by Nan Lyons
“Oh, my God!” She gasped. Alec was wearing a blue suit, a pencil-thin red and white striped shirt, and a red silk tie.
“Do I have the wrong day?”
“No,” she said, starting to laugh. “The wrong suit.” Natasha was wearing a double-breasted blue pants suit with a white shirt and a red bow tie. “Copycat!” she blurted out.
He smiled. “Perhaps you’re the copycat.”
“Are you accusing me of . . .”
“Looking beautiful. Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
Natasha stood aside, suddenly afraid that Alec was already too far in. “I should change.”
“I don’t think you should change a thing.”
“Except my head.” She forced a smile, wondering how she was going to get through An Evening of Double Entendres with Alec and Natasha. Watch him make veiled passes! Watch her parry with suspicious indictments! “I forgot to make a reservation.”
“I know.” Alec held out his hands to show off his manicured nails. “I asked Ester.” He smiled, almost boyishly. “So, I took the liberty. Actually, I made four reservations. I didn’t know what you had in mind.”
Neither did Natasha. It was one thing to suspect Alec in the abstract, but quite another to suspect him while he wore an impeccably tailored double-breasted suit. She had to keep reminding herself that the killings hadn’t started until Alec showed up. But then again, they hadn’t started until Roy began his screenplay. “Four reservations?”
“Le Cirque, the Russian Tea Room, 21, and The Four Seasons.”
“You left out the Carnegie Deli.”
Alec walked around the room as though taking inventory. He stopped in front of a small Rembrandt sketch. “I see you still have . . .” His voice trailed off.
“I still have what?”
He turned quickly. “. . . not succumbed to photography. The television of art. I always suspect people who collect black-and-white visions of the world.”
“Of what crime do you suspect them?”
He walked slowly toward her. His face was expressionless. “Lack of forgiveness.”
“I need a drink.”
“Have you ever looked closely at a Picasso painting? The canvas is littered with drip marks. Why didn’t he bother to clean them up? Because they weren’t important. The human eye is powered by a brain and a heart. A camera has batteries. No compassion. No mercy.”
Natasha shuddered. It was pure Achille.
Alec smiled and looked around. “Well, where is the bar?”
“In the lobby.”
CAFÉ DES ARTISTES was the perfect place in which to fall in love. Alec allowed himself to be carried away, as did everyone, by the Howard Christy Chandler murals of cavorting buxom beauties, the sparkle of crystal and silver, the patina of old wood, and the gentle purr of a sophisticated clientele.
George Lang, the Mozart of the restaurant business, opened his arms as Natasha approached. “Tasha, my darling. I hear you’ve been through hell.”
Natasha kissed him. “Worse than a Mandy Patinkin conceit.”
He looked quickly around the room. Nearly every table was filled. “But it’s too early for you to eat, anyway. Did you want the bar?”
“Desperately,” she said.
The bar at des Artistes was uniquely situated. Nowhere near the front door or the coat room. Instead, it was nestled toward the back of the restaurant. Lang shrugged helplessly. “All I have is two seats at the end.”
“Not anymore you don’t.” Natasha led the way. “ ‘Evening, Willy,” she said to the bartender.
“I was worried. I thought maybe you’d moved out.” He nodded to Alec. “ ‘Evening, sir.” Then back to Natasha. “The usual?”
“Two.”
“No champagne for me,” Alec said.
“How do you know that’s what I ordered?”
How indeed? His mind was falling captive to memory. Seeing the Rembrandt had shocked him. Not because he had remembered being with her when she bought it, but because a recollection had slipped past the sentry. “A lucky guess.”
“America was a lucky guess. Besides, you’re not an odds-on guy. Otherwise, why all the reservations?”
“The December issue. I checked the schedule. You haven’t assigned the piece on power dining. I decided to overpower you.” The bartender brought two flutes of champagne. Alec raised his glass, wanting to toast her with “I love you.” Instead, he offered a quick “To drip marks.”
A waiter brought a bowl of marrow bones and some crusty bread. “Compliments of Mr. Lang.”
“New Age caviar,” Natasha said, picking up the small spoon and scooping some marrow onto a piece of bread.
Alec watched closely. She was eating it just the way he had taught her. But that had been a lifetime ago. Literally.
She moved the bowl over to him. “Heavenly.”
Alec stared at the soft fatty marrow and swallowed hard. His hand moved imperceptibly toward the bowl. He grabbed hold of his glass instead.
“Now, what are we to do with all those reservations?”
“It depends upon how hungry you are.” He watched Natasha tear off another piece of bread and slather it with marrow.
“Listen, you must have some,” she said, handing him the piece, “before I eat it all.”
“But it’s pure . . . fat.” As Alec took it from her, his stomach began to rumble. Pretending to be distracted, he put the bread down on the bar. “I suppose I should call and cancel.”
“Cancel which ones, Smart Alec?” She spooned out more marrow and then realized he was staring at her.
Alec kept watching the nervous expression on her face. The apprehension in her eyes. What was she afraid of saying? Or feeling? Was this Natasha on the verge of falling in love? Surely, it was Natasha at her most vulnerable.
“What name did you use?”
“Dr. Pangloss.”
She laughed. “You were optimistic.” She picked up the spoon. “Frankly, between you, me, and the marrow, I’d be very happy sipping champagne and clogging my major arteries with major hors d’oeuvres.”
“Death by foreplay?” He had expected her to smile.
She narrowed her eyes. And lowered her voice. “I was hoping for something short of death.”
Alec’s heart began beating rapidly. His mouth was suddenly dry. “Hors d’oeuvre. Translated literally as ‘outside the work.’ But inseparable from the meal.”
She reached behind the bar for the phone. “Cancel every reservation. I can’t have four empty tables on my conscience, even if they’re not in my name.”
He picked up the receiver. “What number is information?”
“Who are you calling?” she asked.
“Le Cirque?”
“794-9292.”
As Alec began to dial, he noticed that his hand was shaking. By the time he’d finished the third call, he had shooting pains in his stomach. He turned to Natasha. “The Four Seasons?”
“754-9494. But take a break. You look like you’re suffering from withdrawal.” She lifted the marrow spoon. “This will fix you up.”
“No, no,” he said, dialing. “I still have some over — ”
“I think you ate it after 21. Here.” She gave him another piece.
“Good evening. The Four Seasons,” the operator answered.
“I’d like to — ” Alec began to cough into the receiver. Something was stuck in his throat. “I’d like . . .”
Natasha took the phone from him. “Are you all right?”
He nodded yes. But he wasn’t all right.
“This is Dr. Pangloss’s secretary,” Natasha said. “He has to cancel for tonight. An emergency brain bypass.”
Alec sipped his champagne and, to be polite, reached for the bread Natasha had just given him. But it was gone. She must have eaten it.
“Okay, Dr. P,” she said, hanging up the phone. “Now that we’ve canceled all the reservations, let’s get going.”
Alec reached for the check. Natasha gra
bbed it from him, their hands brushing for a split second. His memory might have failed him, but his sense of touch was still responsive. With the speed of a supercomputer, he had cloned, from the touch of her finger, the feel of her entire body.
“Don’t be silly, Alec,” she said while signing the check. “This is business.”
Unfinished business. It was at that moment he decided he must have Natasha. Sex was the only appetite he didn’t have to share with Achille.
AS THEY WALKED onto the street, Alec started to hail a taxi.
“No need,” she said. “I have a driver.” Natasha waved at the man sitting in a car across the street. “Hey, pal, are you the night shift?”
“What are you doing?” Alec asked.
A young Hispanic rolled down the window. “Ma’am?”
“Relax. I know you’re tailing me.”
The man nodded and smiled. “Detective Solares. No known food fetishes. I eat anything that doesn’t eat me.”
“Not tonight, Solares.” She opened the door and hustled Alec in. “We’re going to hold up a few bars. You’ll be lucky to get a paper umbrella. First stop is Fifty-eight East Sixty-fifth.”
Solares nodded approvingly.
THE RINGMASTER at Le Cirque was Sirio Maccioni. Although he packed tables closer than the Rockettes during a high kick, no one ever complained: it was the place to be. Le Cirque reflected the best of Sirio’s personality, kept on its toes by the worst of his fears. “Natasha!” They embraced while he looked frantically over her shoulder for an empty table.
“Darling, you must meet Alec.”
“Welcome.” Sirio shook Alec’s hand while his eyes continued to scan the room.
Natasha smiled. “No agita, caro. All I want is a couple of bar stools.”
Sirio forced a smile. “What about a private room? You don’t have to eat.”
“Give the Eurotrash a private room. I want to sit at the bar with the grown-ups.”
“What you want is to drive me crazy!”
Choreographing an exit suave enough for Fred Astaire, Sirio escorted a party of four away from the bar. Before leaving, he turned to Natasha and pointed to the empty space. Natasha led the way and sat down, patting the stool next to her for Alec.
The bartender bowed slightly. “Buon’ giorno, Signorina O’Brien,” he said. “The usual?”
“Grazie.” Natasha smiled at Alec, determined to peel away the veneer and get some answers. Of course, she’d have to oil him up first. Or at least oil herself up first.
“You don’t mind if I have a Pellegrino?” he asked.
“Oh, snore!” she said. “You barely drank half a glass at des Artistes.” Of course, he had polished off the entire bowl of marrow. “What are you afraid of?”
“Three more bars.”
Natasha shrugged. “Not to worry, I’m a very classy drunk.”
“I don’t want you drunk.”
It was his emphasis on the word want that upset her. The son of a bitch! Not that Alec didn’t have a certain appeal. Perhaps in some other incarnation — if they were stranded on the planet Alpha-Epicure, where life was as orderly as a strawberry tart and there was no need for memory because tomatoes grew all year round. But in New York-on-the-Ganges, where people lived in paper cartons and houses of cards, where good old Give-My-Regards-to-Broadway Broadway had become an independent Third World nation, where humanity and the Automat had died of apathy, she was not about to fuck around with her executive editor. No matter how attractive he was.
The bartender brought a glass of champagne and was about to pour the Pellegrino. “No!” Alec said sharply. “No ice! No lime!”
Natasha felt herself flinch. It was as if she had overheard the Devil himself.
“Scusi, signore. Scusi.” The bartender whisked away the offending glass, replaced it, and poured the sparkling water.
She had to get some answers. “You may wonder why I’ve asked you here tonight.”
Alec clinked glasses with her. “I was hoping you’d forget.”
She smiled. “I was hoping to get to know you better. ‘Man lives not on what he eats but on what he digests.’ ”
“Dumas. Terribly indigestible. Especially in English. He translates as poorly as a madeleine.”
Natasha nodded. “Pound cake in shell molds. I guess you had to be there.”
“I wish you had been there.”
“Where?”
“In Paris. With Proust and me.”
“Marcel Proust?”
Alec leaned close. “Haven’t you ever wanted to erase your past? Exchange your memories for someone else’s?”
“No thank you. I’m having enough trouble being who I am.”
“I’m not talking about who you are. I’m talking about who you were.”
Natasha sipped her champagne and then smiled. “I used to be an absolute horror.”
“Me too.”
The waiter brought over a silver casserole dish. “Compliments of Sirio. Fantasie de St. Jacques en Habit Noir.”
Natasha groaned. “What a way to go. Laid out in black truffles, floating on a pool of white wine, butter, and truffle juice.” Her mind flashed to images of Parker and Neal, and that was the end of her appetite. She moved a truffle-covered scallop onto the sauce spoon and scooped up some of the buttery vermouth. Forcing a smile, she held it to his mouth. “Now, tell me all about the big bad person you used to be.”
Alec mumbled, “I can’t talk with my mouth full.”
But Natasha knew it wasn’t Alec’s mouth that stopped him from talking. Something else held him back. Something she saw in his eyes. If eyes were a window to the soul, Alec was one of those people who didn’t do windows.
“Let’s not talk about me,” he said.
“First no business. Then no Alec. What’s left?”
“You.”
She shrugged. “My life is an open book. And a movie, yet.”
“I never saw that movie.”
“Neither did I.”
“Then as far as we’re concerned, it doesn’t exist.”
“My memories exist.”
“Let them go!” he said.
Alec reeked of danger. And God help her, there was something compelling about the scent. “Even your pal Proust couldn’t let go. He folded over a cheap little cookie.”
“I don’t consider you a cheap little cookie.”
She smiled. “Such flattery.” It was no use. He wasn’t biting. At least not at her bait. Instead, Alec reached for the casserole and scooped up all the butter sauce as though he had just found the only oasis in the desert. One by one, he collected the truffles, stabbed them with his fork, and swallowed them. Without pausing for breath or even looking up, he ate scallop after scallop after scallop until the dish was empty.
There wasn’t a doubt in Natasha’s mind. Alec was the killer.
“WHAT WILL IT BE TONIGHT, Miss O’Brien, vodka or champagne?”
Although the Russian Tea Room was outrageously festive with its year-round decor of Christmas ornaments and gold tinsel, Alec was oblivious to everything but the sense of foreboding in his stomach.
Natasha spoke to his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “You’re not going to pull another Pellegrino on me?”
“No.”
“Champagne,” she told the bartender.
“And I’ll have club soda,” he said.
“Would you care for a slice of lime, sir?”
Alec sensed Natasha waiting for his reply. “Yes, I always like lime. And some ice, please.”
She smiled. “Very funny.”
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to cheer you up.”
“Or to prove a point. But is this the ‘let go of the past’ point or the ‘people change’ point?”
Alec didn’t know what to say. Suddenly everything fell into place. He supposed the thought had always been there, unexpressed, somewhere in his subconscious, ever since he heard the news about Parker. But it was no longer memory-resident. He could
see it in her eyes. It must have been the pressure of starting up the magazine. Or the extraordinary parallel between her running American Cuisine and Achille’s running Lucullus. Whatever it was, she had short-circuited. He didn’t doubt it for a moment. Natasha was the killer.
“I don’t suppose you’re hungry?” she asked.
He was startled by the sarcasm in her voice. She must have been referring to the fact that he had scrupulously avoided eating anything all evening. “What did you have in mind?”
“A couple of hundred blini.”
“With red caviar?”
“They have the best in town,” she said, brightening. “It’s unprocessed.”
“But no sour cream.”
“And no onions.”
“And no capers.”
“And no dill.”
“Not even lemon.”
“So far, so good.” She grabbed hold of him. “But what about butter? God forgive me, I must have butter!”
“I won’t tell.” It didn’t matter to Alec what she had done or why. His love was unconditional. Butter or murder.
“Barkeep!” she called out. “A bucket-o’-blini!”
Alec put his hand on hers. “Not all the memories are bad.”
“That’s the terrible part of it.” Her eyes half filled with tears. “There’s something I’ve never told anyone.” She hesitated. “I couldn’t help crying when I heard that Achille had died.”
Alec stopped breathing. It was as though he no longer required air. Like some sensately amphibian creature, he gulped emotion to meet the demands of a new environment. Suddenly he realized that despite all he had been through to exorcise every trace of Achille, he was, at heart, the Phantom, the Beast, the Frog, yearning to be loved for himself.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “He taught me everything I know about artichokes.”