aircraft, and started clawing his way to the surface.
Breaking the water, he heard a loud thumping noise above and saw a big Sea King helicopter blotting out the sky overhead. One rescue swimmer, already in the water, was paddling furiously toward him. Another stood poised in the open hatch. The downdraft was making the waves worse and Hawke went under, swallowing a pint or two of seawater. He felt the crewman yanking upward on his flight suit. A few seconds later, he was sputtering on the surface again, only to be blindsided by another crashing wave.
“Christ, sir,” the swimmer shouted at him above the chopper’s roar, somehow looping a line over his head and getting it down over his shoulders. “We almost lost you when she swamped!”
“Yeah, I know!”
“Are you crazy, sir? Why the hell did you blow your canopy?”
Hawke spat out the last saltwater he could summon up from his burning pipes, then wrenched his head around and smiled. His savior was just a kid, couldn’t be much more than twenty years old. The cinch tightened over Hawke’s chest and he was jerked upward, slowly at first, toward the hovering Sea King.
“Never blow the canopy!” the kid shouted again.
“Next time this happens,” Hawke shouted down to the kid, “I’ll try to remember not to do that!”
Chapter Thirty-three
New York City
AMBROSE CONGREVE ARRIVED AT 21 WEST FIFTY-SECOND Street in a sunny mood. Why not? He was dining at the “21” club, his favorite watering hole in all of New York. The leisurely stroll down Fifth Avenue in the warm twilight had been delightful. He had suitable accommodations, having been satisfactorily installed in a nice corner room at the Carlyle up on Seventy-sixth and Madison. Plenty of cozy chintz and overstuffed furniture. And there’d been a huge arrangement of hydrangeas waiting in his room when he’d checked in that afternoon.
The scented blue envelope from the Park Avenue florists, now safely tucked inside his waistcoat pocket, would have to wait. He knew who it was from and that was sufficient.
He was saving the card. He envisioned ordering an ice-cold martini and then reading her words while standing at the bar waiting for his dinner companion. He was deliberately early. He wanted time to savor Diana’s note laced with gin.
“Good evening, Mr. Congreve,” the debonair gentleman standing at the entrance to the dining room said. He offered his hand as Ambrose entered the familiar room, chockablock with model boats, aircraft, and sports memorabilia hung from the ceiling. “It’s good to have you back with us again.”
Congreve shook the man’s hand warmly. Bruce Snyder, as far as he was concerned, was the heart and soul of the legendary old speakeasy. A tall and good-looking chap with slicked-back hair and impeccable tailoring, Bruce managed to combine an elegant New York sophistication with an easygoing manner that was part and parcel of his Oklahoma upbringing.
Still, Snyder was the keeper of the flame in this very clubby atmosphere; the arbiter of social stratification within these hallowed walls. It was he who decided whether you were seated at one of the cherished banquettes in the front room or banished to Siberia behind the bar. But Ambrose knew that, unlike many in his position, Snyder was a good man who wore his mantle of power lightly and with genuine bonhomie.
“I’m meeting someone, Bruce,” Congreve said. “I’m a little early. And thirsty. I thought I might have something cold and clear at the bar first.”
“Good idea. I’ve saved the banquette table in the corner whenever you’re ready,” Snyder said. “Business or pleasure bring you to New York this trip, Chief Inspector?”
“Both. Two items are on my personal menu this evening, Bruce. Your delicious lobster and that tough old bird Mariucci. A sort of ‘Surf and Turf,’ I suppose one might say.”
“He’s not so tough.” Snyder laughed. “Matter of fact, he was in with his granddaughter just the other night. Her birthday.”
“Moochie didn’t shoot out the candles?”
Snyder laughed again and walked with him toward the bar. “We make him check his six-shooter at the door. Just give me a shout when you’re ready to sit down.”
Ambrose ordered a very dry Bombay Sapphire straight up and pulled the small pale blue envelope from his pocket. It was the same shade as the hydrangeas that Diana had sent to the Carlyle. He noticed that his hands were trembling. His martini arrived magically and he put the envelope down, feeling like he needed a drink before he opened it. He really was losing it, he thought—just going starkers and—
A large beefy hand was on his shoulder.
“Hiya, sailor, first time in New York?”
Known as Moochie to his many pals in the metropolis and by less cordial monikers by the many villains he’d sent upriver, Detective Captain John Mariucci had collaborated with Ambrose very successfully on a couple of cases. All ancient history now. Moochie was somewhere north of five feet tall, a barrel-shaped individual with a full black mustache and skin the color of sun-bleached terra-cotta. His neatly trimmed black hair was shot through with grey now, but instead of aging him, it seemed to smooth out some of the rough edges.
Ambrose slipped Diana’s card back into his waistcoat and shook the man’s hand, trying not to wince at the pain. Moochie had the strongest grip of any man he knew outside of Stokely Jones, but Stokely, at least, knew how to keep his under control.
He turned to the bartender. “Two more just like this, please, and send them over to our table.”
“Okay, Chief,” Mariucci said after they’d been seated and he’d swallowed the top half of his drink, “Let’s skip the chase and cut right to the outcome. We’ll renew our acquaintance later. What are you doing in my town and how the hell can I help you do it? Women, a table at Rao’s, what are we talking here?”
Ambrose smiled and sipped the delicious gin. “Ever hear of a chap named Napoleon Bonaparte?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think that rings a bell. Short little guy, French, as I remember. Always had his hand inside his jacket like he was going for his frigging piece.”
“That’s the bird, all right.”
“He giving you a hard time, Chief Inspector?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes, he is.”
“I’ll kick his ass.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
“Talk to me, Ambrose, but let’s order a steak first. My treat, by the way, you paid last time I was in London.” Ambrose didn’t argue about the menu or the tab. He was on Moochie’s turf and he knew better. Mariucci signaled to a hovering waiter and informed him that they didn’t need menus, just food. “Two New York strip steaks, rare, French fries, and two Sunset salads with Lorenzo dressing.”
“You want the steak and the chicken?” the waiter asked, scribbling on his pad. It wasn’t a problem, nothing was a problem, he just wanted to make sure he’d understood.
“I’m hungry, what can I tell you? Too much food, though, you’re right. So, hold the chicken in the Sunsets, and just bring the lettuce and cabbage part.”
“Very good, sir.”
Mariucci sat back against the banquette and surveyed the room. It was full of glamorous semifamous and famous faces and Ambrose was sure the seasoned captain could put names to most all of them. Then he looked at Congreve and said, “France has gone crazy, right? Fuck is wrong with those people? They forget a little beach resort called Normandy? Jesus. Speaking of France, you still wearing yellow socks all the time?”
“Certainly.”
“Show me.”
Ambrose stuck his foot out beneath the table and hitched up this trouser leg. He was wearing black Peale wing-tipped loafers and his signature yellow cable-stitched socks from Loro Piano. Mariucci shook his head and frowned. He and Ambrose had never seen eye to eye when it came to gentlemen’s attire.
“You are a total and complete piece of work, you know that? Now, you were saying about Napoleon?”
