“How did you classify them?”
“We didn’t. We just talked to everyone, in alphabetical order.”
“Let’s take another look at this,” Rifkin said. “I think that whoever brought the device in is more likely to be in a supervisory position, because he knew where to put the bomb where it wouldn’t be found before he needed it.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“All right, then,” Rifkin said, handing the man back his list, “eliminate all the waiters, bartenders, busboys, dishwashers, and cooks from your list, and let’s see who we have left.”
The two men divided the list between them and went to work, crossing out names. After a few minutes, they handed back the list to Rifkin. “We’re down to a dozen,” one of them said.
“Now, let’s eliminate everyone who does not deal directly with wines and spirits.”
That took another minute. “In this building, three,” he said. “The restaurant manager, the headwaiter, and the chief bartender, who oversees all the bars.”
“Read me a profile of each of them,” Rifkin said.
“All right,” an agent said, consulting his notes. “Restaurant manager, Enzo Pagani, born Naples, fifty-six years ago, came to New York at eighteen, worked his way up from busboy to maitre d’ over twenty-odd years, worked two years in that position at a Las Vegas casino, promoted to restaurant manager, then hired out of there by The Arrington.”
“Did he apply?”
The agent looked at his notes. “No, they approached him.”
“He’s not our guy,” Rifkin said. “How about the headwaiter?”
“Pierre du Bois, born Marseilles, forty-nine years ago, came to U.S. as a child, to New Orleans, long career in restaurants there, then hired from Commander’s Palace by The Arrington.”
“Not our guy,” Rifkin said. “Who is the other one?”
“Chief bartender, Michael Gennaro. Born U.S. of Italian parents thirty-eight years ago, worked in his family’s restaurant in Studio City since childhood, doing pretty much everything. Applied to the Beverly Hills Hotel eight years ago for a bartender’s job, then came to The Arrington, answered an ad in a restaurant trade magazine for a bartender’s job, got hired as chief bartender.”
“That’s interesting,” Rifkin said, “that he got hired for a bigger job than they advertised for. I don’t think he’s our guy, either, but find out more about him fast. Start with the guy who hired him. And find out what his religion is.”
“How are we going to do that?” an agent asked. “They can’t ask for that information on an employment application.”
“Ask Michael Gennaro,” Rifkin said.
The two agents got up and left the room. Rifkin looked at his watch; he was hungry. He got up and went in search of food.
49
Steve Rifkin had already talked to the food and beverage manager; now he was staring across the table at Michael Gennaro, the chief bartender. Rifkin looked for trembling, rapid respiration, sweat on the brow or lip, and rapid blinking. Nothing: cool, calm, and collected. He gave Gennaro a little smile. “Good morning,” he said.
Gennaro returned the little smile. “Good morning.”
“My name is Steve Rifkin. May I call you Michael?”
“Sure.”
“Your boss has given you a glowing report,” Rifkin said. “First, he liked the way your job interview went, then he liked the way you’ve done the job he gave you.”
“I’ve hardly done it yet,” Gennaro said. “Our first guests are just arriving, and nobody’s asked for a drink, so far.”
“I guess not,” Rifkin said, chuckling appreciatively. He looked at Gennaro’s employment application. “I guess you know just about everything about restaurants, don’t you?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Why did you leave the family business?”
“I had two older brothers who wouldn’t go first.”
“No room at the top, huh?”
“And my father is still running the place.”
“No room at even nearly the top.”
“You got it. A friend of mine introduced me to the Beverly Hills Hotel operation, and it worked.”
“But not in the restaurant end?”
“The bar is in the restaurant end,” Gennaro replied.
“What would your next logical promotion there have been?”
“Maybe maitre d’, but I’d have had to wait for the owner of that position to die-he would never have retired.”
“So you applied for a bartender’s job at The Arrington?”
“Not really. I was aiming for a managerial job.”
“So you invented one for yourself.”
“I showed them how I could be more useful in a supervisory position.”
“So what’s your next promotion possibility here?”
“Maitre d’, if the owner of that job dies. He’s only fifty-six.”
“Nothing else?”
“Sure, food and beverage manager. I mean, my boss isn’t going anywhere, but in a new hotel, things are fluid. He might get promoted.”
“An astute observation. You have access to the wine and spirits storage room, don’t you?”
“I’m in charge of it,” Gennaro replied. “Word is, you found something illegal in there.”
“You might say that,” Rifkin replied. “Any idea what it was?”
“I heard a guy came out of there in what looked like a diving suit. Lobsters?”
Rifkin laughed. “I’ll bet you know what that suit was.”
Gennaro shrugged. “I go to the movies, I watch TV.”
“Tell me, Michael, you’re a bright guy-speculate for me how whatever he found in there got in there.”
Gennaro tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, then he looked back at Rifkin. “How big was it?”
Rifkin held his hands out to demonstrate.
“No bigger than a case of wine, then? My guess would be that a supplier’s delivery man brought it in there on a hand truck with several cases of wine or liquor.”
“Any idea of which supplier?”
“We buy from four suppliers: I give them a list of what we want, and they bid. I always take the lowest price for, say, a case of Absolut Vodka or Knob Creek bourbon.”
“Same for the wines?”
“Yes, but if we specify a wine and a vintage, all four might not have it. If I don’t get a low enough bid, then I go to the Internet before I accept, then the delivery would be made by UPS.”
“What else do you do on the Internet, Michael?”
Gennaro tilted his head to one side in thought. “Shopping for clothes, shoes, sex toys, household appliances. I use Google to look for stuff.”
“E-mail?”
“Yeah, but not so much.”
“Why not?”
“I guess I don’t have all that many friends. In this business you work nights. It doesn’t lead to an athletic social life. The cell phone works better for me.”
