I walked east on Pennsylvania Avenue. The temperature had fallen with evening, but I was warm with the buzz of new energy against the night. At the National, older couples were exiting cabs, dressed and eager for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s latest scam on the theatergoing public. In Freedom Plaza tourists walked hurriedly past a man playing flute. The man stood coatless in front of an empty wax cup.
At Fourteenth and Penn I entered the leaded glass doors of the Occidental Restaurant in the Willard Hotel. I walked through a long hall, past black-and-white portrait photographs-Pat Schroeder and Carole Thompson on my right, George Bush and Harry Truman on my left-and down a flight of stairs into the bar area of the restaurant. Cole Porter played as I descended the stairs. I felt like Fred Astaire, with a two-day beard covering a bruised face.
I took off my black overcoat and hung it on a rack, transferred my smokes to the inside pocket of my Robert Hall sport coat, and had a seat at the bar. The seat I took was next to a black-haired Jewess who was picking at an appetizer plate of peppered scallops and squid on a bed of romaine lettuce. She held her fork as if it were hot. Next to her sat another young woman with large, expensive jewelry and a tiny nose that cost more than the jewelry. They were probably grabbing a bite to eat before heading a few blocks uptown to the Spy Club, where rich boys would buy them drinks from the proceeds of their trust funds. I gave the Occidental a look.
The room was all dark wood and candles, deuces primarily, young affluent couples with pale skin who looked pleasant in the light. In the bar area, three businessmen were hitting on a rather plain-looking woman who was wearing a dress that appeared to be decorated with a doily. On the far side of the bar, a distinguished elderly couple sipped their martinis and stared straight ahead. At the service bar, the manager fingered his Brooks Brothers tie with one hand and his brush mustache with the other. I signaled for the bartender.
The bartender walked over and stood square. He buffed the spot in front me with a clean white cloth, though the spot was already dry. His name tag said MICHAEL, my first bingo in a very long while.
“Welcome to the Occidental,” he said with v heiew blocka white-toothed smile. He had the handsome but vacuous blue-eyed look of a military cadet, and he was built low to the ground, broad-shouldered and thick. “How can I serve you?”
I had seen him pour a half ounce of scotch into a rocks glass overflowed with cubes and serve it to an unfortunate man on the other end of the bar. I said, “You can serve me an Old Grand-Dad. Neat. And put a cold bottle of Budweiser next to it.”
Michael’s smile went away but not his chipper tone of voice. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, and drifted.
By the time he returned I had lit a cigarette. Michael placed my drink on the bar with a thud. About a dollar’s worth of bourbon splashed out over the lip of the glass.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Cheers!” Michael said, and walked away.
I drank my Grand-Dad and chased it with beer. From the corner of my eye I saw the black-haired young woman fan away the smoke of my cigarette. I had one more deep drag, crushed the butt in a clean ashtray, and had a look at the bar.
The bar blended mahogany and oak with an inlay of brass. The runoff board was shiny copper, and free of bar netting. The liquor wall was subtly lit and backed by an immaculately beveled mirror framed by miniature marble columns. “Stardust” played on the house stereo. I signaled Michael for another round.
Michael returned with my bourbon and beer. “Cheers,” he said tiredly.
“And to you,” I said as I slid my business card along the top of the bar until it touched his fingers.
He looked it over. His eyes shifted toward his manager, then back at me. He was still smiling, but the smile was tight. “So what?” he said in a low, calm voice.
“Remember William Henry?”
Some color drained from his face, but he held on to the smile. “It’s my business if I do,” he said.
The woman next to me slipped down off her stool and ripped the receipt from the body of her credit card voucher. “Thanks, Michael,” she said, stealing a contemptuous glance at me before winking in conspiracy at Michael.
“It’s been my pleasure,” Michael said. The woman and her bobbed friend left the bar. Michael watched them until they had vanished at the top of the stairs.
I sipped bourbon. “Can we talk?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m busy.”
“I’m busy too. Answer a couple of quick questions. After that you won’t see me again.”
“What kind of questions?”
“About William Henry.”
Michael shifted his shoulders. “I don’t know anything about him.”
“You were his lover.”
Michael frowned. “I went out with him, one time. Like I told you-that’s my business.”
“Sure, it is. And you can bury it, or go tell it on the mountain, for all I care. It makes no difference to me. But the cops are following up on that angle. I can give them your name, if you’d like. Or you can tell me what you know.”
Michael made a head motion that encompassed the entire bar. “Listen, pal,” he said softly. “If I didn’t need this gig, I’d tell you to fuck off, right now.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, looking him over. “Anyway, you do need it.”
He loosened his shoulders. “I’ll give you one minute.”
“Fine. What was your relationship with Henry, the night he died?”
“It was over, way before that.”
“How long before?”
“Months.”
“He have many friends, besides you?”
“No idea.”
“He ever talk about anything, about being in any danger, while you knew him?”
“No.”
I sighed. “You’re not thinking too hard.”
“I’m answering your questions,” he said behind a smirk.
“And I’m trying to find my friend’s killer.”
“What happened to William was a shame,” Michael said without a trace of sincerity. “He was a nice guy, but that’s all he was. I’m telling you, you’re going down the wrong street. Our relationship-it didn’t mean anything, understand?”
“I’m beginning to.”
Michael gave me his hard look. “So why don’t you just pick your things up and leave?”
I dropped fifteen on the bar, rose, and put on my overcoat. “You’re real tough,” I said. “You know it?”
Michael looked around for his manager, who had gone into the kitchen. He leaned over the bar and whispered through a clenched jaw. “Maybe I’ll see you sometime, out on the street.”
I smiled and said, “It would be my pleasure.”
I poured a cup of coffee, walked it into my bedroom, and had a seat at my desk. My cat followed me in and dropped on her belly, jus t resting against my feet. I turned on the gooseneck lamp thaenelket was clamped to the side of my desk and opened the manila folder that contained William Henry’s notes. The notes were entered by date. I read them chronologically over the next two hours, then read them again, this time highlighting several names and passages that recurred throughout.
When I was done, I removed the third of the notes that were related exclusively to Henry’s last filed story and placed them back in the folder. What remained was cryptic and, in several spots, frustratingly coded. But seemingly at random, two genderless names continued to appear: Pyshak and Bonanno.
I had one more cigarette and butted it halfway down. I washed up, undressed, and read a little until my eyes began to get heavy. My cat dozed on the blanket at my feet.
The words Pyshak and Bonanno drifted through my head as I fell into the dark arms of sleep.