The traffic was bumper to bumper, with yellow cabs whirling dervishes in the dark. When we arrived in mid-town we passed a steady flow of people in evening dress adding to the long line outside Carnegie Hall. The bright lights and people in furs and black ties stirred old memories. Mark and I used to love the theater, the symphony, the opera.
The cab stopped at the Omni Park Central, an impressive tower of lights near the theater district at the corner of Fifty-fifth and Seventh. Mark snatched up my bag and I followed him inside the elegant lobby, where he checked me in and had my bag sent up to my room. Minutes later we were walking through the sharp night air. I was grateful I had brought my overcoat. It felt cold enough to snow. In three blocks we were at Gallagher’s, the nightmare of every cow and coronary artery and the fantasy of every red meat lover. The front window was a meat locker behind glass, an enormous display of every cut of meat imaginable. Inside was a shrine to celebrities, autographed photographs covering the walls.
The din was loud and the bartender mixed our drinks very strong. I lit a cigarette and took a quick survey. Tables were arranged close together, typical for New York restaurants. Two businessmen were engrossed in conversation to our left, the table to our right empty, the one beyond that occupied by a strikingly handsome young man working on the New York Times and a beer. I took a long look at Mark, trying to read his face. He was tight around the eyes and playing with his Scotch.
“Why am I really here, Mark?” I asked.
“Maybe I just wanted to take you out to dinner,” he said.
“Seriously.”
“I’m serious. You aren’t enjoying yourself?”
“How can I enjoy myself when I’m waiting for a bomb to drop?” I said.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket. “We’ll order first, then we’ll talk.”
He used to do this to me all the time. He would get me going only to make me wait. Maybe it was the lawyer in him. It used to drive me crazy. It still did.
“The prime rib comes highly recommended,” he said as we looked over the menus. “That’s what I’m going to have, and a spinach salad. Nothing fancy. But the steaks are supposed to be the best in town.”
“You’ve never been here?” I asked.
“No. Sparacino has,” he answered.
“He recommended this place? And the hotel, too, I presume?” I asked, my paranoia kicking in.
“Sure,” he replied, interested in the wine list now. “It’s SOP. Clients fly to town and stay in the Omni because it’s convenient to the firm.”
“And your clients eat here, too?”
“Sparacino’s been here before, usually after the theater. That’s how he knows about it,” Mark said.
“What else does Sparacino know about?” I asked. “Did you tell him you were meeting me?”
He met my eyes and said, “No.”
“How is that possible if your firm is putting me up and if Sparacino recommended the hotel and the restaurant?”
“He recommended the hotel to me, Kay. I have to stay somewhere. I have to eat. Sparacino invited me to go out with a couple of other lawyers tonight. I declined, said I needed to look over some paperwork and would probably just find a steak somewhere. What did he recommend? And so on.”
It was beginning to dawn on me and I wasn’t sure if I felt embarrassed or unnerved. Probably it was both. Orn-dorff & Berger wasn’t paying for this trip. Mark was. His firm knew nothing about it.
The waiter was back and Mark placed the order. I was fast losing my appetite.
“I flew in last night,” he resumed. “Sparacino got hold of me in Chicago yesterday morning, said he needed to see me right away. As you may have guessed, it’s about Beryl Madison.”
He looked uncomfortable.
“And?” I prodded him, my uneasiness increasing.
He took a deep breath and said, “Sparacino knows about my connection, uh, about you and me. Our past …”
My stare stopped him.
“Kay …”
“You bastard.” I pushed back my chair and dropped my napkin on the table.