The front door was oak inlaid with a panel of bubbled glass. We walked in, confronted a lattice screen, stepped around it into a small reception area backed by the cocktail lounge. Four drinkers flashing elbow. TV news winking above a wall full of bottles. No sound on the set. The air was icy, seasoned with too-delicate piano music, the lighting barely strong enough to let us make out colors. But the maitre d’s bright green jacket managed to work its way through the gloom.
He was tall, at least seventy, with slicked white hair, Roman features, and black-rimmed eyeglasses. A reservation book was spread out before him on the oak lectern. Plenty of open slots. The lattice blocked a view of the main dining room to his left, but I could hear silverware clatter, conversational thrum. The pianist was turning “Lady Be Good” into a minuet.
The maitre d’ said, “Good evening, gentlemen.” Capped smile, clear diction peppered by an Italian accent. As we came closer, he said, “Ah, Detective. Nice to see you again.” A small gold rectangle on his jacket was engraved LEW.
“Hey, you remember,” said Milo, with joviality that might’ve been real.
“I still got a memory. And we don’t get too many police, not here. So this time you come to eat?”
“To drink,” said Milo.
“This way.” A green sleeve flourished. “You making any progress on Richard?”
“Wish I could say I was,” said Milo. “Speaking of which, has this woman ever been here?” A photo of Claire had snapped into his hand like a magician’s dove.
Lew smiled.” ‘Speaking of which,’ huh? You here to drink anything but information?”
“Sure. Beer, if you carry that.”
Lew laughed and peered at the picture. “No, sorry, never saw her. Why? She know
Richard?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Milo. “Tell me, is there anything else that came to mind since the last time I was here?”
The maitre d’ handed back the photo. “Nah. Richard was a good boy, quiet. Good worker. We don’t usually hire the so-calleds, but he was okay.”
“The so-calleds,” I said.
“So-called actors, so-called directors-mostly they’re punks, think they’re overqualified for everything, doin’ you a big favor to show up. Nine times outta ten they can’t handle carrying a bread plate or they end up mouthing off to some regular and I gotta untangle everybody’s shorts.”
He reached behind his back and tugged upward.
“We prefer old guys,” he said. “Classy pros. Like me. But Richard was okay for a kid. Polite-‘madam’ and ‘sir,’ not that goddamn ‘you guys.’ Nice boy, very nice boy, that’s why even though he wanted to be an actor I hired him. Also, he begged me.
Said he really needed the money. And I was right about him. Good worker, got the orders right, no complaints- c’mon, let’s go over, get you gents a nice drink.”
The bar was an enormous lacquered walnut parabola rimmed with red leather. Brass bar, red stools with brass legs. The four drinkers were all glassy-eyed middle-aged men wearing sport coats. One necktie, three sport shirts with open collars spread over wide lapels. Plenty of space between them. They stared into tall glasses on paper coasters, dipped thick hands into dishes of nuts, olives, roast peppers, sausage chunks, pink curls of boiled shrimp pierced by red plastic toothpicks. The bartender was pushing sixty, dark-skinned, with luxuriant hair and the face of a carved tiki god. He and a couple of the drinkers looked up as Lew showed us to the end of the bar, but a second later, everyone had settled back into booze hypnosis.
Lew said, “Hernando, bring these gents…”
“Grolsch,” said Milo. I asked for the same and Lew said, “Some of that sauterne for me, the reserve stuff, but just a little.”
Hernando’s hands moved like a chop-sockey hero. After he’d delivered the drinks and returned to the center of the bar, Milo said, “You ever get a customer named Wark?”
“Work?”
“Wark.” Milo spelled it. “Mid to late thirties, tall, thin, dark hair, could be curly. Claims to be a film producer.”
The maitre d’s eyes were merry. “Plenty of claims-to-be’s, but no, I don’t recall any Wark.”