Harvey arrived at the restaurant early. He had been jogging: three times around Washington Square Park and then down to the Dreadnaught. He wore a white terrycloth sweatband, a T-shirt with the name of a health club on it, faded blue shorts with HORACE MANN printed in small white letters on one leg, and a pair of running shoes, no socks. His face was shiny from exertion, and once inside the door, he wiped himself off with a clean dinner napkin and headed straight back to the bathroom. As he passed Cheryl and Hector setting up for brunch in the dining room, he nodded hello.
Inside the bathroom, Harvey stood in front of the urinal and feigned taking a piss. He took a white paper bindle out of his shorts pocket, rolled up a bill, and packed both nostrils with generous snorts of cocaine. Now he felt healthy.
When he got out of the bathroom, Harvey sat down at a stripped deuce at the front of the dining room. He asked Cheryl for a double cappuccino and watched her as she made it, tapping nervously on the table with a pen. He took a small notebook out of his pocket and wrote himself a little reminder—"Can we make our own muffins for brunch? Ask chef"—and waited for his coffee. Cheryl arrived with his cappuccino, and he grasped both sides of the small table with his hands and rocked it back and forth. It wobbled.
"What? Am I on the fuckin' Titanic here? Tell Hector to chock this table, okay? Where is he? He was just here a minute ago."
Cheryl gave Harvey an accommodating smile, "He's on the pay phone. You want me to get him?"
"Yes, I want you to get him . . . He's always on the phone this kid. I don't want him using the phone during business hours. I don't want him using the phone period. It's ridiculous, the amount of time he spends on the phone. Enough. Tell him to get off that thing and set up for brunch. I've got the band coming in and I want everything to look right. And please, get him to chock these tables . . . I'm getting seasick just sitting here."
"Karen called in, she's going to be a little late," said Cheryl.
"Fabulous . . . just fabulous," said Harvey "When she comes in get her started on the specials board right away, then send her in to see me. I'll be in my office."
IN HIS OFFICE, Harvey finished the last of his cocaine. He pushed some papers around on his desk, forsaking a tall stack of bills and past-due notices for a catalog advertising gelato machines. After a few minutes he left the office and walked down the steps to the kitchen.
The chef was squeezing blood oranges into a mixing bowl full of hollandaise for sauce maltaise. Mel was toiling over the Hobart with his bare hands, shoving great chunks of corned beef into the grinder for hash. Harvey found Big Mohammed bent over a two-compartment sink washing salad greens.
"The bathroom . . . the bathroom, Mo', please," said Harvey. "Clean for me please."
Big Mohammed was up to his arms in the sink full of cold water and salad. He stood up, dried his hands on his apron, and looked at Harvey with an indulgent smile. "Is clean. I clean," he said.
"Clean again," said Harvey. "No clean inside . . . Inside . . . " He struggled for a word to describe urinal. For the second time this morning, Harvey found himself mimicking the act of pissing. "Urinal, u-rin-al. . ."
Big Mohammed giggled. "Okay, okay Mr. Harvey. I clean."
Harvey turned and left the kitchen, casting an uncomfortable glance at Mel, who seemed to be flirting dangerously with dismemberment over the Hobart.
WHEN TOMMY ARRIVED at two o'clock, there was a trio of musicians in the front cocktail area. Three white men—a pimpled young bass player with taped horn-rimmed glasses, a wrinkled piano player, and a clarinetist with visible dandruff—were playing Dixieland music to a nearly empty dining room.
Two regulars in Yankee warm-up jackets sat at the far end of the bar, away from the musicians, drinking Bloody Marys and reading the sports pages. A stick-thin young man, sweating in his leather jacket, was engrossed in conversation with Karen. Hector was on the pay phone. Cheryl was standing at the service bar, talking to the bartender.
"I don't believe it," said Tommy when Cheryl came over.
"Thought he'd forget all about it?" said Cheryl, looking at the musicians.
"I hoped he'd forget it," said Tommy. "And Dixieland . . . I hate Dixieland . . ."
"Oh, they play other music too," said Cheryl. "Somebody requested 'Girl from Ipanema before. You missed it."
"Oh, no . . . No, no, no . . ." groaned Tommy.
"Yes, yes, yes . . . " said Cheryl.
"All we need now is for somebody to request 'Happy Birthday,' " said Tommy.
Cheryl indicated four adults sitting with two loud children in the rear of the dining room. One child was in a stroller; his mother, a large woman in a Busch Gardens T-shirt, pushed him back and forth with her one free hand while she shoveled eggs Benedict into her face with the other. The other child, a paunchy little boy of six or seven, ran in circles around the tables making engine noises.
"Maybe it's one of those darling children's birthdays . . . Should I ask?"
"I'll kill you." Tommy shook his head and walked over to the bar for a Bloody Mary. The bartender was cutting fruit for mimosas and other champagne cocktails with a boning knife.
"Expecting business?" Tommy inquired.
"Maybe tomorrow," said the bartender, putting down the knife to make Tommy's Bloody Mary. "How do you want it? You like 'em spicy?"
"I want mine strong. Blow my fuckin' head off. I want my head to bounce off the bar when I finish it," said Tommy.
Cheryl patted Tommy on the ass as she headed back to check on her table.
"How many we do today so far?" asked Tommy.
The bartender shrugged. "It's been dead." He pointed at the musicians, just beginning 'La Bamba.' "We've had three walkouts . . . Not music lovers . . ."
Tommy took his drink off the bar, threw his celery garnish into the bartender's trash can, and walked through the dining room and down the steps to the kitchen.
WHEN HARVEY CAME OUT to the bar, the waitress with the nose ring didn't even bother to get up. Hector was still on the phone. The musicians were halfway through a tortured rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In," and an older couple had joined the four adults with the children in the rear of the dining room. The couple were clearly arguing between bites of omelette, but the music drowned them out.
"Isn't this great," said Harvey expansively. "Aren't they good?"
Cheryl just nodded and grinned.
"It takes time," said Harvey, looking around the restaurant. "Takes time for the word to get out. Once people hear about the music, about the food . . . they'll come in. They'll come in. It takes a little time. I'm putting an ad in the Voice: Jazz Brunch. Ten dollars with free choice of Bloody Mary, Mimosa, champagne cocktail. I'm thinking of like a New Orleans theme . . . " He took the little notebook out of his pocket again and wrote "New Orleans Brunch. Creole Food. Talk to chef."
Cheryl took the opportunity to slip away to the waiter station. She had stashed a book behind the cappuccino machine. Through the curtain, she caught a glimpse of Harvey, standing in the front window, wringing his hands and watching the street traffic.