The doorman in the lobby of Rudy’s apartment building was short, plump, and in his middle years, dressed in a smartly appointed uniform of midnight blue, with three shiny brass buttons straining to keep the jacket closed over his belly. The gray piping on the jacket’s collar matched the trefoil trim on the sleeves and the cloth portion of his officer’s cap. His striped tie picked up both colors.
He was wearing bright white gloves, highly polished black cap-toed shoes, and a loopy smile on his round, cleanly shaved black face.
“Welcome to the Hogarth Apartments, Chef Blessing,” he said. “You’re making a liar out of a brutha.”
“Do I know you?”
“No, and that’s my point,” he said. “I tole the cops that even though I’ve watched you many times on the box—my wife loves your cooking show, by the way—I have never seen you in this building, in person. Now you’ve gone and made a liar of me.”
I couldn’t tell if he was busting my chops or if, as is sometimes the case, he was babbling because of nervousness. “What exactly did the police ask you?”
“If I’d seen you last night, which I didn’t.” He looked past me and added, “’scuse me a second, chef.”
He stepped around me to drag open the thick glass front door for a white guy in his forties with dyed white spiked hair, a dark soul patch, and several gold rings in his left ear. He was wearing an AC/DC sweatshirt and blue gangsta pants, hanging so low on his hips you could see a strip of his red ant–patterned underwear.
“Yo’, Maxwell,” he said to the doorman, “mah man. Cops still uglying up the building?”
“They left hours ago, Mr. Washburn.”
“My-t-fine,” the white-haired man said, winking at me in passing, as if we were sharing some joke on the doorman.
I waited until the elevator door had closed behind him to ask, “Record producer?”
“Wall Street broker,” the doorman said.
“Figures. So your name’s Maxwell.”
“Maxwell Sucony. Always been. Always will be.”
“Glad to know you, Maxwell,” I said, offering my hand. He peeled off his white glove before shaking it.
“How may I be of service, chef?”
I took my wallet from my coat pocket, but he waved his hand from side to side. “Not necessary. Like I say, my wife’s a fan.”
I accepted that, but I didn’t put the wallet away.
“Since the police questioned you,” I said, “I assume you were on duty last night.”
“Six to two, five nights a week. And they didn’t just question me, they sat me down and I had to identify everybody on the tape.” He used his chin to gesture to a small camera secured to the ceiling and covering the front-door area. Including us.
You may have thought that appearing on television as often as I do would have inured me to camera discomfort, but I find secret taping, for whatever purpose, and that includes the cameras at the Bistro, inarguably creepy. So I shifted my back to the camera before asking, “What time did Rudy Gallagher check in last night?”
“Around six-thirty.”
“Was he carrying anything with him?”
“Just a briefcase,” Maxwell said.
“No big white bag, maybe a bunch of takeout cartons?”
“Nothin’ like that. Was a time he’d show up some nights arms fulla takeout. Not for a while.”
“He have any visitors last night?”
“Maybe a delivery guy with that white bag?”
“You sure you’re not the law? You askin’ the same questions they did, only a lot nicer than that Detective Solomon.” Maxwell lowered his voice. “What an asshole.”
I knew I liked Maxwell.
“So no delivery guy?” I said.
“Like I told the cops, none I saw. Sometimes a tenant needs help and I’m gone for a bit. But last night I was right here ninety-nine percent of the time. And the time I was gone, nobody came in, according to the tape.”
“Did he usually have visitors?” I asked.
“Not that many regulars. There’s his fiancée, Miz Di Voss. Nice lady. She’s here sometimes, but not so much last few weeks. He was out of town a while ago. Helped him with his luggage, coming and going, and the man did not travel light.”
“Any other female visitors?”
Maxwell checked the lobby to make sure we were alone. Even though we were, he lowered his voice. “Mr. Gallagher was definitely a playa. Seen him take on two a night. Wore me out just thinkin’ about it. Last couple of months, though, he slowed down. Aside from Miz De Voss, had just two repeaters.”
“Tell me about them.”
“For a while, before he took his trip, it was a blonde lady. But since he’s been back, it’s been this sweet-looking young black lady. Nice and polite. I don’t get a lot of polite.”
“Describe the blonde.”
“Five-nine or -ten, blue-eyed, hair short but not goofy short. No buzz or nothin’. Well equipped. But she didn’t show off the goods. Dressed down. Still, there’s some curves too wide to hide, if you hear what I’m sayin’.”
“I hear you. Don’t suppose you caught her name?”
“Mr. Gallagher wasn’t big on names.”
“Anything distinctive about her? Tattoos or piercings?”
“Like I say, she wasn’t flash. Least not where it showed.”
“She come by cab or car?”
“Not that I noticed.”
I opened my wallet and forced two twenties on him with my thanks.
“Uh, about Miz Di Voss,” he said, folding the bills in half and slipping them into his pants pocket. “I saw her last night.”
“I thought you said Gallagher didn’t have any visitors.”
“He didn’t. She wasn’t in the building. I saw her walking by across the street.”
“When was this?”
“Aroun’ ten.”
“You sure she didn’t come in?”
“Sure enough.”
I thanked him again and, braving the nighttime traffic, jaywalked across the street and stood where Maxwell had seen Gretch the previous night. I looked up and down the street, but, with what meager information I possessed, I could see nothing that would have been of interest to her.
Except for Rudy’s building.