Foul Matter by Martha Grimes

Author:Martha Grimes [Grimes, Martha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, Suspense
ISBN: 9781585473892
Google: Kh7UjkyqoDAC
Amazon: 0451212932
Publisher: NAL
Published: 2003-05-14T18:30:00+00:00

TWENTY-TWO

Clive arrived some ten minutes early, knowing Mort loved to keep people waiting and Clive was set to humor him tonight. Even so, Mort was already there, bellying up to the magnificent mahogany, marble, and jade bar when Clive walked into the Lobby. Mort was flanked by a black couple and two women, a redhead and a blonde. Flashy. Whatever Duff’s criteria were, one’s trade didn’t enter into it. At a nearby table sat four scruffy-looking men, dark skinned, mustachioed like Zapata, and one turbaned like Lawrence of Arabia. This party was acceptable, apparently, but not on the mezzanine level. They kept raising their eyes and casting lovelorn looks at the balcony.

Clive was surprised Mort had gotten past the front door.

Mort cleared that up. “I gave them my name and for some reason that didn’t get me to first base, so I gave them yours.” Mort shrugged, witness to the Old Hotel’s arbitrary standards. “What’s your poison?”

Clive smiled at this arcane mode of expression. “Same as yours, martini, but on the rocks with two olives.” He finished the description for the bartender, who said it would be there in half a minute. Clive took the half to look the place over. He knew he was a rubbernecker straight from the sticks. There was the usual people watching going on, though no one wanted to be caught doing it, so there were a lot of darting glances and head turnings on the pretext of lighting cigarettes. The Old Hotel had knuckled under to the non-smoking movement to take in most of the Lobby and the rooms off the mezzanine, which was sensible since those were small, enclosed places.

The food here was very good, if not great; the prices were incredibly low for Manhattan; the service was impeccable. It was one reason its customers didn’t merely like the place, but loved it. Nothing in Manhattan could beat it for service and surroundings and, of course, cachet. There was no other restaurant that gave its customers the kick of having been there when even their good friends hadn’t.

Clive had his martini and downed half of it while Mort asked for another. Clive wondered what he was so edgy about.

A hostess came to take them to their table upstairs. They made their way up the beautiful staircase, which served as a focus for those left behind. Clive had often thought it was like watching a solemn procession, several men and women making their way up as if the diners were gathering for a state occasion.

They sat in armchairs so comfortable Clive thought he might never get up, ordered wine, ordered the Hotel’s speciality, Chicken Paprikash with Spaetzle. It had been rumored that Duff was born in Budapest. It had been rumored he’d been born in at least a dozen other places, too.

All that taken care of, Mort drank the last of his martini and asked, “Okay, so what about Paul? And when are you going to sign the contract?”

Why was his tone so wary?

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