be in later?”
He looked at his watch, a fat chronograph with a blue face and lots of bewildering little dials. It was a wonder he could lift his hand.
“Richard should be here at
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