Mitch stopped by the newsstand and shoved some cash into the vendor’s hand before he opened the newspaper and found what he was looking for under national news. “Six P.M. as usual,” is all he said as he threw the paper away into a nearby trash can. “I need a drink. We’ve never been this close before.”
They took a cab to East Fifty-Fourth Street, Midtown East to Velliggios, a small little known Italian restaurant, Mitch’s favorite. It was just off Park Avenue and not far from Brighton’s bookstore, their next stop.
Carol hated being late and succumbed to his request to have any lunch at all just so they would be on time for his next reading. Her usual lunch consisted of a bagel on the run or some yogurt along with a half-mile jaunt. She could tell he was tiring of the book tour. She sensed he wanted to be free from it; it was a long time to be on the road for any author and for someone like Mitch it was an eternity. He never complained, but she sensed he just wanted to go back to his cottage on the beach in Florida.
The outside tables of the quiet Italian restaurant on the small New York side street were empty as a waiter was busy setting the tables with silverware and white tablecloths in anticipation of their late lunch crowd.
Once inside the dimly lit room, a waitress showed them to a booth and brought them a menu and two glasses of ice water. It was just before the lunchtime rush, but for now they had the bistro all to themselves with the smell of fresh basil, the pungent aroma of garlic, and the scent of freshly made sauces tempting all of their senses.
“Welcome to Velliggios,” the waitress said, handing them menus to peruse. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Scotch on the rocks, GlenDronach if you still have it in the back. No, on second thought, hold the ice,” Mitch blurted out.
“I’ll have some of your iced tea please,” Carol said as she shoved her briefcase and purse next to her on the bench and began to look through the menu.
“Well?” he asked “I’m anxious to hear your thoughts about the new book. Do you like it.”
She smiled inside. He had turned from a tough, hardened cop to an author; it reminded her of what she called “the expectant father syndrome.” Waiting to hear her approval or disapproval for his latest work. He was always showing her some of his short stories and once a collection of poetry he wrote, but this time it was different; she could tell this book was special to him. She set down the menu and looked at him. “I know about Timothy Walker, the killer, but tell me about the young Timmy Walker, the best friend.”
His fingers drummed impatiently on the table before he responded. “You mean how did he get on death row, and how I did I wind up as the cop who tracks him down when he escapes from death row? Then write a book about it? Hell Carol, I don’t know. We played together as kids. Damn, he was my best friend. He lived down the street from me, and we grew up together, but there were over sixty other kids living near us in a four-block radius, and he was the only one who wound up in prison, on death row.”
The waiter brought them their drinks and took their luncheon order.
Mitch took a long, slow drink and then set the glass down on the table. They had forgotten and put ice into his drink and now rivulets of condensation dribbled down the side of the glass onto the table. No coaster caught the expanding pool. Lost in thought, Mitch swirled the water on the table with his finger, making drawings and letters before he continued.
He rambled aloud, “Timmy was like a moth drawn to the flame. He could feel the heat and the danger but he kept going closer and closer until it embraced him and finally consumed him.”
She sipped her raspberry tea, it needed sweetener. She poured sugar inside and watched the grains trickle down to the bottom of the glass then noticed the mint leaves floating on the top. She sipped again while keeping her eyes on him. He was stalling.
He looked at her, “Do you mean do I think it was it his parents’ fault?” He asked before he took another drink. “They were good parents. Hell, his father was a doctor. Don’t you think I’ve agonized about that over the years? Hell, we were best friends. Growin’ up we played together every day, me, him, and… Sunny.” Her name came out of his mouth, twisted, painful for him to say, as if it were wrapped in barbed wire.
He held the drink in his hand then shoved it aside. “God, do I miss her. Goddamn him. Goddamn him to hell. I hope he rots in that inferno for all time for everything he did.”
She reached for his hand and held it in hers. “Mitch, after reading your new book I now begin to understand some things a little bit better. I know this is a tough day for you, but we’ll get through it. Together. I promise.”
He looked at her, smiled, and patted her hand. “Ironic timing, isn’t it?”
She smiled, still holding his hand, but then moved her hand to take another drink of her iced tea. Where is this going?
“You’re the best, but you know already know that don’t you?” he said with a grin.
“Yeah of course I know that. Maybe I should ask you for a raise?”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
She moved her hand to flag down their waiter. “I’ll have another iced tea please.”
“Make that two,” chimed in Mitch, sliding the half-empty whiskey glass to the side.
Her salad was huge, his pasta steaming as she took in a deep breath. This tour had caused her to eat three or more meals a day, not good at her age. Her clothes were shrinking; she could feel it. Maybe I have time for the gym at the hotel before the news conference?
“Tell me about Brighton’s.” He asked her over lunch changing the subject.
“It’s a small but influential bookstore. If we’re lucky, their readers can create a nice buzz for the book, to help propel sales and keep people talking about it. Today is a long day for you.” She looked up to make sure he was listening. “For your type of book, after the reading they will normally have a steady stream of customers coming into the store. They will usually keep you signing for a couple of hours, so eat up.” She glanced at her watch. “We’ll have to get going soon.”
“Thanks, Cal,” he said and smiled at her as he finished his lunch then touched her hand. “Thanks for everything.”
She smiled, “Time to go, slowpoke. Hey, I thought people from big families were fast eaters?”
“There’s exceptions to every rule, remember? Maybe I’m just not that hungry.” Then he grinned, and she knew he was okay.
“Come on, we’re late. We have to be there by one o’clock.” she said extending her hand to him. He shoved the remaining pieces of Italian bread into his jacket pocket. “For later,” he said with a sly grin.