FORTY-TWO

MATT was still holding me upright as we paused outside the 21 Club entrance.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked.

“Take this,” I said, passing him my smartphone. “I asked Sophia to send me a photo of Hunter. See, I’ve called it up for you.”

“I know what he looks like, Clare. I saw the CCTV images.”

“The photo isn’t for you. It’s for the maître d’. Thanks to your famous editor wife, you’re the one with the connections here. So claim Hunter is your friend and ask where the man is seated.”

“Fine.”

Our strategy settled, we moved toward the club’s famous 52nd Street entrance, its wrought-iron facade more reminiscent of New Orleans’s French Quarter than the West Side of Manhattan. On the balcony above, a chorus line of colorful little lawn jockeys extended their cast-iron arms in greeting—a surreal element of kitsch to an otherwise elegant portico.

“What is up with all the lawn jockeys?” I wondered aloud.

“Notice some of the names under those jockeys, Clare?”

I did: Vanderbilt, Mellon, Ogden Mills Phipps . . .

“It started back in the 1930s, with a gift from a horsey-loving customer. Then other patrons with stables wanted their racing colors represented. And, hey, if A. G. Vanderbilt had his jockey on display, well, Mr. Mellon had to have his up there, too, and on and on, ad nauseam . . .”

“Okay, Gatsby, speaking of filthy rich, are you picking up the tab for this foray into the upper classes or am I?”

“Neither of us. Breanne is.”

Before I had a chance to object, my ex ushered me through the grand double doors, and into the golden glow of New York City’s most legendary bar.

As we entered, I realized Sophia was right. Her stiletto stilts gave me height and confidence, and the maître d’s admiring gaze brightened noticeably at the sight of my glittering gems—which magically rendered my cheap poly-blend sweater as good as invisible.

“Mr. Allegro!” cried the man with warm familiarity. “Welcome back to Manhattan. Would you like your usual table?”

“That depends . . .” Matt flashed the photo of Hunter on my phone and asked if we could be seated near him. “Is my friend upstairs tonight?”

The maître d’ shook his head. “No. And I’m afraid Mr. Rolf is in a private meeting. I cannot seat you near him, sir. But your usual table is open, if you’d like it.”

Matt nodded. “That’s fine.”

The host led us through the crowd and past the horseshoe-shaped bar. I scanned the well-dressed customers on the stools. No Hunter, which was no surprise, although I did recognize a number of famous faces and a surprisingly familiar one—that first-year NYU law student (“I need coffee badly!”) who’d become a new Village Blend regular.

Carla was her name, and her tall, slender form sat at the crowded bar alone, attractively dressed, auburn hair in a pretty twist, pale skin warmed with a dusting of rouge. With a drink in one hand, her smartphone in the other, I assumed she was waiting for a date—and in a place like this, that made me worry.

I hoped she wasn’t getting herself involved in a sugar daddy situation. I’d heard about young women solving their high-tuition problems by giving men, usually wealthy older men, “the girlfriend experience,” and (frankly) it horrified me.

Whatever her business, I knew it was none of mine, so I refocused on staying upright as Matt urged me (and my cruel shoes) to keep up with the crisp steps of 21’s maître d’.

The curved bar opened into a large room with a wooden floor and tables covered in old-fashioned red-checkered cloth. Most of the walls were paneled and held framed cartoons dedicated to “21” and drawn by the likes of Walt Disney and the New Yorker’s Peter Arno. But the most striking aspect of this otherwise typical tavern space was the colorful kitsch dangling from the ceiling—model airplanes and trucks, baseball bats and tennis rackets; the sheer number of items crammed up there was stunning.

As for the tables, most were occupied, and I spotted more famous faces as we strolled by—actors, politicians, TV news anchors—and once again, no Hunter.

At last, we were seated along the farthest wall, near the kitchen.

“Matt,” I whispered, “we’re supposed to be looking for Sophia’s husband, not going into social exile.”

“Trust me. This is the perfect spot to find him.”

“We’re in Siberia.”

“No, Clare. These are the most exclusive tables. In fact, this one was Dorothy Parker’s favorite. The one next to us was regularly occupied by Ernest Hemingway. And the one across from us, Frank Sinatra. I grant you, this isn’t the most popular section with tourists—that would be over there—” He pointed across the room. “Table 30, ‘Bogie’s Corner,’ where Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall had their first date.”

“That doesn’t answer my question about Hunter.”

“Keep your panties on. I have an idea where he is. Just be patient. In the meantime, try to enjoy the place.” He gestured to the crazy clutter of memorabilia hanging above us. “There’s a lot of history here.”

“History? It looks more like somebody opened the trapdoor of an attic and tossed out all the kids’ playthings.”

“The staff calls them toys and, believe me, they’re the kind Christie’s would die to auction. The bat up there belonged to Willie Mays. Those ice skates are Dorothy Hamill’s, that tennis racket is Chris Evert’s—the smashed one is John McEnroe’s. And those pool cues are from The Hustler with Paul Newman.”

“I see a model of the PT-109. That’s not—?”

“Yeah, that was Jack Kennedy’s. JFK gave it to the club. And that model of Air Force One came from Bill Clinton.”

I studied the ceiling with new interest. “There are more airplanes up there than anything else.”

“It’s the same story as the jockeys out front. Years ago, British Airways hung a model of one of their planes over their table for a corporate dinner. Howard Hughes saw it and decided—”

“They’d better hang his plane, too. I get it. The millionaires’ equivalent of roosters crowing.” I had another thought and shuddered. “I would hate to have to dust all that stuff.”

“Only you would think of that.”

“Because I’m probably the only service industry manager seated as a guest in this room. With your new inheritance, on the other hand, it looks like you and Joy have just become members of the one-percent club.”

“No, Clare. We haven’t.”