Mike pulled out of the driveway and headed west till we reached Fifth Avenue, where he turned left at my direction to go south to the “U‘ Club.
“You belong there? I mean, are you a member of this place?”
“No.”
“ No broads?“
“Yeah. They admitted women a few years ago, but it’s not for me. Jed’s a member, though. Likes to breakfast there or have lunch in the Grill, drink at the end of the day, use the pool and squash courts. The old guys the sixty- and seventy-year-olds most of them voted to let women in when the first lawsuits started. The thirty- and forty- year-olds you know, the ones who are a bit threatened by skirts they tried to keep women out. Male bonding, Mike. Doesn’t it move you?“
“What street?”
“Corner of Fifty-fourth and Fifth.”
As we crossed the intersection of Fifty-seventh Street – a caravan of Daily News trucks lumbering eastbound with their first load of morning papers for the all-night newsstands – I groaned as I leaned my head onto the seat back.
“Oh no. Don’t even let me think that this story’s going to be another tabloid headline.”
“You can go to the bank on that one, Coop. You better hope somebody goes through the front door of Carder’s tonight with an atomic blowtorch and walks out with the Hope diamond. Otherwise, if it’s a slow news day, you and Jed could be right on the front pages. I can see them in the newsroom now Post goes with single-word header in all caps: ”BETRAYED“ News uses ”SEX PROSECUTOR IN DEADLY LOVE TRIANGLE.“
“I’m not a ”sex prosecutor,“ dammit. That’s the same thing they tried to write when Iz was killed. I prosecute crimes of sexual assault, not sex.”
“That’s a healthy approach, blondie the semantics. Don’t worry about what the headlines say, it’s how they say it.”
“I don’t know who I feel worse about Battaglia, my mother, or me.”
“Good thing you got an alibi for the middle of the afternoon when Lascar was killed. You can bet that Pat McKinney will be in there telling Battaglia that you had the best motive to knock off your fair-weather friend for playing with your man behind your back.”
I was silent as I thought of the endless rounds of gossip this case would now generate in the office, where I had always worked to maintain a healthy distance between my personal and professional lives. Chills ran through me as I tried to make a mental list of my friends and my enemies, but I would have a chance to see them all by the end of the next day before I could ever attempt to parse up the groupings in my head.
Mike had gone around the block and come up directly in front of the club building at One West Fifty-fourth Street, defying the “NO PARKING‘ sign by sticking his laminated NYPD vehicle identification plate inside the windshield on the dashboard, announcing to the handful of nocturnal passersby that we had come to this bastion of gentility on official business. Sort of.
It was well after midnight as I led Chapman up the front steps and through the glass entrance doors of the University Club. It is one of the handsomest buildings in the City of New York a McKim, Mead, and White structure, built to house the private retreat established for educated gentlemen in 1865.
Up another few steps to the lobby where, on the left, a uniformed employee stood beside a large wooden board to record the comings and goings of members as they entered and left the building. Most of the time the initiated simply nodded their greetings upon arrival and he recognized them, sliding their small wooden nameplates into the appropriate place to mark their presence at the club.
I trooped past the startled guard, crossed through the formal lobby with its double-height ceiling, massive columns, and enormous marble fireplace, and went beyond the slow speed elevators to the back staircase which led directly up to the Tap Room, the bar on the second floor.
“Madam,” the unhappy lookout called out several times after me as I continued to ignore him, refusing to look back and hoping that Chapman was still at my heels. “Who are you, madam? I’m sorry but you’re not appropriately dressed for the Tap Room.” My trenchcoat was wide open, so he could see that the oversized man’s shirt, leggings, and Capezio ballet flats P S t marked a blatant departure from the dress code preferred her for the public rooms, which gave me added pleasure on my late-night odyssey.
“Madam, I must insist, madam. Whom are you meeting?”
I had practically reached the landing at the top of the stairs when I looked down at the source of the voice calling up to me. All I could see was the top of his uniform cap.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Were you talking to me? I’m with an escort service Mr. Segal called for me half an hour ago said just to come ahead as I was, what he needed wouldn’t take us very long.”
I continued down the short hallway and waited at the entrance to the bar so that Mike could catch up with me before I pushed open the padded leather door and walked in.
There were about five clusters of drinkers scattered about the large room, relaxing around cocktail tables with armchairs and easy chairs, nursing their nightcaps before heading off to rest up for tomorrow’s deal-making.
“Alexandra!” Jed spotted me almost immediately and called out to me as I stood in the doorway, scanning the room to find him.
“Come with me, Mike,” I whispered as I moved forward.
Jed rose to his feet, followed in rapid succession by his two boot lickers Larry and Stan slightly younger versions of Jed, hoping to grow up just like him, I was sure. Anderson Warmack, the centerpiece of the group, never budged from his chair, but just leaned in and rested his elbows on the table as he winked at me in welcome.
“Jed, I think you remember Mike Chapman. He’s with Homicide. Mike and I need to ask you some questions, Jed. We’d like to-‘
”Alex, darling, why don’t you and Chapman join us for a round. We’re celebrating Mr.
Warmack’s big night and anything you want to tell me can certainly wait till we get home.“ Could he really be as cool and unconcerned as he appeared to be, seeing me burst in here looking like a shrew with a detective at my side? Was it possible that I had made a ridiculous mistake?
Larry and Stan or was it Curly and Moe were scrambling to pull up two extra chairs from nearby tables now.
“Don’t bother. We’re not sitting. Jed, this is not a joke. We need to go somewhere private and talk. Right now. We can go upstairs to the library on the fourth floor I’m sure it’s empty at this hour.”
Anderson Warmack chose that moment to begin to blow his hot air into our business.
“Alexandria, my dear…”
“It’s not Alexandria. It’s Alexandra.”
Now I had Jed’s attention. I could mess with him but I better not cross old moneybags.
“Alexandra young lady I’ve been keeping your sweetheart from you too long, is that the problem? Called the police in on me, have you? You look mighty perturbed.”
Well, you’re a master of understatement, you pompous old fart. I’m not perturbed I am fucking pissed off and heartbroken and confused and hurt and angry, but I am much too well brought up to say exactly that to a politefool like you who likes to have his dimpled old ass kissed as frequently as possible. ftic “Quite the contrary, Mr. Warmack. I only need to see Jed ‘ for fifteen or twenty minutes, and if you’ll be good enough to wait for him, I won’t ever need to take him out of your presence again, for as long as I live. ” Jed was mad now. He was furious that I was bringing his idol and his underlings into some spat they thought I was starting, and he was trying to placate Warmack before he dealt with me.
‘I’ll just finish up with you, Anderson. Alex and her friend can have a wait-’ Mike was ready to jump in, at last.
“Hey, Mr. Spiegal, we’re ready to-‘ ”It’s Segal.“
“Nobody wants to embarrass you. I do have a few questions that need to have answers tonight. Now be a gent and do what the lady would like you to do, understand?”
Larry thought it was time for a little levity.
“Go on, Jed, we’ll still be here. Don’t make the tough guy take out his gun and shoot you in the foot to make you dance. What is it, Officer Krupke, a parking ticket? Did he expose himself in public? Better go with the nice policeman, Jed, I can’t I afford to call a lawyer for you.” Stan thought that was a real knee-slapper. Warmack, on
