wasn't this impressed when I got on the job. Speaking of which, it's not the same.'
'The Department?'
'Oh, who's to say, but I'm just talking about my own detail. They want me to use a computer to do what I do.'
'You mean like an Identi-Kit?'
'No, this is different,' he said. 'Much more flexible than the Identi-Kit. You can make minute adjustments to the shape of the mouth, elongate the head, set the eyes deeper, anything you could do with pencil and paper.' He explained how the software worked and what it would do. 'But it's not drawing,' he said. 'It's not art.'
He laughed, and I asked him what was funny.
'Just hearing myself use the word,' he said. 'I would always correct Elaine when she called it art, what I do. I'm beginning to think she's right. I'll tell you one thing, what I been doing with that European woman is different from anything I ever done before. You know about her? Customer of Elaine's, she lost all her family in the Holocaust?'
'Elaine told me. I didn't know you'd started working with her.'
'Two sessions so far, and it's the most exhausting thing I ever did in my life. She doesn't remember what any of the people look like.'
'Then how can you possibly draw them?'
'Oh, the memory's in there. It's a question of reaching in and dragging it out. We started with her father. What did he look like? Well, that doesn't get us anywhere, because she hasn't got an answer. The best she can do is he's tall. Okay, what kind of man is he? He's very gentle, she says. Okay, so I start drawing. He's got a deep voice, she remembers. I draw some more. Sometimes he would lose his temper. Okay, now I'm drawing a tall gentle man with a deep voice who gets angry. Late at night he would sit at the kitchen table adding columns of numbers. Okay, great, let's draw that. And we keep on, and now and then we have to stop because she's crying, or she can't look at the paper anymore, or she's just wiped out. Believe me, time we're done, we're both wiped out.'
'And you wound up with a human face?'
'I wound up with a human face,' he said, 'but whose face? Does it look like the man who went to the gas chamber? No way to know. It brought back memories, I know that much, and she's got a picture that means something to her, so what's the difference? Is it as good as a photograph? Well, maybe it's better. Is it art?' He shrugged. 'I have to say I think so.'
'And this?'
'This prick?' He leaned forward, blew some eraser dust from the surface of the sketch. 'This doesn't have to be art. Just so it looks like him.'
I went to a copy shop, ran two dozen copies of the sketch. It seemed to me it was a good likeness. I gave the original to Elaine but told her not to hang it anywhere for the time being. I left a copy with TJ, who raised an eyebrow and announced that Shorter was an ugly-looking dude.
Over the next few days, I got around to most of the men who'd been at the meeting at Gruliow's house, as well as a few who hadn't been able to make it. No one echoed TJ's sentiment, but neither did anyone recognize Shorter as a long-lost cousin.
'He's a pretty ordinary-looking guy,' Bob Berk told me. 'Not a face that would jump out at you in a crowd.'
Several of them said he looked vaguely familiar. Lewis Hildebrand told me he might have seen Shorter before, that it was impossible to say. 'The visual onslaught in this city is overpowering,' he said. 'Walk a few blocks through midtown Manhattan and more people will pass through your field of vision than the average small-town resident will see all year. Walk through Grand Central Station at rush hour and you'll see thousands of people without really seeing any of them. How much of it do we screen out? How much registers, consciously or otherwise?'
In his living room on Commerce Street, Hard-Way Ray Gruliow squinted at the sketch and shook his head. 'He looks familiar,' he said. 'But in a very vague way.'
'That's what I keep hearing.'
'What a crazy thing, huh? Here's somebody who hates us all enough to devote his entire life to killing us. Because he's not a guy who got pissed off one morning and took a gun to the Post Office. This is his life's work.'
'That's right.'
'And we look at him,' he said, 'and all we can say is he looks vaguely familiar. Who could he be? How could he know us?'
'Where could you remember him from?'
'I don't know. The only time we were all together was once a year at dinner. Maybe he was a waiter at Cunningham's. What did we decide he was, sixteen years old? He couldn't have been a waiter. Maybe he was a busboy.'
'And maybe you stiffed him on the tip.'
'No, we wouldn't do a thing like that. We're a generous bunch.'
Local 100 of the Restaurant and Hotel Workers of America maintains offices on Eighth Avenue, just two blocks from Restaurant Row. I talked to a man there named Gus Brann who was amused at the thought of trying to hunt down employees of a restaurant that had gone out of business twenty years ago. 'Restaurant work isn't the trade it once was,' he said. 'Not on the service floor. You used to have waiters who spent their life in the profession. They knew their customers and they knew how to serve. Now do you know what you get? Actors and actresses. 'My name is Scott and together we'll enjoy a dining experience.' Guess what percentage of the rank and file also holds membership in Actors Equity.'
'I have no idea.'
'Plenty,' he said. 'Take my word for it. You go out for a meal and what you get is an audition.'
'The turnover's not as high in the old-fashioned steak houses, is it?'
'No, you're right about that, but how many of them have we got left? You got Gallagher's, you got the Old Homestead, you got Keens, you got Peter Luger, you got Smith and Whatsisface, Wollensky, you got-'
I said, 'Waiters tend to stay with the same general type of restaurant, don't they?'
'I just told you, they don't even stay with the business.'
'But the old-fashioned type of waiter. If a man was working at Cunningham's and it went out of business, he'd probably look for work at one of the places you just mentioned, don't you think?'
'Unless he had a longing to scoop Rocky Road at a Baskin-Robbins. But yeah, you tend to stay with what you know.'
'So if you wanted to find somebody who used to work at Cunningham's, those would be the first places to look.'
'I suppose.'
'But I myself would hardly know how to begin,' I said. 'And I'd have to spend a couple of days running all over the city, trying to convince people to give me the time of day. Whereas a knowledgeable person like yourself could probably manage the whole thing by just making a few phone calls.'
'Hey,' he said. 'I got a job to do, you know what I mean?'
'I know.'
'I can't sit around making phone calls, bugging people, asking who worked where twenty, thirty years back.'
'You'd be saving me time,' I said, 'and time is money. I wasn't looking to get the information for free.'
'Oh,' he said. 'Well, that puts a different light on it, doesn't it?'
The following day I called Gruliow and told him I'd found not one but two gentlemen who'd spent their lives bringing steak dinners to people with hearty appetites. 'They were both working at Cunningham's when it closed,' I said. 'One of them started there as a busboy over forty years ago.'
'He'd have been there for our first dinner,' he said. 'Christ, he'd have been around for quite a few meetings of the previous chapter.'
'He didn't recognize the sketch, though. Neither did the other fellow, who's actually quite a bit older, although he was only at Cunningham's from 1967 on. He went from there to the Old Homestead, and that's where he was when he retired three years ago last September. They both said the same thing.'
'What's that?'
