23
Cal Bergman was frustrated. He had taken no notes during his interview with Nevins but the details were swirling in his brain; details he was not sure how to handle. How much should he reveal to Cody? How much should he dictate to himself? What had he learned that would advance the case?
That one he was sure of: nothing.
Should he suggest another run at the Yellow Door club? Perhaps shake up the bartender a little more or perhaps bang on the Manager, whoever he was? It seemed to him that would be a waste of time though as Cody often reminded them, “Nothing is a waste of time.” Dog work, which is what the captain called it, was necessary if for no other reason than to close the book on a string of the investigation. As he wove his way through the Friday evening traffic he considered the only clue they had: The woman in the red dress and the vampire mask.
Someone had to know who she was and at that moment the only someone was the killer. And at that moment who was the only person whom he felt certain knew who the killer was? The woman in the red dress.
A classic conundrum.
The only other person who knew was Raymond Handley and Handley most certainly wasn’t talking and he laughed at that thought. Not a humorous laugh, a laugh of vexation. What was it his grandmother used to say? If two people know something, it’s a secret. If three people know, it’s a headline.
The only headline the third person in this case could be assured of was when the details of his lurid death became known to the media.
And so Bergman’s lissome brain turned back to Handley. His detailed journal might still contain a secret; some address, some name, some hypocorism that may have eluded him when he was poring over the black book. Perhaps a phone number scribbled sideways on one of its pages. Anything.
He had decided on a simple method to reduce the overwhelming contents of the book to a workable monograph. He would narrow his focus to the previous two months and use ratiocination, string logic, to connect names, dates, possible codes, even scribblings, in search of any clue that might reveal the identity of the woman in red and hopefully lead to Handley’s killer.
But his tenacity was encumbered. He checked his watch. Six fifty-seven. He had not eaten all day and lack of food had drained his energy and was giving him a headache. And so, as he drove south on Bowery, his thoughts turned from homicide to sapid delights; to fettuccini Crosetti, a big bowl of minestrone, a rich Italian salad, perhaps even a glass of red wine-to La Venezia Ristorante, which was right on his way and a few blocks from the Loft-the perfect place to parse Handley’s black book while satisfying his hunger.
He turned right onto Hester Street, drove a block and turned into a parking lot. He called the Loft from the car, and told Simon, who was working the desk, where he was, then headed for the entrance.
The Venezia was near the intersection of Mott and Hester, the bustling tourist tract where Little Italy morphed into Chinatown. It had occupied the same one-story building since the mid-fifties when Tony Crosetti and his brother Bernardo, whose father had left them a modest inheritance, had pooled their resources, bought the building and started the restaurant, with their mother as the grand chef. Their first menu was hand-written from the recipes in her head. Dishes she had been cooking for them all their lives. Tony, who was twenty-five and had a head for numbers, would handle the business while Bernie, who was twenty-seven and had a stomach for cooking, would learn cuisine at his mother’s elbow.
It was the neighborhood trattoria where locals-especially cops and hangers-on of the law-gathered to drink, eat, trade lies, argue, and celebrate first communions, birthdays, and other treasured family moments. It was no secret that Lo Zio, Uncle Tony, loved cops, knew the regulars by name-most of who worked the 1.2 square miles of the Fifth Precinct or were members of the TAZ-and treated them as family.
As Bergman entered Venezia through the Mott Street entrance his senses were overwhelmed by the tantalizing aroma and the noise: thirty tables crowded with Friday night revelers, their conversation and laughter virtually drowning out the music playing in the background; real people joyously welcoming the weekend. It had been a long time, Cal wishfully thought, but quickly brushed off the idea. He had work to do.
The dining room was to the right of the entrance, its walls adorned with photographs of Venice, Naples, Rome and Lake Como; of family and friends; and a framed copy of a piece about La Venezia from City Gourmet Magazine entitled “The Ritual Prince of Mott Street.” The bar to the left was also crowded with revelers, among them two older gents playing dollar poker.
Uncle Tony was a man of tradition, disciplined and habitual. A small, joyful fellow, barely five-six and weighing at best 140 pounds, he dressed impeccably, always a dark blue suit, white shirt and a carnation in his lapel. He looked up from the maitre d’s desk as Bergman entered. “Sergeant Bergman,” he said. His creased face lit up.
Bergman towered over the little man who rushed over and hugged him around the waist. Bergman laughed. “Not yet, Zio Tony,” he said. “Still just detective.”
“Well, you should be,” Tony said firmly.
“I’m working on it,” Bergman answered. He held up Handley’s book. “Thought I’d grab a bite to eat while I’m doing some homework. I forgot it was Friday night. I should have called first.”
Tony waved off the suggestion. He looked at his reservation book, glanced around the room, and snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. “Kenny,” he said. “Table nineteen for our friend. Clean it off quickly.”
“Yes sir.” The waiter rushed off.
“So, you are working something, eh?” the little man said, nodding at the journal.
Bergman smiled. “We’re always working something, Uncle Tony.”
“Perhaps a drink? Soothe the nerves.”
“I’m on the job.”
“Who’s to know?” Tony said with a wink. “A little vino. Stir the appetite.”
“Okay. Maybe a Chianti, please.”
“Excellent.”
The waiter returned to tell them the table was ready.
“Bring Chianti for the detective,” Tony said as he grabbed a menu and led Bergman through the room toward a small corner table for two. As they passed a hallway to the private dining room, Tony cocked his head toward the room which was particularly noisy.
“Magpies,” he said, “cheep, cheep, cheep. Rich ladies. A charity thing tonight. They come once a year before their annual shindig. So…” he waved his hand slightly, “they get a little buzzed, laugh a lot, tip the waiters big. They can cheep all they want, right?”
“Right,” Bergman agreed.
They reached the table and Tony held the chair as Bergman sat down.
“Take your time. Do your homework. It’s my honor to have you.” He leaned over and added, “Try the special, bistecca Maria, my mother’s favorite. A little filet mignon, wild mushrooms soaked in brandy and Gorgonzola sauce, wrapped up a nice fluffy pastry.” He kissed his fingertips and flared out his hand.
“ Grazie, Zio,” Bergman answered.
Tony patted him on the shoulder and left.
Bergman put Handley’s black book on the table in front of him but the waiter arrived with the glass of wine so he set the book aside and turned his attention to the menu.
The ladies started heading out for the shindig, one in a red dress offering him a whiff of her exotic perfume as she passed his table.?
At about the same time, Cody and Amelie Cluett were parking near an intimate Thai restaurant on 66 ^ th Street. They both had agreed on Thai food and Tiger Thai, one of her favorites, was a few blocks from the Wildlife Center. Before they left the car, Cody called The Loft.
“Hi, Captain, it’s Si.”
“Hue off?”
“Taking a nap in the back. He’s on recon later tonight.”
“Heard from Bergman yet?”
“Yes sir, he’s eating at Uncle Tony’s. He needs to talk to you.”
“Did he score something with Nevins?”
