trucks around town. Plomondon the Plumber. He’s a pretty big contractor.”
“Call him for me first thing tomorrow.”
“What’ll I tell him, that the sink’s stopped up?”
“Invite him to lunch. He won’t take it over the phone. Tell him that I can use him for three days in New York and that there’ll be a bonus.”
“He’ll know what I’m talking about?”
I could hear Padillo’s rare sigh. It wasn’t one of impatience. It was one of weariness that may have contained a touch of regret. “He’ll know.”
“Where’ll I tell him to call you?”
“No calls,” Padillo said. “I’m using a phone booth.”
“What’s the address?”
It was on Avenue A in Manhattan and I remembered the neighborhood. It would never win any prizes in the annual Spring paint-up, fix-up campaign.
“You’re right downtown,” I said. “When do you want him to show?”
“By seven o’clock tonight.”
“And you really need him?”
“I really need him.”
“What happened to Wanda?”
“That’s why I need him. She’ll be gone for three days and after that I’ll have to move Kassim and Scales again.”
“Any idea where?”
“West, I think,” he said. “But where west I don’t know.”
“Was Wanda with you when Gitner and Kragstein made their try?”
“No. She left as soon as she got the news.”
“What news?”
“Kassim’s older brother.”
“What about him?”
“He died six hours ago. The kid is now king.”
“Give him my congratulations,” I said.
“I’ll do that,” Padillo said and hung up.
Padillo had been gone for nearly two days when he called me at three Friday morning. I’d last seen him at the Hay-Adams, still negotiating his uneasy truce with Wanda Gothar. Since then I’d kept fairly busy at the none too arduous tasks that compose saloonkeeping. If it had been hard work, I’d have gone into something else. But I’d signed some purchase orders; hired a new pastry chef who claimed to make a remarkable kirsch torte; turned down the Muzak salesman for the ninth time; approved a recommendation by Herr Horst to buy some new uniforms for the waiters and busboys, and had a fairly friendly, explorative talk with the business agent for Local 781 of the Hotel and Restaurant Employees and Bartenders International Union (AFL-CIO) who thought I should be paying the help a little more money. I told him that I thought they should be working a little harder, so we left it at that for the time being and had a drink and talked about the kind of restaurant he planned to open once he got out of what he described as the “labor game.”
After Padillo called I’d made the late luncheon date with William Plomondon and I was sitting at the bar waiting for him when Karl moved down to my end and started rearranging some glasses that didn’t much need it.
“What’s new?” I said.
“The duchess was in the bag again,” he said.
“That’s not new.”
“I thought you’d like to know.”
She wasn’t really a duchess. She was the wife of a cabinet member with whom I’d finally had to have a little chat because the Mrs. insisted on having lunch at our place at least twice a week, which was all right, except that she usually drank it and needed help to make it out the front door. We’d come to an arrangement so that whenever she showed up Herr Horst would call a certain number in the cabinet member’s office and a departmental limousine would be dispatched to take her home or on to her next appointment. She drank straight double vodkas and Padillo predicted that she would wake up in a drying-out place within three months. I gave her six and Karl, less tolerant or perhaps more realistic, claimed that she had only a few weeks left.
“How big was her party?” I said.
“Five other broads. Nobody important. The duchess is supposed to show at the Spanish Embassy reception tonight, but I don’t think she’ll make it. If she does, she’ll probably jump in the goldfish pool
“Call him for me first thing tomorrow.”
“What’ll I tell him, that the sink’s stopped up?”
“Invite him to lunch. He won’t take it over the phone. Tell him that I can use him for three days in New York and that there’ll be a bonus.”
“He’ll know what I’m talking about?”
I could hear Padillo’s rare sigh. It wasn’t one of impatience. It was one of weariness that may have contained a touch of regret. “He’ll know.”
“Where’ll I tell him to call you?”
“No calls,” Padillo said. “I’m using a phone booth.”
“What’s the address?”
It was on Avenue A in Manhattan and I remembered the neighborhood. It would never win any prizes in the annual Spring paint-up, fix-up campaign.
“You’re right downtown,” I said. “When do you want him to show?”
“By seven o’clock tonight.”
“And you really need him?”
“I really need him.”
“What happened to Wanda?”
“That’s why I need him. She’ll be gone for three days and after that I’ll have to move Kassim and Scales again.”
“Any idea where?”
“West, I think,” he said. “But where west I don’t know.”
“Was Wanda with you when Gitner and Kragstein made their try?”
“No. She left as soon as she got the news.”
“What news?”
“Kassim’s older brother.”
“What about him?”
“He died six hours ago. The kid is now king.”
“Give him my congratulations,” I said.
“I’ll do that,” Padillo said and hung up.
Padillo had been gone for nearly two days when he called me at three Friday morning. I’d last seen him at the Hay-Adams, still negotiating his uneasy truce with Wanda Gothar. Since then I’d kept fairly busy at the none too arduous tasks that compose saloonkeeping. If it had been hard work, I’d have gone into something else. But I’d signed some purchase orders; hired a new pastry chef who claimed to make a remarkable kirsch torte; turned down the Muzak salesman for the ninth time; approved a recommendation by Herr Horst to buy some new uniforms for the waiters and busboys, and had a fairly friendly, explorative talk with the business agent for Local 781 of the Hotel and Restaurant Employees and Bartenders International Union (AFL-CIO) who thought I should be paying the help a little more money. I told him that I thought they should be working a little harder, so we left it at that for the time being and had a drink and talked about the kind of restaurant he planned to open once he got out of what he described as the “labor game.”
After Padillo called I’d made the late luncheon date with William Plomondon and I was sitting at the bar waiting for him when Karl moved down to my end and started rearranging some glasses that didn’t much need it.
“What’s new?” I said.
“The duchess was in the bag again,” he said.
“That’s not new.”
“I thought you’d like to know.”
She wasn’t really a duchess. She was the wife of a cabinet member with whom I’d finally had to have a little chat because the Mrs. insisted on having lunch at our place at least twice a week, which was all right, except that she usually drank it and needed help to make it out the front door. We’d come to an arrangement so that whenever she showed up Herr Horst would call a certain number in the cabinet member’s office and a departmental limousine would be dispatched to take her home or on to her next appointment. She drank straight double vodkas and Padillo predicted that she would wake up in a drying-out place within three months. I gave her six and Karl, less tolerant or perhaps more realistic, claimed that she had only a few weeks left.
“How big was her party?” I said.
“Five other broads. Nobody important. The duchess is supposed to show at the Spanish Embassy reception tonight, but I don’t think she’ll make it. If she does, she’ll probably jump in the goldfish pool
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