Martini's
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They were surprised when I gathered up their drawings to take with me, but they didn't object. "Someone will be in touch," I said, trying not to sound too much like I was a character in an old spy movie. And don't leave the country, I wanted to add, but that would have been silly, because they were not suspects, I reminded myself. And it would have been even sillier because all air traffic had been grounded, and all of the borders had been pretty well sealed, and that wasn't likely to change for the next few days.
I tried to call in, and I actually got a signal this time, but I still couldn't get through to the office. It occurred to me that if I couldn't get in touch with them, they probably couldn't get in touch with me, either, so this might be a good time for me to actually read the dossiers. Maybe I wouldn't sound like a total moron when they debriefed me back at the office.
I pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of Martini's, a nondescript cinderblock building that stood maybe fifty feet back from the Canal Road, half hidden by the trees. I had probably driven past it a hundred times without really noticing it. When I walked in, I saw that the one dark room was dominated by a long bar – and although I could have used a drink, I'm not supposed to do that on duty. I was about to turn around and walk out when I noticed that Today's Special on the chalkboard was Gina's Famous Chicken Cacciatore, and the growl in my stomach reminded me that it was mid-afternoon and I hadn't had a single bite to eat all day.
I settled into a table by the lone window, which was the only place in the room that looked like it might have enough light for me to read. The bartender, a large round man who might have been in his 60's, and who was the only other person in the place, strolled up to the table. "Something to drink?" he asked, in the second New York accent I had dealt with today – but this one was decidedly Italian, and the name embroidered on his shirt pocket was Aldo, which I took to be a good omen for the quality of the chicken cacciatore.
"Parker and Rosenberg," Aldo said, looking down at the photos clipped to the front of the folders I had carelessly thrown down on the table. "You come out here to talk to the boy geniuses?"
"You know them?" I asked, resisting the temptation to cover up the photos, which would have only drawn attention to the fact that I was trying, apparently unsuccessfully, to be secretive.
"Oh, sure, the boys come in all the time," Aldo said proudly, as if Parker and Rosenberg were local celebrities. "They sit right here at this table, I guess because it's the only one with good light," he added, gesturing at the dossiers, having figured out that the light was the reason I sat there, too. "That's why it's got the special tablecloth."
Only then did I notice that every other table in Martini's was covered with your stereotypically Italian-restaurant red-and-white-checkered oilcloth, but my table was topped only by a large sheet of plain white butcher paper.
"They like to draw on the tablecloth," Aldo confided.
"I've seen that action," I admitted. I couldn't help but wonder how many designs for state-of-the-art weapons systems "the boys" had scrawled on the table for Aldo to dispose of. For some reason, I doubted that Aldo was destroying the tablecloths in strict compliance with the DOD 5220 Clear Shredding Standard.
It was pretty warm in the room, but I felt a distinct chill as I conjured up a mental image of a friendly and personable Al-Qaeda operative plying Parker and Rosenberg with alcohol and walking out of Martini's with copiously detailed drawings explaining how to build cigar-shaped missiles and launch them from model airplanes.
"I hope the boys don't get too rowdy," I said, holding up a curled hand like I was lifting it for a drink. I even gave Aldo an if-you-know-what-I-mean wink.
"Nah." Aldo waved dismissively. "This one," he said, tapping on Parker's photo, "I've seen him pack down a few beers sometimes, but that's about it. And this one," he added, tapping on Rosenberg, "this one doesn't drink at all, of course."
Of course? Had I missed something? "Why do you say that?"
And it was Aldo's surprising response that hit me like a punch in the gut and knocked the visions of Gina's Famous Chicken Cacciatore clear out of my head.
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