Read Online The Eighth Commandment by Lawrence Sanders - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence Sanders
Tags: Suspense
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cheerfully. “I know a good place over on Lex. They make British burgers. With bacon.”
So that’s what we had. Sitting at a minuscule table for two alongside a tiled wall, munching burgers, popping French fries, and sipping tea out of glasses.
“I think it went good,” Al Georgio said. “I shook them up, got them looking at each other. They’re beginning to wonder: Which one did it?”
“Orson Vanwinkle did it,” I said.
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t like him.”
Al almost choked on a piece of bacon, he laughed so hard. “Beautiful. I take that to the DA, and he kicks my ass out the window. Why don’t you like Vanwinkle?”
“He’s a snaky character.”
“How could he have pulled it? He was never alone with the sealed cases.”
“Somehow he did it. I’ll find out.”
“Who the hell are you—Nancy Drew?” Then, suddenly, surprising me, “How about dinner tonight?”
I stared at him. “Are you married, Al?”
“Divorced,” he said. “Almost two years now.”
“Children?”
“A girl. Sally. Would you like to see her picture?”
“Of course.”
He dug out his wallet, showed me a photo in a plastic slipcase.
“She’s a beauty,” I said. And that was the truth.
“Isn’t she?” he said, staring at the photo. “She’s going to break a lot of hearts.”
“How old is she?”
“Going on twelve.”
“Do you see her often?”
“Not as often as I’d like,” he said miserably. “I have the right to two weekends a month. But this lousy job…That’s why my wife divorced me. It’s not easy being married to a cop. The job comes first.”
“All right, Al,” I said, “I’ll have dinner with you tonight. Do I have to dress up?”
He laughed. “You kidding? Look at me. Do I look like a dress-up kind of guy? The place I’m taking you to isn’t fancy, but they’ve got the best linguine and clams in New York.”
So I wore my usual uniform: pipestem jeans, black turtleneck sweater, suede jacket and beret. Al said I looked like a Central American terrorist; all I needed was a bandolier. He was wearing one of his rumpled suits with all the pizzazz of a bathrobe. I had never met a man so completely without vanity. I found it rather endearing.
It was a scruffy trattoria he took me to, in Little Italy, but after I got a whiff of those marvelous cooking odors, I knew I had found a home. The moment we entered, the owner came rushing over to embrace Al, and the two men roared at each other in rapid Italian. Then the owner, a man with a white mustache big enough to stuff a pillow, turned his attention to me.
He kissed his fingertips and started chattering away again. All I caught were two “bella’s” and one “bellissima!”
“He says,” Al translated, “that if you are willing to run away with him, he will desert his wife, six children, and eleven grandchildren.”
“Tell him not before I eat,” I said.
Al relayed the message, and the old guy slapped his thigh, twisted the curved horns of his mustache upward, and rolled his eyes. Forty years ago he must have been a holy terror with the ladies.
We finally got seated, and even before we ordered, the owner brought us glasses of red wine.
“Homemade,” Al told me. “In the basement. It’s got a kick.”
It did, but was so smooth and mellow, I felt I could drink it all night. “How did you ever find this place?” I asked.
“I was born two blocks away. It was here then. Same wine, same menu. Even some of the same waiters. It hasn’t changed a bit, and I hope it never does.”
We had a memorable meal: a huge platter of seafood linguine, with clams, baby shrimp, slivers of crabmeat, and chunks of lobster. I could have filled a bathtub with that sauce and rolled around in it. The fresh, crunchy salad was special, too, and afterward we had cappuccino with tortoni, and Al taught me how to float a spoonful of the ice cream atop the coffee. Heaven!
The owner brought us two little glasses of Strega, and after
So that’s what we had. Sitting at a minuscule table for two alongside a tiled wall, munching burgers, popping French fries, and sipping tea out of glasses.
“I think it went good,” Al Georgio said. “I shook them up, got them looking at each other. They’re beginning to wonder: Which one did it?”
“Orson Vanwinkle did it,” I said.
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t like him.”
Al almost choked on a piece of bacon, he laughed so hard. “Beautiful. I take that to the DA, and he kicks my ass out the window. Why don’t you like Vanwinkle?”
“He’s a snaky character.”
“How could he have pulled it? He was never alone with the sealed cases.”
“Somehow he did it. I’ll find out.”
“Who the hell are you—Nancy Drew?” Then, suddenly, surprising me, “How about dinner tonight?”
I stared at him. “Are you married, Al?”
“Divorced,” he said. “Almost two years now.”
“Children?”
“A girl. Sally. Would you like to see her picture?”
“Of course.”
He dug out his wallet, showed me a photo in a plastic slipcase.
“She’s a beauty,” I said. And that was the truth.
“Isn’t she?” he said, staring at the photo. “She’s going to break a lot of hearts.”
“How old is she?”
“Going on twelve.”
“Do you see her often?”
“Not as often as I’d like,” he said miserably. “I have the right to two weekends a month. But this lousy job…That’s why my wife divorced me. It’s not easy being married to a cop. The job comes first.”
“All right, Al,” I said, “I’ll have dinner with you tonight. Do I have to dress up?”
He laughed. “You kidding? Look at me. Do I look like a dress-up kind of guy? The place I’m taking you to isn’t fancy, but they’ve got the best linguine and clams in New York.”
So I wore my usual uniform: pipestem jeans, black turtleneck sweater, suede jacket and beret. Al said I looked like a Central American terrorist; all I needed was a bandolier. He was wearing one of his rumpled suits with all the pizzazz of a bathrobe. I had never met a man so completely without vanity. I found it rather endearing.
It was a scruffy trattoria he took me to, in Little Italy, but after I got a whiff of those marvelous cooking odors, I knew I had found a home. The moment we entered, the owner came rushing over to embrace Al, and the two men roared at each other in rapid Italian. Then the owner, a man with a white mustache big enough to stuff a pillow, turned his attention to me.
He kissed his fingertips and started chattering away again. All I caught were two “bella’s” and one “bellissima!”
“He says,” Al translated, “that if you are willing to run away with him, he will desert his wife, six children, and eleven grandchildren.”
“Tell him not before I eat,” I said.
Al relayed the message, and the old guy slapped his thigh, twisted the curved horns of his mustache upward, and rolled his eyes. Forty years ago he must have been a holy terror with the ladies.
We finally got seated, and even before we ordered, the owner brought us glasses of red wine.
“Homemade,” Al told me. “In the basement. It’s got a kick.”
It did, but was so smooth and mellow, I felt I could drink it all night. “How did you ever find this place?” I asked.
“I was born two blocks away. It was here then. Same wine, same menu. Even some of the same waiters. It hasn’t changed a bit, and I hope it never does.”
We had a memorable meal: a huge platter of seafood linguine, with clams, baby shrimp, slivers of crabmeat, and chunks of lobster. I could have filled a bathtub with that sauce and rolled around in it. The fresh, crunchy salad was special, too, and afterward we had cappuccino with tortoni, and Al taught me how to float a spoonful of the ice cream atop the coffee. Heaven!
The owner brought us two little glasses of Strega, and after
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