by Jerold Last
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Time passed quickly as it tends to do when we have privacy and no intrusions from family or work. There was just barely enough time for us to shower quickly, get dressed for dinner, then walk over to the restaurant. We arrived exactly on schedule, which made us the first ones there. I sat with Suzanne at the tiny bar and we drank some wine while we waited for the others to arrive. In honor of the restaurant being French and very elegant with a pianist providing soft mood music, I chose a wine I especially enjoy. We each had a glass of a nice Chateauneuf -du-Pape, a red wine from the Rhone Valley region near Avignon. The bartender approved of our choice. He also told us, "This restaurant specializes in French Provincial cooking, especially from rural southeast and south central France. I’d recommend that you stay away from the tourist favorites like entrecote or other types of steak. Instead, try the snails as an appetizer then the cassoulet for your main dish."
He mentioned a few other items on the menu we might also try if we had a spirit of adventure. Then he busied himself with another couple several stools away from us. About halfway through our wine Suzanne lowered her voice and spoke directly to me so nobody else could hear. "Do you have any feeling that someone might be watching us?"
"No, I hadn't noticed anyone looking at us or conspicuously paying attention to everything else but us. But I'll pay more attention, just in case. What was it that got your attention?"
"Nothing in particular. I just had the funny feeling you sometimes get when someone is watching you. Maybe it's just this place or jet lag or something else sending me false alarms."
Just then our group arrived and wandered into the restaurant in bits and pieces. Carswell spotted us and walked over to the bar. I stood up and spoke to Suzanne. "Or, you just spotted this crew on the street and saw them looking in the window. This is the AKC contingent coming in now."
I introduced Suzanne to Harold Carswell, who suggested that we bring our wine along as the maître d’ arrived to lead us over to our table. Along the way Carswell managed to find time to take an appraising look at Suzanne, followed by a few sincere compliments. “I like your California approach to dressing for dinner quite a bit. The soft pants and tunic look is very flattering on you and looks more comfortable than the typical rigid and uptight New York fashion. It’s perfect for this setting. And I’m even more impressed that you aren’t caught up in the current shoe fetish that makes women look like they’re walking on stilts.”
Suzanne looked closely at Carswell and decided he was being sincere in his flattery. “Thank you for the complements, which I always like to hear. I’m tall enough without the stilt heels and really prefer wearing shoes I can walk in comfortably.”
The maître d’ led us through the dimly lit restaurant, taking a left turn as we neared the back, escorting our group to a quiet corner not visible from the entrance. We were seated around a large table that readily accommodated the nine of us, close enough together so we could all easily hear each other. The conversation, which was lubricated by several bottles of wine, swirled around us while Suzanne and I ordered our dinners and subsequently worked our way through courses of escargots with garlic butter, onion soup, an authentic cassoulet of white beans, lamb, duck, and pork sausage, various vegetables in interesting sauces served family style, salad, a chocolate and whipped cream-laced calorie bomb disguised as a dessert, and coffee.
Much of the dinner discussion was background about what the AKC actually did, as seen by the managers of the various functions. After having met all of these men one-on-one earlier in the day, I now got some general impressions of how they functioned with each other in a group social setting. Sitting directly on my right was Eugene Burnett-Smythe. He drank his wine quickly and thirstily. As his blood alcohol level increased, so did his participation in the discussion. He told several amusing stories about the history of dogs in the USA, especially the rise in social status of several of the sporting dog breeds. Initially bred in the southeastern and mid-western states to feed the poor who had to hunt for their meals, they are now the darlings of the show ring.
Burnett-Smyth made a big production of swirling his wine in the large goblet, sniffing it, and taking a big gulp. “The American Cocker Spaniel first came to the attention of the American dog loving public in the early 20th century as a compact field dog with a happy-go-lucky personality, small enough to live in an apartment if you lived in the city, but able to go out to the country for a full day’s hunting. As the breed became popular with the show crowd, its lovely flowing coat became its star attraction. But there was a problem here. That coat got shredded in the field, and if you owned one of these dogs you had to make a choice. Either clip the coat down to go hunting, or keep it in all its full-coated glory for the show ring. Gradually, you no longer saw the same dogs in the field and in the ring, and people breeding for excellence in either venue bred for very different characteristics. A typical show cocker can’t hunt to save its life, and a cocker bred for the field looks like a completely different breed in all aspects – size, coat, structure, even the shape of its head. There are few breeds that can still do justice to their heritage and work in the field as hunting or herding dogs like they were developed to do, yet also be highly competitive in the show ring. My hat’s off to the current breeders of German Shorthaired Pointers, Kelpies, and Border Collies who are still producing blue collar working dogs that win conformation and performance titles in front of and after their dogs’ names.”
Immediately to his right was Rocket Rosswell, another serious drinker. He went through two martinis before his appetizer and a lot of wine during dinner. I couldn't tell if all the alcohol he consumed had any effect on him. Rosswell was still the excessive talker I had met earlier and told us quite a bit about how much money the AKC made because they were lucky enough to have him selling profitable items to an adoring public. The sponsoring clubs make the money from leasing space at dog shows to vendors and from sales of miscellaneous merchandise and dog-related crafts and equipment. However, as Rosswell proudly pointed out, one of those vendors could be the AKC itself, and they had a monopoly on AKC-branded merchandise. That was one of his areas of responsibility. The AKC also profits from DNA testing and record keeping for each registered dog and bitch.
Rocket chewed on an olive from one of his martinis while he let us in on a few more details. “Each dog can be entered in a single competitive breed class each day, and we call that an entry. Sometimes there will be additional competitions called non-regular classes like best brood bitch and puppy, best stud dog and puppy, best veteran dog, and so forth. Those would have their own entry fees. The contractors get most of the entry fees, but included in those entry fees are a $3.00 AKC Event Service fee per entry, plus a $0.50 AKC Recording fee for the first entry of each dog. Since the AKC’s fixed costs per show are about the same whether it’s a big show or a small one, the bigger the entry the better as far as our profit is concerned.”
When I looked the other way, Suzanne sat immediately on my left. To her left was Stanley Morgan, who listened to everything, but didn't say much. When he did talk, it was relevant and to the point.
Next, going around clockwise was Nathan Forrest. He mainly talked shop, especially about how wonderful everything was at the AKC and what a great job all of them were doing. "It's all about teamwork and we're a team," seemed to be his oft-repeated mantra. Continuing around clockwise, directly across the table from Suzanne, was Harold Carswell. He played the role of the benevolent leader to the hilt---charming, gracious, had a good word for everybody. Coming back around the clock between Carswell and Rocket Rosswell were Hunter Lodge, sitting directly across from me, with Henry Cabot between us. Lodge was closer to our age than the others, and probably had more in common with us. He talked about the lifestyle in New York City and told us about several places we should visit during our next trip. Lodge was apparently into theater and the arts, so pointed out The Metropol
itan Opera, The Lincoln Center, and the Theater District as must-see locations for evening entertainment. For daytime recreation, he suggested The Museum of Natural History, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, and several smaller specialty art collections downtown. Cabot was more shoptalk, especially with regard to his job as the liaison to the actual organizations that sponsored the shows. He had a fascinating problem herding cats to make this complicated system actually work, but he seemed to have developed an effective game plan.
We were asked about our background. Suzanne answered most of the questions about our family, especially Robert, her experience with dogs while growing up as an only child in Sacramento, California, and about her job at UCLA. It only took about 30 seconds of biochemistry to see the glazed eyeballs on all seven former liberal arts majors seated around our table. After she noticed this, Robert and dogs got the lion's share of Suzanne's discussion time. All of her recent reading of articles about dog breeds paid dividends. She sounded so much like an expert on the German Shorthaired Pointer, you could almost see and hear the collective sigh of relief around the table. We just might be convincing after all when we were introduced as dog owners.
After everybody had enough wine and liquor, the gentlemen from the AKC relaxed a bit and got away from shoptalk into small talk. We heard quite a bit about various families, and especially the recent accomplishments of some of the kids and grandchildren. My favorite line from the night came from Rocket Rosswell, who asked Suzanne in all seriousness, “I’ve got several thousand tee-shirts with the catch line ‘Wag tails, not tongues’ printed on them. Would you be willing to wear a few of them for me at the dog shows you go to?”
Stanley Morgan asked her, “Do you really think Roger being a private detective is a good idea, or do you feel like it’s just a phase he’ll outgrow and get back to being a practicing lawyer? Maybe when you discover some intellectual property in your laboratory that might be converted into a patentable invention would be a good time for him to consider making this switch.”
Suzanne smiled sweetly and replied, “He can do both at the same time. As a matter of fact, he already has, Mr. Morgan. When UCLA decided not to pursue patenting one of the drugs I discovered in my research, Roger took care of everything for me.”
Henry Cabot seemed especially interested in how Suzanne had spent her day today. He told us he had never heard of Rockefeller University before today and asked Suzanne exactly where it was and how she got there from our hotel. “Y’all know, I always thought about becomin’ part of the academy like y’all have Suzanne, but there was never anyone heah who could take mah place if I left. Do y’all think Rockefeller University might be lookin’ fer a perfesser with mah skills?”
Suzanne mumbled something non-committal.
Burnett-Smyth seemed reluctant to interrupt his drinking long enough to say much, but ask Suzanne whether she’d ever owned a dog before. “I grew up with one,” she started to say, but stopped when he gulped his remaining wine and turned away to pour another glass.
Nathan Forrest asked Suzanne, “D-do you use C-c-computers in your ex-experiments, S-suzanne?”
“Yes, I do. Pretty much all of the time.”
“D-do you d-do any of your own p-p-programming?”
“No, I use commercial software for data base management and statistical analysis of my results.”
This conversation ground to a crunching halt.
Finally, Hunter Lodge who had been listening to this last exchange asked Suzanne “Do you have collaborators at UCLA who can do any computer programming you might need, or do you have to do everything with commercially available software?”
“Some of each,” she replied. “I’m pretty much computer illiterate as far as programming is concerned, but there are plenty of experts on the campus who can point me in the right direction if I have a problem that needs solving. Most of what I do is mainstream DNA sequence analysis, and there’s a lot of very good open source and commercial software readily available to meet most of my needs. The few times I’ve needed more I’ve found collaborators who had what I needed and were willing to share.”
“You’re very lucky,” answered Lodge. “Here in industry it’s a much more competitive environment and nobody ever helps a competitor. I’m used to either doing everything myself or hiring someone to solve whatever kind of problem needs solving for me.”
Chapter7.Back to our hotel
After all of the food and wine we said our respective goodnights and goodbyes. The walk back to the hotel was most welcome. A block or so from the restaurant Suzanne touched my arm and asked softly, "Are you getting any vibes that someone is watching us? I feel that way now, a whole lot like I did at the bar in the restaurant."
"No. I'm not getting any vibes," I replied, looking around as discretely as I could without being conspicuous. "But that doesn't mean much in a crowded place like 41st Street in midtown Manhattan at nine o'clock at night. Did you feel like this while you went to or came back from Rockefeller University? Or did the bad vibes just start at our dinner?"
Suzanne thought a bit. "I'm not sure. As you know, buses and subways in New York City aren’t my usual environment. I certainly wasn't feeling comfortable coming back to the hotel. But I don't know. The sense I'm getting now, and that I had at the restaurant, was more than just someone is watching. It’s a prickly sensation up and down my spine--- like being in a horror movie---but this is the real thing. I don't remember feeling this way on the bus or subway. But it could have been the same."
Her normally lithe body was stiffer than usual and her expression was worried. "As you know, this feeling that something awful is about to happen isn't normal for me. I don't like feeling I'm under surveillance, and I don't like feeling worried. We both know I can take care of myself physically. This is different. It feels more like something truly evil is happening to me, and that I'm part of it."
I really hadn't seen Suzanne this up tight, literally and figuratively, before. When she first hired me as a detective to go with her to Salta to investigate her father's murder, she felt she was being followed and was concerned. But she hadn't been frightened. Thanks to her many years of training in karate and frequent workouts with Bruce and me, Suzanne had plenty of confidence in her ability to win a fight if attacked. This was the first time I had ever seen her frightened and I didn't like the image at all. Clearly this problem needed some serious investigation.
It was only three blocks south and half a block west from where we presently were, so we walked back to the hotel from the restaurant, which was on 41st Street between Park and Madison Avenues. To avoid the darker, and potentially more dangerous residential streets, we walked over to Park Avenue, which is wide and well lit for that neighborhood. Once on the Avenue, we moved at a reasonably brisk pace down toward our hotel, past restaurants, hotels, residential high-rise apartment buildings, and darkened high-rise office buildings. We continued walking without incidents as far as 39th Street on a seemingly deserted Park Avenue, deserted at least by pedestrians at this time of night. However, the steady flow of vehicular traffic, especially taxicabs, continued unabated. Suddenly, two 20-something young men in hoodies and baggy pants decided we were fresh meat from out of town, ripe and just right to take a bite out of, and jumped out of an alley between two darkened office buildings immediately in front of us.
Neither of the two men said a word. They just looked menacing as they slowly swaggered towards us. The first guy out of the alley was a skinny Hispanic, with long stringy hair, wearing baggy jeans and an “I Love New York” sweatshirt. He held a knife, which he kept switching from hand to hand trying to look like an experienced knife fighter and scare the heck out of what he expected to be two helpless tourists. He'd obviously watched too many bad TV shows and movies, but not enough marine combat training. The second punk was an equally skinny white guy, with his hair closely cropped on an almost shaven head, also wearing baggy jeans and a sweatshirt, this one with a team logo for The New York Yankees. He had another
knife, which he held in front of him in his right hand and moved in big circles so he too could look like an experienced knife fighter and scare the heck out of us. He'd watched the same bad movies and TV shows as his buddy and equally obviously clearly didn't have the slightest clue of how to use a knife against an opponent skilled in martial arts. The second punk was about Suzanne's size so I figured she could easily take care of him. That left me with the taller of the two, about three inches and 20 pounds smaller than I am. Suzanne's knife artist broke the silence.
"Gimme yer watches, wallet, and purse or I'll cut both a ya real bad!"
I eased my way towards the street, to my left. The taller punk conveniently moved to his right to cut off my path to run away from him. That left us spread out exactly the way I wanted, as if we had choreographed this scene beforehand. Each of the hoodlums was directly in front of either Suzanne or me, and far enough apart that they wouldn't get in the way of either of us when the fight started. I looked quickly at Suzanne, who was poised and ready. I said something stupid like "Go", and went after my man. As he tossed the knife from his left to his right hand, the hard heel of my shoe connected at full speed with the front of his right knee. I heard a loud crack as the ligaments went, but by that time, I recovered my balance and launched a vicious kick to his groin area. Down he went, moaning piteously and grabbing his groin area with one hand. He still had the knife in his other hand. I stamped hard on his wrist where it lay on the concrete and heard more bones crack. At that point, figured he had enough to worry about, which would keep him from bothering us anymore.
