Harvey stood, head tilted back, in front of the restaurant's bathroom mirror, pressing a tissue to his nose. He was bleeding from both nostrils and was a little swollen over one eye. He rocked back and forth in front of the mirror saying, "Son of a bitch, son of a bitch." He noticed, from the corner of his eye, that the flowers in the vase by the sink were beginning to wilt. The lilies looked fine. Holding the tissue under his nose with one hand, he turned the vase around with the other so that the irises faced the rear. He took a long piss and saw that the porter had missed a spot in the urinal, and that the white hockey puck had melted down to the size of a Life Saver. He checked the inside of the toilet stall. There was no extra roll of paper.
Harvey left the bathroom, muttering under his breath. He walked across the empty dining room to the ice machine by the bar and filled a dinner napkin with some ice. He held it over his nose.
The interior of the Dreadnaught was fitted out like the lounge of an ocean liner. In fact, the fixtures, the zinc bar, the sconces, the curved banquettes, even the china and the silver, were from an old cruise ship. Harvey had bought the whole lot at auction. There were seats for forty customers in the back dining room, another twenty in the front cocktail area by the picture window. Two enormous murals, painted in the Social Realist style, ran the length of the restaurant. They depicted brawny, square-jawed dockworkers working on the New York waterfront of the 1930s. The murals matched the restaurant's color scheme, shades of black, gray, and beige, with little highlights of pink, painted in later, to match the tablecloths.
A single skylight, streaked with dirt and lined with silver alarm-system tape, allowed a little sun into the dining room above a lonely potted palm. A thin fluorescent tube ran around the edges of the black ceiling, glowing pink on the banquettes.
From his position at the bar, Harvey surveyed the room. Few things looked more tawdry than an empty restaurant during daylight hours. A bulb had gone out over the bar. There were scuff marks on the black baseboards, and he noticed that the bar stools needed reupholstering. Harvey tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that it would look better at night.
BACK IN HIS OFFICE, Harvey picked up the phone and called his old office number. Carol picked up.
"Dr. Rosenberg's office. Hold one moment please."
Harvey listened to Billy Joel play through the receiver until Carol came back on the line.
"Thank you for holding. How can I help you?"
"Carol, it's me," he said.
"Harvey, how are you?"
"What, has that jerk got you answering the phones now? Where's the girl?"
"She's out sick," said Carol. "I'm helping out."
"Carol, I got a little problem here. I wonder if you can do something for me," said Harvey.
"Yeah, sure. What's up?"
"Can you stop by the apartment and pick me up my other pair of glasses and maybe a clean shirt and bring them down to the restaurant?"
"I can do that. After work, right?"
"Yeah," said Harvey. "Later. When you finish. I just can't get away till then. A light blue shirt. If there's no blue, a pink."
"What happened?" asked Carol.
"I was in—I had a little accident," said Harvey. "I hit my head."
"Oh, my poor baby," said Carol. "Is it serious? What happened?"
"It's those low ceilings in the kitchen. They got all those pots and pans hanging off of there. I walked into a saucepot."
"Oh my god! Are you sure you're alright? Should you see somebody?"
"No, no, no. It's nothing."
"You should really talk to those boys down there in the kitchen. Somebody could be seriously hurt. You could get sued or something."
"It's okay, really."
"Do you want me to come right down?"
"No. After work is fine. I just need the glasses and a shirt. I'll see you . . . what, around six or seven? We can have a drink and maybe some dinner down here. I'll get them to make us up something nice.
"You got it, baby," said Carol.
"You have your key?"
"Of course, Doctor!" said Carol.
HARVEY SAT at his desk and looked up at the wall clock over the door. It was a quarter to four. He pressed the intercom button on the telephone, "Michael, pick up. Pick up, Michael."
The chef picked up. "Yeah?"
"Is the bartender in?" asked Harvey.
"He's changing," said the chef.
"What about Stephanie? She's early person tonight."
"She called before," said the chef, without inflection. "She said she's gonna be late."
"Thanks for letting me know. How late?"
"A few minutes," said the chef. "Head shots."
"Let me know when she comes in," said Harvey.
"Should I send her up?"
"No, just let me know. I want to know if I got somebody on the floor. Cheryl's due in at five forty-five. And the busboy. What's his name?"
"Hector?"
"That's it."
"Cheryl will be in early. It's chicken pot pie for the shaft meal. She loves chicken pot pie," said the chef.
"I have to go out for a little while in about an hour or so. Barry is off today, so watch the store for me, okay?"
"Okay," said the chef.
Harvey punched off the intercom and pressed down for an outside line. He dialed and heard two rings and a series of clicks on the other end. Finally, someone picked up.
A man's voice said, "Hello?"
"It's me," said Harvey. "This is Moses."
"Yes?" said the voice. "What is it you want?"
"I have to talk to my friend. As soon as possible," said Harvey.
"Is this an emergency?" asked the voice.
"Yes, it's a fuckin' emergency," said Harvey, losing his composure for a second. He paused and took a deep breath. "Alright, maybe not an emergency. But I've got to talk to the guy. Things are getting bad here. I got hurt today. Just now. I think he broke my fuckin' nose."
"Okay," said the voice. "Stay calm. You can meet him in . . . one hour. At the place. You know which place?"
"Yes. I know it," said Harvey.
"One hour then," said the voice.
Harvey hung up the phone and called his ex-wife.