Night Watch

THIRTY-TWO

Mike summoned the waiter to take an order from us. While he went around the table, Mercer tried to lighten things up with some general conversation.

“So where did people eat before there were restaurants in this city?” he asked Luc. “I mean, folks who were working in offices or foreign travelers.”

He had hit on one of Luc’s favorite subjects, something he had made a study of for his entire life. “Pretty grim fare, actually, served at boardinghouses and taverns and English-style chophouses scattered about. The first actual restaurant was created in a French pastry shop on William Street in 1827. It was called Delmonico’s-the only place in town to have an à la carte menu and an actual wine list. The Delmonico brothers introduced a whiff of elegant European dining into the rough-and-tumble of this city. The restaurant moved uptown from time to time, as the population did, but it remained the gold standard in the business for almost a century.”

“And the food came from-?”

“This city was blessed by nature, Mercer. My chefs today are envious of what this environment-forests and wetlands and rivers and ocean-provided every day. Venison from the plains of Long Island, fruits and vegetables from New Jersey, and the most amazing array of fish that filled the Fulton and Washington Markets every morning.

“Bear meat was plentiful, woodcocks covered the land that later became Central Park, and the thing that New York was best known for-like Boston for lobster and Baltimore for crab-was oysters.”

“No kidding,” Mike said. I knew exactly what had caught his attention.

Luc held up his hands and spread them apart. “Oysters grew as large as dinner plates in these waters. The inlets of New York Harbor, Long Island Sound, the Raritan River-they produced the largest and sweetest oysters in the world. I’ve told Alex there were oyster saloons all along Canal Street, just north of your courthouse, in the 1830s-all the oysters you could eat for six cents. They were as abundant and fresh as the waters at that time, until the harbor became polluted and the supply depleted.”

“And today?” Mike asked. “Where do you get oysters from? I don’t mean for France, but when you open here.”

“Any place but New York,” Luc said, giving that idea the back of his hand. “Hog Island oysters from Point Reyes Peninsula, Island Creeks from Duxbury, Alex’s favorites from the Tisbury Great Pond-nature’s perfect food, naked and delicious.”

“How about from the Gowanus Canal?”

“Once upon a time, Mike.”

“Do you know it?”

“Like I told the Brooklyn detectives today, I know the history. Used to be, you could get the best oysters in the world from that water. Such a specialty they were pickled and shipped to France. But that, Mike, was four centuries ago. And no, I’ve never been to your-may I say?-stinking canal.”

“What’s that mob expression?” Gina Varona asked. “Sleeping-?”

“With the fishes,” Mike said.

“And there was my poor friend Luigi,” she said, interlocking her fingers together and staring at the ceiling of the wine cellar, as though she were in church, “sleeping with the oysters.”

“You don’t sound too broken up about it.”

“Devastated, my dear detective. I just don’t wear my emotions on my sleeve, like your friend, Alexandra. But I know once we Italians get into the mix, you cops are bound to think the mob had something to do with it. Ethnic profiling and all that.”

This time two waiters appeared. One placed a cocktail in front of each of us, while the other set down on the table an array of appetizers, traditional fare from the fabled bar upstairs-‘21’ Club mini-burgers, crispy chicken wings, jumbo shrimp cocktail, and a large charcuterie.

“Nobody’s mentioned the mob,” Mike said, dredging a shrimp in the sauce and moving it to his mouth without a single drip. “You know something we don’t?”

“I liked Luigi. He was a good kid. He was hardworking and smart.” Varona was pulling hard on her Knob Creek bourbon. “I guess you learned from your visit last night that I knew him from Tiro a Segno. Sergio called to tell me you were there. Luigi didn’t have any ties to the mob. He wouldn’t have lasted a day at Tiro if he had.”

“And we hired him,” Luc said. “I told the detectives that, too, today.”

“Hired him for what?” I asked.

“To work at Lutèce. To help us put a waitstaff together.”

“You knew him?”

“I met him through Gina,” Luc said. “She took me to dinner at her club expressly for that purpose. Luigi was great at his job, really well connected to guys in the business, and he spoke French as well. He seemed perfect to me.”

Luigi Calamari-the second murder victim-was linked directly to Luc, just like Lisette Honfleur.

“Why would his brother tell the cops that Luigi was fired from his job?” Mike asked. “Why would he say his own brother had a drug habit?”

“The kid was clean as a hound’s tooth,” Gina said. “I assume they’ll autopsy him. The doctors will make that clear.”

I guess Mike hadn’t told Luc yet that there were several kilos of cocaine glued to the underside of Luigi’s houseboat. Or about the skull on the kitchen table.

“It was you who convinced him to leave the Rifle Club?” Mike asked.

Gina Varona smiled again. “I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. That’s why he left, Detective. Plain and simple matter of economics.”

“So who hated him enough to slit his throat?” I asked, knowing full well there was another business-the lethal one of importing drugs-that had exposed Luigi to a violent death.

“If I think of anyone, I’ll give you a buzz,” Varona said.

What did Luc possibly see in this woman, except her deep pockets?

“What about you, Mr. Danton? Where do you come into all this?” Mike asked, stirring the rocks in his vodka with his finger.

“And I thought Gina was doing so well you’d forgotten about me,” he said. “Where would you like to begin?”

“Tell us about yourself,” Mike said, gnawing on a chicken wing.

Peter Danton was drinking a glass of red wine. “Let’s see. I’m married, with one daughter away at boarding school in Connecticut. My wife and I live on the Upper West Side. I’m forty-three years old.”

“How long have you known Luc?”

He turned his head to Luc. “What would you say, my friend? Maybe fifteen years or so.”

“About that.”

“You in the restaurant business, too?”

“That’s where I started out, Detective, but it was a little rough for me. I actually thought I wanted to be a chef-you know, one of the greats. So I went to Le Relais to do a stage there when Luc’s father, Andre, owned the place.”

“A stage?” Mike asked, imitating Peter’s pronunciation of the soft “a.”

“It means a training session, Mike,” Luc said. “Like an internship. I was studying with my father, too, that summer. Peter and I became friends.”

“You stayed in the business?”

“Till I had my accident,” Peter said, holding up his hand. “I was working in the kitchen at the time, in one of Bobby Flay’s restaurants. The meat cleaver and I had different ideas about how difficult it was to prep a dinner. I’m a lefty-swung too fast and hard and I severed the tips of these two fingers on my right hand.”

Mike was the only one eating the food. I wasn’t hungry any longer.

“This is quite common,” Luc said. “You won’t find many chefs who don’t have scars and nicks, fingers chopped or cut, or who haven’t scalded themselves with boiling water, burned their hands pulling something out of the oven. Those are occupational hazards of being a chef.”

“It’s why Luc prefers working the front of the house, as they say. Anyway, it got me out of the kitchen faster than lightning,” Danton said. “But I never lost my love for the business of entertaining, for being in great restaurants, for wanting to create that unique kind of hospitality that an exclusive restaurant does. Luc’s a master at it. I think it’s in his genes.”

“What’s your game, Mr. Danton?” Mike asked. “What kind of work do you do?”

“We have an art gallery, actually. My wife, Eva, and I own it together. It’s on Columbus Avenue.”

“What do you specialize in?” I asked.

“African art. Contemporary African art.”

My thoughts flashed to Mohammed Gil-Darsin. “Any country in particular?”

“No. Anywhere on the continent. Sculptures and paintings, primarily. Ethiopia, South Africa, Ghana-there are fantastic artists working everywhere over there.”

“The Ivory Coast?” I asked.

“Sure. We’ve got a great inventory of Senufo masks. Are you interested, Alex?”

“I’m not in the market right now. I was going in the direction of current events, Peter. Do you-uh, do you know Baby Mo?”

“No, I’ve never actually met him,” Danton said, lifting his glass for another sip. “And I suppose that’s a good thing, at the moment. His wife has shopped with us, I know that.”

“Kali?”

“Yes. She’s one of Eva’s favorite customers. You’ll have to talk to Eva about her. She might have some insights that will help you with your big case.”

“And how long have you known Gina?” Mike asked.

“Maybe ten years or so. We both met through Luc. I was staying in Mougins with him and Brigitte, stopping over for a few nights on my way back from Nigeria, and Gina was there on business. We had dinner together one night, and I guess that’s how it all started. We have so many of the same interests.”

Why hadn’t I met either of these people on my trips to the South of France? On second thought, I was beginning to feel grateful that I hadn’t.

“Are you putting money into Luc’s venture here, too?” Mercer asked Danton.

“A great deal of it. We’re determined to make this work.”

“How much?”

“So far, I’ve invested three million with Luc.”

I stared across the table at my lover. My head was reeling at these numbers, and I was feeling more and more like I had been sharing a bed with a total stranger.

“I gotta tell you, Mr. Danton,” Mike said. “I had no idea there was that kind of money in African art. I mean, I look at those masks and statues, and then I see the souvenir shops at an airport in a third world country, and it looks like they were all made yesterday from the same cookie cutter.”

Danton smiled and took another drink of wine.

“You get me? It’s all women with drooping breasts and men with these enormous erect penises. No offense, Mercer, ’cause I know it’s your roots and all that, but I can’t imagine how those carvings sell for very much.”

“Then I guess you’d be quite surprised, Detective. It’s really the emerging market in the global art world. Eva and I have done quite well,” Danton said, rapping his knuckles on the table, knocking wood.

“Hey, I’m surprised every day of the week. That’s murder for you. My job is a surprise, every time I walk into the squad room,” Mike said. “So exactly how are you involved in Luc’s business, Mr. Danton?”

“Basically, I’ve done everything he’s asked me to. I think because Gina and I are here in New York, Luc’s relied on us to get the project off the ground. I found the real estate, and together we bought the building. Luc insisted on a town house, like the original Lutèce.”

“Not too rough an assignment, on a budget like the one you’ve got.”

“You’d never believe it, Mike,” Luc said. “All the restrictions the city places on us. For a building to be zoned commercial for a restaurant, it has to be within one hundred feet of a main avenue. But in order to get a liquor license, it’s got to be five hundred feet away from a church or a school. Not so easy on the Upper East Side.”

“Sounds like more restrictions than they place on where a convicted sex offender can live when he gets out of jail,” Mercer said.

“Probably so. Then the building out of the restaurant takes another couple of million-all the flues and ductworks to create a kitchen that can serve hundreds of meals a day, keeping the food fresh and preserved. The decor and furniture, and the equipment, from refrigeration and professional ranges to what the table is set with. Fine dining is all about air and light and sound and comfort, before you even get to the food.”

“Tell them about the licensing, Luc,” Gina Varona added.

“C’est fou. The city regulations could make you crazy. The Department of Buildings has all these guidelines you have to pass, then it takes months to get a liquor license. The Fire Department has to check the equipment and installations. Worst of all is the Department of Health.”

“The new rating system that Mayor Bloomberg started in 2010?” I asked.

“Exactly. This-this ridiculous ABC grading of restaurants. I tell you, five or six years ago, the city collected about ten million dollars in fines. Last year, it was close to fifty million dollars.” Luc was red in the face, jabbing his finger at his chest. “You think I could kill someone, Mike? I tell you it would be a restaurant inspector.

“My friends are all telling me it’s killing business. These kids-these new inspectors-they walk into the best restaurants right in the middle of service. They see three drops of water on the kitchen floor in front of the sink, they announce it’s conducive to vermin, and they shut the place down for two weeks. You know how much that costs one of us?”

“What else?” Mike asked.

“Okay, so Gina mentioned the mob. You’ll never get them out of the food business. They still control all the linens in restaurants.”

“Table linens?”

“It’s a multimillion-dollar business for them,” Luc said, holding up his white napkin. “Every piece of table linen in this city runs through one company. Try to buy or rent from some place cheaper, you’ll be dead. And garbage is worst of all.”

“What about the good old City Department of Sanitation of New York? It’s free.”

“Don’t even think about it, Mike. You get a visit from one of the private carting companies when you’re setting up shop, and they tell you how much they’re going to charge you per week to take your garbage away. The price makes you want to gag, and all you can say to them when they hand you the bill is ‘Merci beaucoup.’ Roughly translated that means ‘Thanks so very much, because I’d rather pay you this outrageous sum than to have both my legs broken.’”

“It sounds like more tension in a restaurant than I’d ever stopped to think about,” Mike said.

“You haven’t even gotten to the staff yet,” Peter Danton said. “Front of the house versus back. Managers, captains, sommeliers, bartenders, and servers out in front. And then the guys who never touch the table-the sous chefs, line cooks, prep cooks, dishwashers, porters, all working behind the scenes. Think of how many people it takes to get all that exquisite food from the market onto the dinner plate. Don’t even try to imagine the rivalries between them.”

“You’re understating it if you describe it as tension, Mike,” Luc said, downing his drink. “The better word for it is rage.”