“How did they make him?”
“Three distinctive tats on his back. He’s in the NYPD computer system. Got locked up once for gun possession. They found his brother this afternoon, who just ID’d him.”
“Thank God he’s not French,” I said, leaning back in my chair, relieved that there wasn’t an obvious connection to Luc.
“That’s the good news.”
“Is there something bad?”
“He’s a waiter, Coop.”
“There’s a million waiters in this town.”
“He was just fired from one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city ’cause he has a problem sniffing white powder.”
“So?”
“His brother says he didn’t care about losing his job. He’d already lined up another one at a swanky new place called Lutèce.”
TWENTY-THREE
We were in Mike’s car, headed back to Manhattan, and I was arguing with him because my anxiety had been ratcheted up another few notches.
“It’s not possible, Mike. You don’t understand the restaurant business. Luc would never hire an Italian to be a waiter.”
“Doesn’t that smack of Blanca not putting out for black men? Listen to yourself, Coop.”
“That’s not what I mean. Go to any of the great French restaurants. La Grenouille, Le Bernardin, Daniel—”
“I can’t afford to.”
“They’re all staffed by Frenchmen. And I do mean men—you rarely ever find a woman working in them. And French for the language, the ambience—the chefs are French, the sommeliers—most of the staff. That’s how they all communicate with one another.”
“Except for the Mexicans chopping onions.”
Mike was right about that. The lowest guys on restaurant staffs were always the latest pool of immigrants in the city. And the bottom of the totem pole was currently Mexican.
“But not waiters.”
“So according to Luigi’s brother, Coop, their mother is French. The whole family is trilingual. Seems to be there’s a French connection after all.”
I was staring at the skyline of Manhattan as we drove onto the Brooklyn Bridge. All the lights were glittering against the deep blue backdrop of the night sky.
“Have they called Luc to ask if he knows this Luigi person?”
“Not yet.”
“What’s the favor you told the detective you were going to do for him?”
“Save the lazy bastard a trip to Manhattan. Go talk to the manager who fired Luigi. Find out why and when. And where he was living. His brother didn’t know that.”
“What’s the restaurant?”
“Tiro a Segno. Ever been?”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s Italian for ‘shoot the target.’ Otherwise known as the New York Rifle Club.”
“Is it a new place?”
“Try 1888.”
“That’s a well-kept secret, then. Am I in?”
“I told you I’d feed you tonight, one way or another.”
“Is it as good as Rao’s?” I asked. The East Harlem eatery was one of my favorite places in the city, but scoring one of its twelve tables was harder than winning the lottery.
“Nothing’s that good. But Luigi didn’t work at Rao’s, so those roasted peppers and lemon chicken are gonna have to wait for another day.”
“Where is this place?”
“Five minutes away, hiding in plain sight. Right on MacDougal Street in the Village. Three brownstones next to one another, with a discreet little sign out front. You’ve been past it a thousand times. You’d just never get by the ‘members only’ thing.”
“But you did?”
“Remember a couple of years ago when I had the detail bodyguarding the prime minister of Italy?”
“Silvio Berlusconi.”
“Yeah. That guy. The one who liked teenage girls a little bit too much. This was his favorite place to come whenever he was in town.”
We were off the bridge, and Mike was maneuvering through the narrow one-way streets—some of them still cobblestoned—from Tribeca up to Greenwich Village.
“It’s a private club?” I asked.
“Very much so. Prospective members have to be nominated by a current member, and there’s a tight quota on non-Italians. Enrico Caruso belonged. So did Fiorello La Guardia.”
“I wonder if Paul Battaglia does. He’s never mentioned it.”
“He withdrew, Coop. Every distinguished Italian-American businessman—or -woman—wants it. But once Battaglia ran for office the first time, it didn’t help to be part of something so ethnically exclusive.”
Mike parked the car in a spot that said NO STANDING and threw his laminated NYPD plaque in the windshield. We walked to the door of 77 MacDougal Street and he rang the bell.
Seconds later, a well-dressed young woman—Ferragamo from the scarf around her neck to the grosgrain ribbon on her shoes—admitted us to the entryway and politely asked who we were with.
“We’re not with anybody,” Mike said. “I’m a detective, and I’d like to talk with Sergio Vico.”
“Mr. Vico is in the dining room, Detective. Can this wait until after the dinner service?”
“Give him my card. He might let somebody else take the orders for a while.”
She glanced at the business card and seemed more attentive when she saw the word “homicide.” “Certainly, Detective. Allow me a minute.”
It barely took that long for Sergio Vico to come out to greet us. He was as tall as Mike, with a thick mane of silver hair and a broad smile. He was dressed in a tux and looked as elegant as a movie star.
“Detective Mike,” he said, putting both hands around Mike’s and shaking it firmly. “Come stai?”
“I’m good, Sergio. Everything’s fine.”
“Are you working tonight?” he asked, with an accent that oozed Roman charm. “Bringing us the governor, maybe? Someone important?”
“Just got a friend of mine here. The workingman’s Sophia Loren. Meet Alex Cooper.”
“It’s a pleasure, Ms. Cooper.”
“I need to talk to you, Sergio. Can you give us twenty minutes?”
The manager glanced down and took note of our jeans. “I’m afraid I can’t seat you in the dining room, Mike. And it’s my busiest time of the evening. Perhaps you can come back in an hour or so?”
“It’s about a murder, Sergio. I’d like to get started now.”
“Something to do with Tiro?” Sergio asked, losing his smile.
“A former employee of yours. Luigi Calamari.”
“Has he done something?”
“Got his throat slashed, Sergio. He’s dead.”
“Then we should talk, certainly. Downstairs, perhaps, in the basement?”
“That will be fine.”
He started to lead us through the dining room. “May I offer you something to eat or drink while you’re here?”
“Good idea.”
Sergio stopped one of the waiters and spoke to him, while Mike and I took in the large dining room. Well-heeled regulars—probably a hundred of them—looked us over in our scruffy clothes as though we were truly interlopers.
“New decor,” Mike said. “The place used to look like half a pizzeria, with garish frescoes of the Bay of Naples and the Tower of Pisa.”
Now there were Roman columns throughout the room and a large wooden fireplace, topped by a bust of Leonardo da Vinci. After the odors of the canal, the divine smells of garlic and oregano were like the most precious perfumes in the world.
“This way, prego,” Sergio said, leading us to an exit at the far end of the room. We went down single file and through heavy double doors at the bottom of the steep row of steps.
Just as Sergio pushed the second door open, I recoiled at the sound of a gunshot, and flinched again when another followed immediately.
“Coop, it’s a rifle club,” Mike said, putting his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “You knew that coming in.”
“It’s a restaurant.” I was flustered, and upset for the second time today by the sound of gunfire. “I didn’t think there’d be shooting in the restaurant.”
“Forgive me, Ms. Cooper,” Sergio said. “I thought you knew about us.”
“Not really, no,” I said, as we walked along the back wall of the room.
Two men in business suits were standing together, each holding a rifle, one of them instructing the other how best to aim for the target.
“I thought it would be quiet down here, Mike,” Sergio said. “Sometimes the members come down to take a few shots between courses. I’m sure these gentlemen will be done in a few minutes.”
“What do they do with their guns during dinner?” I asked.
“I assure you that all the rifles are kept under lock and key. Our club is a very old one, signora. We used to have a hunting estate on Staten Island—stocked with pheasant—but that was sold off long ago. It’s all just target practice now, right here in this room. Our members enjoy excellent food, the best wines, their cigars—despite the mayor—and shooting.”
“And you never had a case out of here, Coop, so it’s less dangerous than any other joint in town.”
Sergio seated us at a table, and apparently our conversation spoiled the concentration of the marksmen. They headed off to an adjacent room to store their guns before going upstairs.
“Some wine, Mike?”
“We’ve had our cocktails.”
“Then I’ve ordered you some pasta, and that rack of veal you enjoy so much.”
“That’ll hold us.”
“Now tell me about Luigi. What happened to him?”
“I’m working midnights all week. Got a call last night that there was a body in Brooklyn. Emergency Services pulled the guy out of the water,” Mike said, deliberately leaving the exact location vague. “Dressed in a suit. No wallet, no money, no identification.”
“But you know it’s Luigi?”
“He’s got three distinctive tattoos. And because he was arrested once for possession of a handgun, things like tattoos and birthmarks and nicknames are all entered in the NYPD computer system. Once they had his name, the police report from the old case showed he called his brother from the station house. So the cops got in touch with the brother and he came to the morgue this evening to make the ID.”
“That’s too bad. I liked the kid. He’s only what? Thirty-four, thirty-five years old? Smart boy, nice looking,” Sergio said, giving Mike the most sincere expression he could muster.
“A real Adonis. Except for the gaping hole in his neck where his throat used to be. His brother says he worked here.”
“He did. For three, almost four years. Luigi was good. Very charming, very popular here.”
Then why did you fire him? I thought to myself. But Mike would go at his own pace.
“You two get along?” Mike asked.
“Very well.”
The double doors and ceiling were obviously soundproofed to keep the noise from the basement out of the dining room. I didn’t hear the waiter coming until the door creaked open and he appeared with a large tray topped with food and setups. Sergio waved him over to the table.
Mike was ready to put away everything served to him. Despite the spectacular aroma, with the combination of my nerves, my concern for Luc, and my overindulgence in Sunny’s peanuts, I had no interest in eating.
Sergio chatted about the eighth-century Italian bow-and-arrow marksmen groups that had been the first Tiros, until the waiter left the room. Mike was already twirling his Bolognese and devouring it.
“You hired Luigi?”
“Yes, yes I did.”
“You supervised him every night?”
“Exactly that. He was my best guy on the floor,” Sergio said emphatically.
“Did he have any problems?”
“Problems? Here at work? Not so. I take you upstairs and you ask any of the important people here—especially the ladies—they loved him. Worked well with everyone else, too.”
“No petty theft?”
Sergio dismissed Mike’s question. “We’re a club, not a restaurant. We don’t do anything with cash around here.”
“Drugs?”
“Why? You find drugs on him? We don’t tolerate that here,” Sergio said, shaking a finger at us.
“Story goes you and he fought about his drug habit.”
Sergio shrugged again. “That’s not true. Is this going to be in the newspapers?”
“I don’t write the headlines,” Mike said, before asking another dozen questions about possible sources of tension between Luigi and Sergio. They all drew negatives from the very cool, dignified manager.
“You found him in the water, you said?” Sergio asked. “At the beach?”
“Not exactly the beach, but close. You know where he lives?”
“In Brooklyn, with his girlfriend. She’s got a place there.”
“You know her name?”
“The other guys do—they’ll tell you. She’s a painter, you know? An artist.”
“Okay.” Mike was halfway through the rack of veal.
“That’s why I asked if you found Luigi at the beach. The girl lives on a boat somewhere out there.”
“That’s helpful. Give me more stuff like that, Sergio.” Mike said, pushing back from the table. “I’ll go a round with you while you think.”
The older man stood up and disappeared for three or four minutes.
“What’s the point, Mike? Am I supposed to be swooning over your manliness now?”
“Relax, Coop. Take a bite of proshutt and chew on it. I’m trying to bond with the guy. And I always like to see how my witnesses handle their weapons.”
Sergio returned with two rifles. He handed Mike some bullets, and I watched as they both loaded their guns—.22-calibers—then stepped to the line in front of the row of targets.
I hated guns. Mike had tried to get me to learn how to shoot at the police range in the Bronx after a few life-threatening situations, but I had less fear of a handgun being used against me than I saw value in trying to master its control.
“Why don’t you choose the target, Detective?”
There were six of them against the wall—two with the traditional multicolored bull’s-eyes, two depicting charging wild boars, and two with the ever-popular image of the late Osama Bin Laden.
“I’m old-fashioned. Let’s go for the bull’s-eye,” Mike said. “So if this guy wasn’t stealing and wasn’t snorting coke, why’d you fire him, Sergio?”
Mike squared his stance against the target, his left foot on the painted line and his right six inches behind it. The butt stock of the rifle was high up on his chest, his cheek pressed firmly against it. He looked through the open sight and fired, landing his shot four circles away from the bull’s-eye.
“Perhaps you winged your perpetrator, Detective, but I’d guess he’s still on the loose,” Sergio said, chuckling at Mike’s performance.
Mike ejected the shell casing and reloaded. Sergio took a bladed stance, his weaker shoulder turned to the target, like a baseball player in the batter’s box. He lifted his arms to raise the rifle, barely creasing the lines of his tux, then aimed and fired. The round landed only an inch from dead center.
“Nice shot,” Mike said.
“I’m here every day, Detective. I get more practice than you do.”
“Why’d you fire Luigi?”
“Fire him? I didn’t fire him,” Sergio said, reloading as he talked. “Luigi quit.”
“Sounds like he had everything going for him,” Mike said, raising the rifle to shoot and missing the last circle of the target completely. “Why would he quit?”
“Maybe you would do better with the boar, Detective?” Sergio said, getting even closer to the center of the eye with his second shot. “Luigi had a better offer, Mike. I tried everything I could to keep him here.”
“Where was he going to work?”
“I don’t know the name of the place. I do
n’t even believe it’s open yet. I heard that it’s French, which makes sense because Luigi was actually born in Marseille. His mother was French, and his father Italian.”
Mike’s third shot was the best, catching the edge of the outer ring of the bull’s-eye.
The sound of the gunshots was making me edgier and edgier. The rifles recoiled slightly on the shoulders of both men, jerking them to the side, and the noise in the confined space was magnified so that it sounded to me like cannon fire.
“Have you ever heard the name Luc Rouget?” I asked.
I could see the expression on Mike’s face as soon as I opened my mouth to speak. If he could have smacked me over the head with the rifle, he would have done it.
Sergio smiled again. “Certainly, Ms. Cooper. Mr. Rouget has been a guest here many times.”
I took a deep breath. “Recently?”
“Several times a year he comes. You know him? Quite a distinguished reputation he has back in France. He has something to do with this?”
Why had Luc never brought me to Tiro a Segno? Never told me he’d been here.
Sergio took a final shot and seemed to have nailed a bull’s-eye.
“I can’t top that,” Mike said, surrendering his rifle.
“And which member sponsored Mr. Rouget to come to dinner?” I asked, with as much personal interest as professional.
“I’m so sorry, signora. I wouldn’t be permitted to tell you that,” he said, making sure both rifles were empty as he got ready to store them. “I’d never have lasted this long at Tiro if I told secrets.”
“And I’d never have lasted so long as a cop if I didn’t know how to get answers out of people without having to bully them by asking the district attorney to issue a grand jury subpoena,” Mike said, talking loud enough for Sergio to hear him in the next room.
“But a subpoena for what?” he said, returning to lead us upstairs. “Luigi hasn’t been here in a month—maybe longer.”
“Even his brother’s singing to the squad that there was bad blood between the two of you.”
“Stupido. I don’t know his brother. I’m not going to disrespect one of our members for nonsense you hear on the street, Mike.”
“Let’s just keep it a secret between us for the time being. This member who wined and dined Mr. Rouget has something to do with the restaurant business?”
Night Watch Page 17