Night Watch

THIRTY

I used the bathroom to freshen up, and when I emerged, Mercer had joined us in the cramped apartment. Mike had summoned him to watch Jeopardy! before we left for dinner.

Trebek was just announcing the final answer. “The category, folks, is Popular Phrases. Popular Phrases. Are your wagers all in?”

The three contestants had scribbled their numbers, having been neck and neck with one another in the first two rounds of the show.

“Twenty bucks is our rule,” Mike said. “Double for foreigners.”

Luc smiled at Mike and put his arm around me. “Whatever you say.”

“And the answer is,” Trebek said, reading from the board, “This was the period of origin of ‘bootlegging’-the practice of concealing illegal liquor in the top of one’s boots. Bootlegging.”

“Got it?” Mike asked.

“I think we all got it,” Mercer said. “Prohibition.”

“The Roaring Twenties,” Luc said. “That always sounds so American.”

“Let me see your green,” Mike said, pointing at Mercer’s pocket. “You, blondie?”

“Same.”

“Then you three would be losers, just like those three,” Mike said, pointing to the screen. The contestants’ answers were displayed one at a time. “What is the Civil War? That’s the ticket, guys.”

Trebek and Chapman were on the same page. Mike started turning out the lamps on the two tables. “You’re thinking rum runners and stuff. I mean there were bootleggers in Prohibition, but the whole thing started with Confederate soldiers during the Civil War-sneaking moonshine into camp in the legs of their pants.”

“Let’s feed these people,” Mercer said, handing his money to Mike.

“I’m not hungry,” I said. “Can’t I just-can’t we just-maybe take Luc’s stuff over to the hotel and hang out for a while?”

“No can do, blondie,” Mike said. “I’m responsible for tailing you two, and that stop isn’t on the agenda. Besides, it’s a working dinner. A little something to get your mind off Baby Mo.”

“Working on what? Where?”

“My favorite saloon.”

“That leaves way too many choices,” I said.

“Top of the line, Coop,” Mike said, holding open the door. “Ladies first.”

I glanced back over my shoulder at Luc. He seemed remarkably calm under the circumstances. I was glad about that, although it unnerved me a bit as well. I couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t more stressed about the summons to New York by the Brooklyn detectives.

Mercer reversed direction and made his way to Fifth Avenue. Luc and I were in the backseat. It felt to me like the only things missing were two pairs of handcuffs.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” I asked.

“The ‘21’ Club,” Mike said.

“We’re going to ‘21’?” I looked to Luc for an explanation. “Working?”

The classy restaurant that had attracted a tony crowd of society and business figures, celebrities and movie stars for close to ninety years had indeed started life as a saloon-a speakeasy in Greenwich Village opened by two cousins shortly after the passage of the Eighteenth Amendment in January 1919, which marked the beginning of Prohibition.

“Meeting some people there,” Mike said.

“My partners, Alex. My business partners. You need to understand what’s been going on, what’s involved in getting Lutèce off the ground. There must be something mixed up in all this that will help the police get their work done.”

“This is about as hiding-in-plain-sight as we can go,” I said.

“I planned it that way,” Mike said. “Can’t fault a guy for being transparent, out in the open. Luc’s got nothing to hide, let’s meet in public.”

‘21’ had been a fixture in the world of fine dining and fancy booze for as long as any New Yorker could remember. The upscale “speak”-quite different from low-down dives known as “blind pigs”-had bounced around from location to location, until it settled in at 21 West 52nd Street on New Year’s Day 1930.

While we were driving downtown, stories about the fabled restaurant raced through my head. Hemingway bragged about making love to the girlfriend of the notorious killer, Legs Diamond, in the kitchen one night, while the joint was being cleaned. Jack and Jackie Kennedy dined in the front room the night before his inauguration. The owners’ nephews flew to Havana with a million dollars in cash to buy Cuban cigars for the restaurant when news of the embargo was imminent. Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Prince Rainier of Monaco, Clark Gable, Greta Garbo, Bogart and Bacall-who became engaged there-and just about every foreign potentate and president of the United States had all found their way to ‘21.’

Mercer squared the block and parked behind the row of limousines that stacked up nightly to wait for the high-rolling clients inside. He, Mike, and I had managed our fair share of evenings in the east room-known to regulars as Siberia-stopping in for a late-night burger or the divine steak tartare-always in the care of a bartender who knew a great pour, especially after all the well-dressed swells had headed to the theater or their homes.

“Can you imagine the consistency of a place like this, to be thriving after so many generations?” Luc said, as we got out of the car. “You offer good food and wine, and you make the customer feel like he’s a member of an exclusive club, and there’s your recipe for great success.”

The entrance of the building was as distinctive as its history. Still standing were the double-wide iron gates, as decorative now as they were useful during Prohibition-then the first line of defense to keep cops and agents from getting in to search for liquor. Down three steps to another iron-grilled door with a brass bell, from the days when patrons were admitted only if they were known to the owners.

Topping it all off, on the balcony over the door, on the front steps, and inside the entrance, was the vibrant array of more than twenty jockey statues, each dressed in the color of the stables he represented. As far back as the 1930s, many wealthy horse breeders were such loyal patrons of ‘21’-Vanderbilts, Mellons, and Phippses among them-that they donated jockeys as tokens of appreciation for their private tables and all the privileges that went with their status.

“Welcome back, Monsieur Rouget,” the gentleman by the door said as we entered. “Always nice to have you with us.”

“Thank you, Shakur. Good to be here.”

We followed Luc to the maître d’s stand, where he was again met with a personal greeting. “Your guests are seated inside, Monsieur Rouget. They came a bit early.”

“Thank you, Joseph. But I was hoping for something very quiet when I reserved. We have some business to discuss.”

“Certainly, monsieur,” the man said, making notes on the side of the large paper on his podium-a layout of the main-floor rooms with all the tabletops represented on it-as he nodded and winked at Luc. He held up a finger to ask for a minute’s time as he walked away. “I hope you don’t mind, sir, but I was just dressing the room with Ms. Varona until you arrived.”

“Dare I ask?” I said, controlling my instinctive dislike of the woman I’d not yet even met. “‘Dressing the room’?”

“Just an old trick of the trade, darling. You try to put the best-looking women at the most visible tables. It’s quite good for the restaurant’s image, and even better for the beverage orders from the men who can see them.”

“No wonder that big round table in the window at Michael’s is always filled with such fine-looking babes at lunchtime,” Mike said, referring to the media-hot restaurant on West 55th Street. “Window dressing.”

Joseph came back from the dining room. “I have the six of you at table two, sir. It was always your father’s favorite. But I’m afraid we’re so crowded tonight that I have couples close to you on both sides.”

“That won’t work,” Mike said. “I want you to be seen, Luc, but not heard.”

“We’ve got private rooms upstairs, of course. But they’re for very large parties.”

“How about the wine cellar, Joseph?” Luc asked. “Is it occupied tonight?”

“No, as a matter of fact. Would you be comfortable there?”

Luc turned to Mike. “That’s up to you.”

“I’m okay with it. We’ll let Joseph take the three of us downstairs. Why don’t you sit with Gina for a few minutes. Work the room, if either of you know anyone here. Then let Joseph bring you down. That way you get to show your face, but there are no ears listening to us in the cellar.”

“Warn me now if there are any hunting targets down there,” I said, still unsettled by last night’s experience.

“Just great wine, I expect,” Mike said. “We’ll take it.”

“Very well, then,” Joseph said, leading us through the main dining room.

If you could stop yourself from gawking at the swells on the banquettes here, it always paid to look up at the barroom ceiling. Starting with the first trophy given by a wealthy client-a model of British Airways’ “flying boat” from the 1940s-captains of corporate America gave for display their most identifiable products-football helmets, racing cars, sports trophies, Hyster forklifts, miniature blimps, and even a model of President Clinton’s Air Force One plane-all hanging overhead, claiming a place in this living museum of presidential perks and rich boys’ toys.

Mercer was directly in front of me as we walked toward the swinging doors that led to the kitchen, so I had no opportunity to turn my head to try to catch a glimpse of Gina Varona.

We passed completely through the working area of the kitchen-sous chefs and line workers never looking up from their stations as they prepped their dishes in the height of the dinner hour. Off to the right near the back was a narrow entry to a staircase. At that point, a waiter took over from the maître d’ and guided us down.

The corridor at the bottom was long and narrow. We came to a massive door, which the waiter stopped to unlock. He pointed to the entry of the wine cellar, advising us to watch our step over the wooden strip that protruded from the floor.

The room was cool and a bit damp. Straight ahead was a long banquet table that looked like it could seat twenty people. The waiter apologized that it had not been readied in advance, but I explained that we hadn’t booked the room earlier.

Around the table, from floor to ceiling, were bins and bins of wine, bottoms pointed out, with a brass plaque identifying each of the patrons who stored their supply within this storied vault, or a red-and-white label on the bottom of each bottle. The captions read PRIVATE STOCK, and many had, below that, the owner’s name.

“How big is this cellar?” I asked.

“There’s a series of rooms, madam. These were three brownstones put together when the restaurant was first built-we’re actually in the basement of nineteen right now, not twenty-one-and there are thousands and thousands of bottles here. If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’ll be back shortly with your setups. May I take a drink order?”

“That would be great.”

“Sparkling water all around,” Mike said.

The waiter excused himself.

“Business first,” Mike said, observing my frown. “Then cocktails.”

“Now that we’re alone, Detective, what have you found out about this Gina Varona broad, and why do I have to have dinner with her?” I asked. “I’m sure I’ll need a drink.”

“You’ll need whatever is best for Luc, and that’s to let him and his partners put everything on the table for us.”

“Have you talked to this woman yet?”

“Not a word. Cool your jets till they get down here, okay?”

Mercer was studying the labels on several of the bottles of wine. “Château Lafite Rothschild. 1908. Domaines Barons de Rothschilds. What would that one fetch?”

“Probably seven, eight thousand dollars,” I said. “The owners buy wine at one price then charge whatever the traffic will bear at a place this classy. It accounts for a lot of a restaurant’s profit when they can sell the high-end labels.”

Mike was quick to shoot back. “And you wouldn’t know it from swill.”

“You’re right about that. I think I can tell the difference between a five-dollar bottle and a thirty-dollar bottle, but after that, I wouldn’t have a clue.” I followed the passageway into the next room, staggered by the size of the collection.

The door creaked open again, and although I couldn’t see him, I recognized the waiter’s voice as he spoke to Mike and Mercer.

Mike said something, but I couldn’t hear him.

“Were you talking to me?”

“Yeah. I told you not to wander too far away.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to smuggle any Romanée-Conti out of here.”

“You’ll get lost, girl. This whole place is booby-trapped,” Mike said, coming in my direction.

“Right,” I said, laughing at him. “That’s my idea of ‘21.’ Danger everywhere.”

“Sealed up forever in a wine cellar with me.”

“Haven’t you had enough of Poe’s entombing to last you a lifetime?”

“I’m not kidding you, Coop. There’s contraptions all over the place,” Mike said. “It’s ingenious. And it’s the only reason there was never an arrest made at ‘21’ all throughout Prohibition, despite the fact they were serving the best hooch in town.”

Mike was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, with Mercer coming along behind him, still fixated on the labels and plaques. “It all started at the front door. The agents looking to raid the place were stopped first by the huge iron gates. If they got past those, the doorman was a lookout, using the peephole to see who was outside.”

“But they still had to let the agents in, didn’t they?”

“Not before the doorman pressed a buzzer that went straight to the bartender, while three other alarms signaled clients on each floor. The waiters collected all the glasses, while the barkeep pulled a switch. Every liquor bottle behind the bar was on a collapsible shelf. One flip and all the whiskey in the whole place was flushed down into the basement, where it drained out below the building’s foundation. The place may have reeked of alcohol, but there wasn’t ever a trace of the stuff inside the restaurant that anybody could prove in court.”

“Are you making this up, Mike?”

“First heard it from my dad, and then found out it’s been a legend in law enforcement all this time. They teach the ‘21’ system of foolproof-design deception at the academy, for today’s sophisticated drug raids.”

“Mercer? Is he-?”

“Mike’s always right. You know that.”

“So what else?” I asked.

“All kinds of secret spaces. There were several closets with metal hooks for waiters’ uniforms. But if you took a table knife,” Mike said, pulling out his pen to represent the knife, “and placed it so that each end of the knife touched a hook-bam!-it completed an electric circuit, and the back of the closet swung open to reveal a narrow room lined with liquor.”

“Very clever.”

“But this cellar is the masterpiece. It had to be practically the size of a warehouse to hold all the wine-two thousand cases of it, at least-and the booze. So the architect created a secret door in the brick foundation of ‘21,’ which gave access to the vacant building next door-19 West 52nd Street. The door was made of exactly the same materials as the adjacent wall, so it seemed invisible. And it had to be thick enough so that when the cops tapped on it, it didn’t sound hollow. It had to mesh so tight to the other wall that if the feds blew cigarette smoke into it-looking for cracks with an air draft was the typical test-it wouldn’t be a giveaway.”

“So far so good,” I said.

“This door to the secret caves here must have weighed two tons. The main challenge was to make a locking mechanism that wouldn’t jam up, that could work from either side of the door-in case there was a siege and the owners took cover inside here-and that wouldn’t be visible to the raiding agents.”

“How did it work?”

“The builders put a plate on the inside of the door. It could only be activated by inserting a long thin metal rod through a tiny hole in the brick wall. When the rod hit the plate, it all clicked and the lock was released by a rolling mechanism.”

“But wasn’t the hole obvious to everyone?” I asked.

“Nope. The genius who designed it had them cut dozens of holes in the wall, even though none of the others went through to the plate. They just looked like defects in the brick. The door to the wine cellar is impenetrable,” Mike said. “If the lock ever broke, they’d have had to tear down the entire building-or dynamite the wall-just to get inside here.”

I started to retrace my steps to the first room. “Then it seems a doubly odd place to plan a dinner party.”

“It turned out to be a very useful location for married men to tryst with their lovers after Prohibition ended. A private dinner at ‘21,’ when this space was furnished a bit more cozily, was the perfect alibi for anyone who could afford it-including Mayor Walker, back in the day-who liked to entertain showgirls down here while his wife covered the home front.”

“Just when I thought I was learning a lot about the restaurant business,” I said to Mercer.

“There’s a dark underbelly to this city, no matter where you go, Alex.”

Mike must have heard the same noise I did-footsteps in the hallway. He moved toward the door just as Luc entered, followed closely by a woman and man.

“Sorry to keep you,” he said. He held out his hand to Gina as she came into the room. “This is Gina Varona. Gina, I’d like you to meet Mike Chapman and Mercer Wallace-they’re both detectives. And you’ve heard me talk about my fian-my dear friend, Alexandra Cooper.”

Luc almost tripped over the word “fiancée,” but he managed to catch himself. Gina lifted her hand and waved at the three of us. I hoped that the smile I returned was not as cheesy and forced as it felt to me.

Varona was a bit shorter than I am. I regretted not having stopped to change out of my courthouse clothes and put on some makeup. She was carefully coiffed and painted, in a cream-colored knit dress that accented her dark hair and petite waist.

“And this is our third partner,” Luc said. “Peter Danton.”

Danton nodded his head and said hello. I guessed him to be in his mid-forties, about my height, and he was dressed-like Gina Varona-to kill. His tailored suit fitted the sleek lines of the body he’d so obviously been sculpting with his personal trainer.

“Pleased to meet you,” Danton said. “Especially you, Alexandra. Luc talks about you all the time.”

He extended his arm to shake with Mike and with Mercer. That’s when I noticed he was missing the top half of the first two fingers of his right hand.