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Have I really covered this much ground in just one day?
I need to catch a nap.
His stomach growled.
And…I need something to eat.
The Gramercy’s lounge was off of the lobby, and Canidy, passing the polished-stone front desk, could already hear the lively crowd before he entered.
The lounge featured a terrific massive wooden bar, small round tables with plush, intimate seating, and a gleaming grand piano at which a fellow was playing what Canidy thought was a Duke Ellington piece.
He took one of the empty seats at the bar and asked the bartender for a menu. While he scanned it, the bartender put a glass of ice water and small bowl of orange fish-shaped crackers in front of him. Canidy popped a couple of the crackers into his mouth.
Mmmm. Cheddar-flavored. Nice.
The crackers almost immediately made him thirsty and he looked at the small forest of spigot handles on the draft beers, saw a good Hessian family name that he recognized as a brewery in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, got the bartender’s attention and pointed to it. When the lager was delivered, he ordered something that he thought would be quick: a steak sandwich with chips.
He sipped his beer and munched on the cheddar crackers, looking in the mirror to watch the crowd in the room.
So who here has mob connections? He grunted. Besides me, that is.
The piano player? One of the waitresses?
The bartender?
Murray Gurfein said that through the unions the mob touched just about everything.
He also said the mob was good about getting union cards issued to the Navy guys for undercover work at the docks, on boats and trucks, in hotels and restaurants.
Not quite five minutes later, the bartender produced a plate with his sandwich.
Canidy looked at him with new interest.
Bet he’s a spook with—what did Gurfein call it?—“Local 16 of the Hotel and Restaurant Workers International Alliance and Bartenders Union.”
“Thank you,” Canidy said, then grinned as he picked up the sandwich.
Nah, he thought, taking a bite. On second thought, even the mob wouldn’t let a Navy guy near the booze.
The sliced steak on a fresh, hard-crusted baguette turned out to be not only quick but first-class. The beef was a sirloin strip that had been lightly marinated and perfectly grilled to medium-rare, the chips were actually more like steak fries, and the fat pickle was crisp, ice-cold, and almost oozed garlic.
Canidy finished his meal in no time—I didn’t realize how hungry I was—and he waved for the check as he finished the last of his beer. He signed it to the room and left.
Back in the suite, he took a hot shower, then pulled on his new clothes.
He folded his uniform and put it in the cleaning bag from the closet, then called downstairs for it to be picked up.
“I’ll need it cleaned and pressed,” he said into the phone, “and returned by first thing—”
He yawned, long and hard, and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It showed seven-thirty.
Fifteen minutes. That’s all I need.
“—in the morning,” he finished, then added: “And I’d like a wake-up call for seven-fifty, please.”
“Yessir, a wake-up call for seven-fifty a.m.”
“No, p.m.”
