It had been all over the media. Nathaniel Yorke’s political career was as varied as it was successful: alderman, mayor of Oswego, county manager, two as an assemblyman and three terms as a state senator.
“Why the hell is he running for Borough President of Staten Island?”
Sullivan smiled.
“The $64-million-dollar question. Or, more likely, the billion-dollar question. You heard him talk about the project, didn’t you? Staten Island is where the money is. And who knows, maybe he has bigger ambitions. Some people would rather be mayor of New York than Governor or U.S. Senator. There’s half a million people living in our quiet little burg. We’re bigger than Cincinnati. Why do you think Blovardi and his boys were pushed aside? Staten Island is changing. Too much money at stake to leave things to the local yokels. We’re no longer the undiscovered county.”
“A Star Trek pun, Mike. I’m impressed.”
“I stole it from your pal, Levine.”
“I would have thought the Blovardi crowd had a lock on development here. They have as long as I can remember.”
I knew it was a touchy subject for Sullivan. He came from the same side of the political divide as Blovardi, although I knew he despised the man and his minions. For years there had been rumors of political payoffs and shady real estate deals, and questions about why so many members of the current administration had Florida and Caribbean condos in resort areas that also housed many developers. But Mike Sullivan had not looked too closely at the shenanigans of the Borough hall crowd. He was a good, decent District Attorney, as were most of his predecessors, but the “old boy” network is very strong on Staten Island. It didn’t matter what party was in power, the D.A.’s office concentrated on street and quality-of-life crime and steered away from the political shoals. It would be interesting to see how Mike treated outsiders like Yorke and his backers. I was about to ask him about that when Alice slipped her arm through mine.
“If you two are through talking politics, Linda and I are starving.”
“We’re meeting a politician for dinner,” I reminded her. “It’s a safe bet we’ll talk politics.”
“But at least we won’t be starving.”
CHAPTER 3 - SNAPPER
Alice and I were the first to arrive at La Strada. We sat at the small intimate bar at the front of the restaurant and I ordered a bottle of Sorelle Bronca Prosecco. Alice likes the Italian sparkling wine and I can live with it, especially the Sorelle, which has a nice bite. Some Prosecco’s are too sweet for me.
“I’m sorry you got roped into dinner with Yorke,” I said. “But you are on his bandwagon.”
“No, it’s fine,” she said, as we clinked our flute glasses. “And I’m not on anyone’s bandwagon, present company excepted, sweetie pie. Bradley got an invite to the stadium thing but had something else going on tonight so he asked me if I’d be interested in coming.”
Spencer Bradley was the President of Wagner College.
“Why you? Why not someone in the Political Science Department or Community Relations?”
“He said he was intrigued by Yorke and wanted input from someone he trusted.”
“He trusts a philosophy professor? You only make sense to each other.”
Alice kicked me in the shin. Alice’s kicks, either to shin or ankle, range from “you’re an idiot but I love you” kicks to “shut up, you’re making an ass out of yourself in front of everyone” kicks. This one was an idiot/love tap. We both liked Bradley, the college’s first black president and a man who was known to be unhappy at the way the previous Borough Hall administration had catered to some of the borough’s racist constituencies. Bradley thought highly of Alice, and I knew he was worried about losing her.
“At least Bradley knows I don’t have a vested interest,” she said. “I can’t even vote for Yorke. I’m registered in the Village. But truth be told, I am intrigued by him. He seems such a change from the current mob running things out here.”
A waiter came to the bar and put a small plate of hot Italian delicacies in front of us.
“The owner says he hopes you enjoy these,” he said. “On the house.”
“Quick,” I said, “lock the door and let’s eat these before the others show up.”
Just then, the door opened and Mike Sullivan and Linda walked in, ruining my perfectly good plan. Both were fine with Prosecco, so I had the bartender provide two more flute glasses. It turned out that I didn’t need a plan. The women each had only one appetizer. I have observed that, in the hors d’oeuvres department, when Alice and I are alone she tends to eat like a normal person. Add another female to the mix and each tends to under-eat the other. It worked out well: Mike and I were able to canapé graze at will. By the time the Yorkes showed up, the plate was empty and we decided to grab our table. The walk through the dining room was slow, with both Mike and Yorke stopping to greet people they knew or, in Yorke’s case, potential voters. That meant just about everyone. Luckily, the place hadn’t filled up yet. I didn’t see anyone I knew, but comforted myself by watching all the men at various tables stare at Alice. As we passed one group I heard one man ask, “Isn’t that Amy Adams?”
When we finally got to our table, I wound up sitting next to Teresa Yorke. The owner soon appeared and told us we didn’t need menus. He wanted to prepare our meal himself and promised we wouldn’t be disappointed. We, of course, gave him the go-ahead. Sometimes it helps to dine with the District Attorney and someone who might be the next Borough President. We briefly debated a wine and decided on a couple of bottles of Ruffino Reserve Ducale Chianti.
“When in Rome,” Yorke said. He looked at his wife. “I think you will like it, honey. Andrew stocks it for special occasions.”
“Nathaniel is dropping names,” Teresa said to the table. “He means Cuomo.”
Yorke laughed.
“I guess I am. I get along great with the Governor. Even if I hardly ever agree with him.”
“I think I would like a real drink before the wine,” Teresa said. “Will anyone join me in a martini?”
The others demurred but, as is my wont when martinis are concerned, I volunteered.
“Stoli, splash of vermouth, two olives,” she told a hovering waiter.
She looked at me. I nodded. The waiter left.
“Thank you, Alton,” she whispered, leaning in to me. “My husband can be a stick in the mud. I’m glad someone manned up.”
We all engaged in table chit-chat until the wine and drinks came. After the usual glass-clinking routine, Teresa downed half her martini and then turned to me.
“God, I needed that.”
“Tough day?”
“You have no idea. I don’t know where Nathaniel gets his energy.” She laughed. “From not using it elsewhere, I suppose.”
“You’ve both been doing this a long time. I’m curious. Why did he give up his career in Albany to run for office on Staten Island?”
“Life upstate can be so limiting. This presented a unique opportunity. New York City is a much bigger stage.”
The owner started us out with small bowls of Tuscan bread soup and a salad. Our first course consisted of Linguini Puttanesca made with olives, peppers, anchovies, capers and red plum tomatoes.
“This is delicious,” Linda Cronin said. “I’ve never tasted a sauce like it.”
“It’s called the ‘sauce of the whores’,” I said. “The name is derived from the Italian word for prostitute, puttana.”
“Indeed,” Teresa said. “I thought us girls were dressed appropriately.”
We all laughed.
“You all look wonderful,” I said. “The name refers to something that a lower stratum of society threw together with whatever was handy in the kitchen, or so the story goes.”
“I don’t care what they call it,” Mike said. “It’s great.”
“You’re Irish,” I said. “You can call it Gravy Puttanesca.”
“Well,” Teresa Yorke said, “whatever it’s called, I think it goes w
onderfully with vodka. I think I will have another martini.”
She held her glass up and twirled it to get a waiter’s attention.
“I think wine would go better, Terry,” her husband said. “Don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.” A waiter came over. She looked at me. “How about it, pardner? Still game?”
It was an awkward moment. Alice shot me a glance. It was as if I was choosing sides between the two Yorkes. I would have preferred switching to wine, but I wanted to see where the little domestic dynamic was going.
“Sure,” I said. “Just one more.”
Nathaniel Yorke looked annoyed. The others looked slightly embarrassed. The drinks came. As if in retaliation, Yorke started chatting up Alice. Teresa nudged me.
“Don’t worry about Nathaniel showing so much attention to your girlfriend,” she whispered. “He likes to flirt. Men his age have to convince themselves they still have it. He doesn’t. He’s harmless.”
The second martini was apparently doing its job. I got the impression that Teresa Yorke still had it, even if her husband didn’t.
“Are you harmless, Alton? I bet you’re not. Big, handsome private eye. I bet you have lots of interesting stories. The women must swoon. Do they?”
I was saved from answering when the first course arrived: veal scaloppini and filet mignon sautéed with peas and mushrooms in a sherry wine sauce. The waiter poured wine for everyone. Teresa had thankfully finished her martini and started on the wine.
“You must be wondering at the obvious age difference between Nathaniel and me,” she said.
I hadn’t. I knew from what I’d read that Yorke had married relatively late in life. Beyond that, I didn’t particularly care.
“We met at a wedding in Boston,” she said. “I was 27 and he was 49. I’d just come out of an unsatisfying relationship and Nathaniel seemed so strong and mature. Such a vibrant, handsome man. He’s still quite handsome, don’t you think?”
I said I did. And I also noticed that she left out the word ‘vibrant’.”
“I was quite swept off my feet,” she continued. “That was 15 years ago. Neither of us wanted kids, which has helped me keep my figure. That, and working out. I run, swim and do Pilates. It seems to be working. What do you think? Would you guess I’m in my 40’s?”
There is only one answer to that question when a woman asks it. So I told her what she wanted to hear. In fact, on closer inspection, Teresa Yorke did have a splendid body. As if to emphasize the point, she leaned forward.
“I’m not wearing a bra. I bet you thought I was.” She was slightly drunk. “Your girlfriend has a nice figure, too. But, then, she’s young.”
“Alice was on her college swim team. She coaches the sport at Wagner.”
“How nice,” she said, her mouth turning down at the corners, revealing some 40-ish age lines. “A real jock.”
“She’s also a tenured professor of philosophy. She can both think and swim rings around me.”
Teresa drummed her fingers on my arm.
“I bet I could teach her a thing or two. You look like you are in shape.” She had a strange cast in her eyes that I didn’t think was the result of the wine. She was now on her third glass. “It’s important to keep your body in shape. Mine is in the best it’s ever been. You should see me in a bikini. Too bad it goes to waste so often.”
“What are you two so engrossed in?”
It was Nathaniel Yorke, who was looking daggers at us. Then he emitted a funny little laugh. Alice looked amused. She was used to women throwing themselves at me, “especially when they are drunk and can’t see straight.”
The next course arrived. I was never so glad to see a red snapper. The rest of the meal went along uneventfully. Mike and Yorke steered the conversation toward politics. Teresa Yorke yawned and looked bored, but at least she didn’t undress.
After we finished a meal that would have embarrassed Caligula, none of us wanted dessert. Until the kitchen sent out a complimentary tiramisu. We demolished it.
***
“Well, that was certainly interesting,” Alice said. We were driving home after the dinner. “I thought the snapper was a bit much.”
“I guess the owner wanted to impress us. It was delicious.”
“I wasn’t talking about the fish. I meant Teresa Yorke. She did everything but gobble you up at the table.”
“Ah, you noticed.”
“Everyone noticed. I thought one of the waiters was going to douse her with a pitcher of ice water. I kept waiting for her hand to slip under the table.”
“As you’ve uncharitably pointed out in the past, it was probably the booze.”
“Ordinarily I’d agree with you. But not this time. That lady is on the prowl. There didn’t seem to be much warmth between her and her husband. I don’t know how they once were, but I’d say it’s a marriage of convenience now.”
She said it with assurance. I tended to agree with her on matters of the heart. Alice was usually spot-on when her female antenna picked something up.
“Well, he’s a good deal older than she is,” I said. “Mid-60’s by my estimation. Maybe the fire is going out.”
“His, maybe. But not hers. Gal like that needs her embers constantly stoked.”
***
“I think that was a pretty good stoke,” I said an hour later, a bit breathlessly.
Alice looked down at me. We were in bed. She had been particularly energetic in her lovemaking.
“I knew I shouldn’t have used that word,” she said. “You’re like a dog with a bone when you hear something you like.”
“Arf. Have you ever noticed how much harder you stoke after another women pays a lot of attention to me?”
“Would you rather I pull a Lorena Bobbitt?”
Alice did something with one of her internal muscles to reinforce her point. The word ‘snapper’ came unbidden into my mind.
“You’d never do anything to endanger your chief stoker,” I said.
I leaned up and licked one of her nipples.
“Well, there’s that,” Alice said, laughing. She began to move her hips. “How old did you say that Yorke broad was?”
CHAPTER 4 - STAGE FRIGHT
I woke up Sunday morning to the smell of breakfast sausage. If there are better smells to wake up to, I’d like to find out. The only downside was knowing that unless there was a fire in the kitchen that had reached the meat drawer in the fridge, Alice was cooking breakfast. Of course, that didn’t rule out the possibility of fire. Deciding to hope for the best, I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and headed downstairs. As I got closer, I also detected the odor of biscuits, as yet unburnt. What the hell was going on? I sped up.
She was standing over the stove, putting the sausage on paper towels, wearing her own shorts and one of my t-shirts. When I had last seen her a few hours earlier, she was naked and sleeping contently with one arm on my chest. Life was good.
“Life is good,” I said.
She looked at me and smiled.
“Can you do the coffee?”
Ten minutes later we were eating on my deck. Eggs, sunny side up, no yolks broken; sausage; buttermilk biscuits with butter and maple syrup; orange juice and coffee with cream. It was a tad chilly, but I couldn’t have cared less. Neither did Scar, “my” feral cat. He was on his third sausage. My coffee had cooled. I went over and poured what was left in my mug into his bowl. Then I refilled my mug from the porcelain pitcher on the table.
“I never knew a cat that drank coffee,” Alice said.
“He would drink Sterno.”
“I have some raspberry Kringle warming in the oven,” she said.
I order the traditional Danish pastry from Wisconsin. It comes in a big ring and I cut it into sections and freeze them. Thawed and warmed in the oven they taste just as good as fresh. I have no idea why.
“All right, lady. What have you done with Alice?”
I moved my legs out of kicking range.
“I
t’s our last morning together, for a while,” she said, laughing. “I wanted to do something special for you.”
“I thought you took care of that last night.”
“Oh, that. I thought you didn’t notice.”
“Notice? I just made an appointment with my chiropractor.”
She colored slightly. I had noticed that her blushes diminished in direct proportion to her growing sexual capacity.
“I’ll get the Kringle,” she said. “Then I have to pack a few things.”
Having sublet her Greenwich Village apartment, Alice had been living with me since returning from France from her sabbatical. After the play we were attending that afternoon, she was heading into the city to check on the apartment her tenants had just vacated. She was bringing a few clothes and some toiletries to the theater. I’d drive to Manhattan later in the week with more of her stuff. We had both agreed that having two apartments, and somewhat separate lives, was what suited us best. For now.
Alice returned with the Kringle. She dropped a piece off to Scar, who actually rubbed against her leg.
“Good Lord,” I said. “A cat whisperer.”
She gave me the larger piece of Kringle.
“If I had known you could cook like this,” I said, “I would never have thrown you out.”
“There’s a roast beef in the fridge,” she said sweetly. “Want me to cook it before I leave?”
Alice’s last roast had the appearance, and consistency, of a meteorite. I ate it and said all the right things, but the leftovers went to Scar. He ate it, too, but I could tell he wasn’t overwhelmed.
“Not necessary,” I said quickly. “I wouldn’t want you to miss your ferry.”
***
Dying Is Wasted on Corpses wasn’t as bad as I expected.
It was infinitely worse. When the curtain opened, to an offstage recording of John Lennon’s Imagine, it revealed four men and four women, all seated. The song ended abruptly, amid a cacophony of recorded gunshots.
GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) Page 3
