Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(84)
The day I fail is the day I die . . .
{ 43 }
The cab pulled up at the grand courtyard of the Helmsley Palace. D’Agosta hastened around the cab and opened the door for Hayward, who got out, looking around at the fanciful topiaries covered with lights, the Baroque facade of the Helmsley Palace rising around her.
“This is where we’re having dinner?”
D’Agosta nodded. “Le Cirque 2000.”
“Oh my God. When I said a nice dinner, I didn’t mean this.”
D’Agosta took her arm and led her to the door. “Why not? If we’re going to start something, let’s start it right.”
Hayward knew that Le Cirque 2000 was possibly the most expensive restaurant in New York City. She had always felt uncomfortable when men spent a pile on her, as if money was somehow the way to her heart. But this time it felt different. It said something about Vinnie D’Agosta, about how he looked at their relationship, that boded well for the future.
Future? She wondered why that word had even entered her mind. This was a first date—sort of. D’Agosta wasn’t even divorced, had a wife and kid in Canada. True, he was interesting, and he was a damn good cop. Take it easy and see where it goes—that’s all.
They entered the restaurant—jammed, even on a Sunday night—and were met by one of those ma?tre d’s who managed to convey an outward expression of groveling subservience while simultaneously projecting inner contempt. He regretted to inform them that, despite their reservation, the table wasn’t ready; if they would care to make themselves comfortable in the bar, it shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes, forty at the outside.
“Excuse me. Did you say forty minutes?” D’Agosta spoke in a quiet yet menacing way.
“There’s a large party . . . I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’ll see what you can do?” D’Agosta smiled and took a step closer. “Or you’ll do it?”
“I’ll do what I can, sir.”
“I have no doubt that what you can do is get us a table in fifteen minutes, and that is what you will do.”
“Of course. Naturally, sir.” Now the ma?tre d’ was in full retreat. “And in the meantime,” he went on, voice artificially high and bright, “I’ll have a bottle of champagne sent to your table, compliments of the house.”
D’Agosta took her arm and they went into the bar, which was decorated with a confusion of neon lights Hayward figured must somehow represent the “circus” theme of the restaurant. It was fun—if you didn’t have to spend too long in there.
They sat down at a table, and a waiter soon appeared unbidden with menus, two glasses, and a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
She laughed. “That was pretty effective, the way you handled that ma?tre d’.”
“If I can’t intimidate a waiter, what kind of a cop am I?”
“I think he was expecting a tip.”
D’Agosta glanced at her quickly. “You do?”
“But you managed it all right and saved yourself some money.”
D’Agosta grunted. “Next time I’ll give him a fiver.”
“That would be worse than nothing at all. The going rate is at least twenty.”
“Jesus. Life is complicated at the top.” He raised his glass. “Toast?”
She raised hers.
“To . . .” He hesitated. “To New York’s finest.”
She felt relieved he hadn’t said what she expected. They clinked glasses. She sipped, looking at him while he studied the menu the waiter had left. It seemed he’d slimmed down a bit since she first ran into him at Cutforth’s apartment. He’d mentioned something about working out every day, and it was pretty evident he wasn’t kidding. Working out and shooting at the 27th Precinct range. She took in his hard, clean jawline, jet-black hair, soft brown eyes. He had a nice face, a really nice face. He seemed to be that rarest of finds in New York: a genuinely decent guy. With strong, old-fashioned values, solid, kind, steady—but no wimp, as proved by his surprise performance three nights before in her office . . .
She found herself blushing and tingling at the same time, and she covered it by raising her own menu. She glanced over the list of main courses and was horrified to see that the cheapest, the paupiette of black sea bass, was thirty-nine dollars. The cheapest appetizer was twenty-three dollars, for the braised pigs’ feet and cheeks (no, thank you). Her eye looked in vain for anything under twenty dollars, finally coming to rest on the dessert menu, where the first item that caught her eye—a donut!—was ten dollars. Well, there was no help for it. She swallowed and began picking out her dishes, trying to avoid adding up the sums in her head.
Vincent was looking over the wine list, and she had to admit he hadn’t lost any color, at least not yet. In fact, he seemed positively expansive.
“Red or white?” he asked.
“I think I’m going to have fish.”
“White, then. The Cakebread Chardonnay.” He shut the menu and smiled at her. “This is fun, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never been in a restaurant like this in my life.”
“Me neither, to tell you the truth.”
By the time their table was ready, fifteen minutes later, the bottle of champagne was half gone and Hayward was feeling no pain. The ma?tre d’ seated them in the first dining room, a spacious chamber done in opulent Second Empire style with gilded moldings, high windows with silk brocade draperies, and crystal chandeliers, the effect curiously enhanced by suspended neon lighting and several floral arrangements as large as small elephants. The only drawback was the large party next to them, a table of loud people from one of the outer boroughs—Queens, by the accent. Well, you can’t bar people at the door because they have the wrong accent, she thought.