Page 66 of The Accomplice
As White got up to re-examine, he noticed Climpton was already halfway out of that chair. Smart and experienced, he knew he wasn’t going to get any more out of Climpton. The man was done.
‘No re-examination,’ said White.
Harry sat down, whispered, ‘Don’t get excited. There’s still plenty of time to lose this case.’
Stoker looked at the clock. 12 :45 p.m.
‘We’ll stop to allow the jurors some lunch. Back at two-fifteen. Mr. White, is that enough time to prepare your next witness ?’
‘We’ll be ready, Your Honor,’ he said. ‘The question is will Mr. Flynn be ready ?’
‘We’ll find out after lunch,’ said Stoker.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
EDDIE
Harry and I took a table at the Commodore restaurant. I don’t eat in places like this. I get by with deli sandwiches, pancakes and if I’m in a hurry a dirty-water hotdog suits me just fine. Restaurants with tablecloths and wine lists make me nervous. I’m never sure what piece of cutlery I should be using or whether I’m holding it the right way. It was a table for four, at the back of the joint, close to the kitchen. The table that’s reserved for clientele you don’t want eating in your restaurant.
Like a lot of New York restaurants, the Commodore resembled a luxurious bunker. The windows were heavily tinted. Small electric lamps burned on the tables, and every ten feet or so, industrial-style light bulbs hung from the ceiling. Some folks thought this made the place intimate. I just thought places like this made it impossible to read the menu. Still, it smelled like a good restaurant. The scent of roasting meat smothered in fragrant herbs would normally give me an appetite. Today, I was too worried to eat. This was strictly business.
The maître d’ got us settled and offered water. Still or sparkling. Harry said he’d like a beer, because he didn’t trust water, and gave the maître d’ the old W.C. Fields line – ‘Have you seen what it does to the inside of pipes ? I’ll stick to beer.’
I asked for a Pepsi.
‘When are you expecting the rest of your party ?’ he asked.
‘Soon,’ said Harry. ‘In the meantime, do you have steaks ?’
‘Of course, the waiter will be over to take your order in a—’
‘Just tell him to throw us a pair of steaks. Medium. Thank you.’
There’s a hierarchy in restaurants like this. A whole other class system that operates not just on the floor, and in the back, but with the customers too.
The maître d’ smiled like he wanted our mothers to roast on his grill, and left.
‘Do you think this is going to work ?’ asked Harry, folding a napkin over his lap.
I took a napkin from the table and tried to mimic Harry’s flick of the wrist before he draped it, expertly, across his thighs. I nearly dropped the thing and decided to leave it on the table.
‘It has to work. All we have to do is rely on the FBI.’
‘Famous last words,’ said Harry.
A tall man entered the restaurant. At first, I didn’t notice him. I noticed other people noticing him. Heads turned when Otto Peltier came into a room. The good looks, the height, the shoulders and, of course, the suit. He made his way to our table, took a seat.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, by way of greeting.
‘We’ve ordered steaks. You want something ?’ asked Harry.
The maître d’, who I thought might instruct the kitchen to spit in our food, seemed to have a personality transplant as soon as he laid eyes on Peltier.
‘Mr. Peltier, it’s so good to see you,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Charles. I’ll just have the chicken salad and the Italian still water, please.’
‘A wise choice. I’ll bring it right out with the rest of the … order. If you fine gentlemen need anything else, just let me know.’
