Cassandra was at her post just past the front door, presiding over a full house.
She’d been staring at the diners with a scowl that vanished as soon as she saw A.W. When she finally acknowledged me, the scowl returned in triplicate.
“My God, Billy. You look like you’ve been rolling in a gutter. Your coat’s ripped and filthy, and you’re limping.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Cassandra. Oh, and I fell down a flight of stairs,” I said.
“Well, you certainly don’t want to stroll through the dining room looking like that.”
She was right. In spite of the twinges of pain, I’d forgotten how I looked. I left the two of them, ducked into the lounge, and took the hall exit that led past the kitchen to the rear stairwell. Heading up, my ankle reminded me of every step I took.
In my bedroom, I removed my tattered coat and slacks and shirt and limped into the bathroom to observe the damage. Nothing terrible. Just bruises. I washed my face, wrapped an athletic bandage around my ankle, and put on a fresh mock turtleneck and slacks. I eased my sockless feet into a pair of black loafers and was ready to greet the evening.
I wasn’t quite up to a waltz through the dining room, but I did work my way down the stairs to visit the kitchen, where the unexpected turnout of customers was testing the endurance levels of Maurice Terrebone and his staff.
The usually unperturbed Maurice paused briefly to say, “We must give the coq au vin a rest, Billy. Take it off the list of specials. Everybody wants coq au vin. The waiters tell me they call it the ‘killer dish.’ Can you imagine? They’re crazy, these New Yorkers.”
Maurice was a native of New Orleans. Swept to our Eastern shores by Katrina, he was one of those poor, displaced souls who weren’t happy in their new environment but were too pragmatic to return to a place of such woeful impermanence.
He rushed away to count his remaining chickens, and I made my creaky and aching way back up the stairs to my office, feeling surprisingly alert, considering all that had transpired during the day.
I’d just eased my rear end to the chair cushion and was starting to check my e-mail when A.W. appeared to say that the building was secure. He’d also managed to get in a call to the hospital. Bettina’s condition was unchanged.
“Cassandra says there’s a book on your shelf about my namesake,” he said. “Okay if I check to see if my folks are mentioned?”
“Be my guest,” I said, gesturing to the slightly sagging bookshelf. I didn’t know which surprised me more—the fact that I didn’t remember owning a book on Warhol or that Cassandra knew that I had one.
A.W. was a professional detective, and it didn’t take him long to find The Warhol Papers. While I clicked through my e-mail, he stretched out on my prize couch, skimming through stories about Nico, Edie Sedgwick, Paul Morrissey, and, as it turned out, his mother and dad. He looked over and said, “Listen to this. ‘Piet asked Paul not to use Vera in Flesh for Frankenstein but wouldn’t say why.’ This is so cool. I bet I know why. It’s right around this time Dad was asking Mom to marry him, and he didn’t want her to be in Paul Morrissey’s movie because of the nudity. He wasn’t a prude, but she was going to be his wife.
“I’ll be right back, Billy.”
He hopped from the couch and headed toward the stairs.
“Take your time,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I got out my cellular phone and dialed Melody Moon’s number. Maybe her roommate had some new thoughts about Felix. No answer. Just before I was switched to voice mail I remembered that they’d gone somewhere … Sag Harbor, was it?
I sat back in mild frustration, glaring at the phone as if it were to blame. Then I picked it up again. I clicked to the image of the enigmatic scribbles from Rudy’s blackboard.
“Jewel for Berry9.” “Check: 1 or 2, F or OC?”
Check: Felix or OC? … Felix … or Other Cat? Then why OC in caps? Felix. And initials? Osgood Conklin? Otto? Orson? Let’s think about this a minute. Rudy was a TV guy.…
The solution that suddenly occurred to me was so obvious I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it at once. And if I was on the right track …
I used the phone for its original purpose.
After several rings, Gin answered, sounding half asleep.
“Sorry to wake you,” I said.
“You didn’t wake me, Billy. It was the ringin’ of the phone.”
“Can I speak to Ted?”
“Sure. Hold on. Uh. No.” She sounded fuzzy. “Oh, that’s right. He went out about twenty minutes ago.”
“Any idea where?”
“No. He jus’ said he was goin’ out fo’ a while.”
“He signs his columns ‘TOP.’ What’s his middle name, Gin?”
“He hates it,” she said. “Oscar.”
I thanked her and clicked off the phone. I grabbed my coat and opened the middle drawer of my desk, where I kept a pistol, a Smith & Wesson 625 that I’d purchased after a break-in long ago and never used.
It wasn’t there.
There wasn’t even a bare spot in the drawer to suggest it had been there. I tried to remember if I’d moved it. But I didn’t have time to waste thinking about it. A.W. had a gun and knew how to use it.
I hop-walked downstairs to the main dining room. Cassandra was guiding a couple toward an empty double. A.W. was standing near the entrance, holding his book and watching her. Waiting for her to return.
“Close the book, Romeo,” I said. “We’re going to the hospital.”
“Something up with Bettina?” he asked anxiously.
“I hope not,” I said. “But we’d better get there fast.”
In his car, heading for Manhattan Presbyterian, he tried to phone the InterTec agent who was supposed to be guarding Bettina.
The agent didn’t answer.