Into the Groove by Lawrence Kelter

Author:Lawrence Kelter [Lawrence Kelter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Level Best Books
Published: 2022-01-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Salty was full of shit. He didn’t enjoy the steaks at Tad’s so much as the lunch special price point and only frequented the establishment when he was eating out on his own coin. When wining and dining with one of his graying fillies, he did so only at Manhattan’s most renowned eateries. I’d committed Big John’s list of Salty’s favorite haunts to memory and knew where to begin my search. A quick stop at Delmonico’s revealed that he’d eaten there on Saturday night but had no future reservations booked. A dime in the Ma Bell coin slot revealed that he wasn’t at Luger’s, and a second well-spent dime disclosed that he wasn’t at Fraunces Tavern either.

I was surprised that the hostess at P. J. Clarke’s didn’t know Mr. Monroe by name, but the description I gave her yielded an affirmative response leading to a quick ride on the subway.

I’d eaten at Clarke’s once, a couple of years before I went to sea. It took me a week to save up enough for burgers and drafts for my girl and me. But it was worth it—for my money, one of the best burgers I’d ever eaten. The red gingham tablecloths and painted wrought iron décor were permanently etched in my mind, as was the long wooden bar where we sat when I took Joyce Cook for dinner. Good old Joyce—she’s the one Auntie said had a backside big enough to serve lemonade. I wish she’d been there to see Joyce’s rump hanging off that flimsy wooden barstool. Men were stopping to ogle those chops through the glass storefront. She practically caused a pileup on Third Avenue.

The hostess told me there was only seating at the bar and that all the tables were booked for lunch. The badge came out, and she left me alone. “I’ll be cool,” I told her. “Ten minutes tops.”

Salty and his gal were at a table smack dab in the middle of the floor. She had that Queen Elizabeth look, pinned gray hair, and a Chanel suit jacket. A tasteful black handbag sat on the table next to her coffee cup.

I could see that Salty was in the zone, talking with his mouth and his hands—his cheekbones pinned to his eyes. He’d touch her arm and laugh, then do it again. He had that Svengali thang down cold.

He looked so smooth I felt bad about disturbing his action. He saw me coming and tried to ignore me, but I sidled up to the table with a shit-eating grin. “Hello, Salty. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lady friend?”

“Well, look who’s here,” he said. “Janice, this is my dear friend Stedman Grove. Steady and I go way back.”

To last week. “Nice to meet you, Janice.” She offered her hand, and I gave it a dainty little shake. It was like a mackerel succumbing to rigor mortis. She wore a thick gold bracelet but no engagement ring or wedding band—all the signature attributes of a Salty Monroe mark.

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