that doesn’t work, she hops down and stares at the fish until I feed them. If I don’t toss in enough, she lets out that girly little bark. I keep telling her Daddy’s coming back soon, but the way she looks at me, she ain’t buying it.”
“Tell her I’ll bring back a souvenir.”
“She’s no material girl, but sure. How’s it going?”
“Nothing much so far.”
“I checked the weather online. Sounds pretty.”
“Gorgeous,” I said. “One day we should go.”
“Definitely. Got a nice hotel?”
I described the Midtown Executive.
She said, “One advantage, we’d be bumping into each other.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow, plenty of bump opportunities. How’s work?”
“Picked up a couple of new jobs – easy repairs.” Brief pause. “He called this morning, wanting to make sure I’ll be in town when he’s here. He sounded different.”
“How so?”
“Distant – not brimming over with enthusiasm like he usually is. He claims he’s really into the project but the tone didn’t match the words.”
“Buyer’s remorse?” I said.
“Maybe he realized it’s an awful lot of money when you can’t play a note.”
“Worse comes to worst, you sell them to someone else.”
“I’m just wondering if he caught on that any amorous intentions are not going to be reciprocated. I have been avoiding small talk.”
“If he had ulterior motives and drops out, you’re lucky.”
“For sure,” she said.
Her tone didn’t match her words.
I said, “You’ve put a lot of work into this and now it’s complicated.”
“Maybe just in my own mind.”
“You’ve got good instincts, Rob.”
“Not always… guess I’d better clear my head before turning on the band saw. See you tomorrow, love.”
I told Milo about my meeting with Polito.
He said, “Deputy commissioner’s brother-in-law, huh? And this particular D.C. also happens to be His Holiness’s former driver.”
“Takes a village to catch crooks,” I said.
“And to breed ’em. So Bright didn’t come across gay to Polito?”
“Combine that with dramatic changes in appearance, pretending to be a vegan, the Jekyll-Hyde pattern his sister described, and we can’t be sure of anything about him.”
“All the world’s a stage.”
“Bloody stage. Let’s see what Roland Korvutz has to say about him.”
“You’re going to approach Korvutz directly?”
“Wasn’t that the point of giving me his home address and his favorite haunts?”
“Yeah, but I woke up this morning with second thoughts. Why would Korvutz even talk to you?”
“If I can keep the emphasis on Dale Bright and off him, maybe he’ll fancy
“If he paid Bright to do the Safrans, he’ll give you the boot or worse.”
“Why settle for pessimism when you can have fatalism?”
“You’ve been reading my diary. This guy could be big trouble, amigo, and I don’t see any payoff in getting him nervous. Go back to your hotel, put quarters in the massage bed, get a good night’s sleep.”
“Aw, thanks. Mom.”
“I’m serious.”
“How’re things on the home front?”
“Changing the subject doesn’t alter reality.”
“I’ll watch my back. Anything new?”
“The home front is nada,” he said. “Why settle for fatalism when I can have futility? Where were you planning to meet Korvutz?”
“Still am. La Bella.”
“The Italian place.”
“Upper East Side, we’re not talking hefty guys drinking espresso in some social club.”
“At best you’re spinning your wheels, Alex. Why would Korvutz blink at you?”
“At one time or another, doesn’t everyone want to be a star?” My neck tightened. “Just thought of something. If Dale’s a wannabe Olivier, maybe that’s what brought him to New York in the first place.”
“Roar of the greasepaint,” he said.
“The Safrans were headed for the theater the night they disappeared. Off-off-Broadway production downtown. What if Bright snared the Safrans by offering an olive branch? ‘I’m doing a show, have your name on the comp list, would be honored if you’d come watch me chew the scenery. Afterward, we go out for drinks, bury the hatchet on the condo thing.’”
“And he brings a literal hatchet… that would be cold. Problem is we already ran every search we could think of on Bright and his name doesn’t pop up in any productions. Or anywhere else.”
“The show could’ve been too short-lived or obscure,” I said. “Or he used a stage name. On my way over from Midtown I passed the main library. Maybe that was karma. I’ve got time before I try Korvutz. Let’s see what the newspaper files have to offer.”
“Good idea. You find something, forget Mr. Korvutz and come home.”
“Now you’re obsessing,” I said.
“Pot and kettle.”
I hurried back to Fifth, made my way through the afternoon crush, ran up the stairs to the library.
The Microfilm Reading Room was equipped with a dozen film-reading machines, twice that many multiformat readers, and a couple of microfiche viewers. Lots of studious researchers waiting for access, including a homeless guy who made it to the front, sat down, spooled randomly.
I located the theater guides for the week preceding the Safrans’ disappearance in the
An hour later, I’d winnowed a long list down to nine downtown productions that seemed sufficiently obscure. A fifteen-minute wait got me a computer with Internet hookup. No mention of five of the shows. Of the remaining four, I found cast lists for three. Ansell/Dale Bright didn’t appear on any of them, but I printed them and left the library.
The sky was blue-black. Fifth Avenue flashed copper and bronze and silver in the reflected glory of store displays. Vehicle traffic was a bumblebee swarm of yellow cabs and black livery cars. The pedestrian crowd had thickened to something purposeful and polymorphous and I felt like a tiny gear in a wonderful machine.
For variety, I took Madison north, catching glimpses of moonglow haloing sky-scratching towers. Development could be predatory, but man-made New York was as beautiful as anything Nature could conjure.
As I crossed from the sixties into the seventies, mega-designer flagships gave way to boutiques and cozy eateries whose glass fronts showcased pretty people.
Osteria La Bella was different, with a brick facade painted white and tiny beige letters whispering the restaurant’s name over a glass door so festooned with gilt flourishes it might as well have been opaque.
Behind the glass, darkness. One of those places you’d have to know about.
I looked up the street, failed to spot anyone matching Roland Korvutz’s description. Six twenty p.m. If he was in there already, I wanted him settled into a culinary routine. Resuming my walk, I continued all the way to East Ninetieth, picking up the pace to get some aerobic benefit from the gentle slope of Carnegie Hill. By seven ten, I was back at La Bella, with sweet lungs and a buzzing nervous system.
The glass panel opened to a glossy, deep green vestibule backed by a second door of solid black walnut. On the
