Pendergast was staring at him closely, frowning. Suddenly his eyes widened, as if in understanding. “His mouth!” he said sharply.
D’Agosta shoved something wooden between his teeth, as he would for a dog or an epileptic. But it wouldn’t do any good, Vasquez thought as the pain began to build in his broken arm. That wasn’t where he carried his cyanide. The needle had been in the tip of his pinkie finger, shot off many years ago and now harnessed to another purpose. He pressed the prosthetic fingertip hard into his palm, felt the ampoule break, pressed the needle into his skin. The pain died away as numbness began stealing up his arm.
The day I fail is the day I die . . .
{ 43 }
The cab pulled up at the grand courtyard of the Helmsley Palace. D’Agosta hastened around the cab and opened the door for Hayward, who got out, looking around at the fanciful topiaries covered with lights, the Baroque facade of the Helmsley Palace rising around her.
“This is where we’re having dinner?”
D’Agosta nodded. “Le Cirque 2000.”
“Oh my God. When I said a nice dinner, I didn’t mean this.”
D’Agosta took her arm and led her to the door. “Why not? If we’re going to start something, let’s start it right.”
Hayward knew that Le Cirque 2000 was possibly the most expensive restaurant in New York City. She had always felt uncomfortable when men spent a pile on her, as if money was somehow the way to her heart. But this time it felt different. It said something about Vinnie D’Agosta, about how he looked at their relationship, that boded well for the future.
Future? She wondered why that word had even entered her mind. This was a first date—sort of. D’Agosta wasn’t even divorced, had a wife and kid in Canada. True, he was interesting, and he was a damn good cop. Take it easy and see where it goes—that’s all.
They entered the restaurant—jammed, even on a Sunday night—and were met by one of those ma?tre d’s who managed to convey an outward expression of groveling subservience while simultaneously projecting inner contempt. He regretted to inform them that, despite their reservation, the table wasn’t ready; if they would care to make themselves comfortable in the bar, it shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes, forty at the outside.
“Excuse me. Did you say forty minutes?” D’Agosta spoke in a quiet yet menacing way.
“There’s a large party . . . I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’ll see what you can do?” D’Agosta smiled and took a step closer. “Or you’ll do it?”
“I’ll do what I can, sir.”
“I have no doubt that what you can do is get us a table in fifteen minutes, and that is what you will do.”
“Of course. Naturally, sir.” Now the ma?tre d’ was in full retreat. “And in the meantime,” he went on, voice artificially high and bright, “I’ll have a bottle of champagne sent to your table, compliments of the house.”
D’Agosta took her arm and they went into the bar, which was decorated with a confusion of neon lights Hayward figured must somehow represent the “circus” theme of the restaurant. It was fun—if you didn’t have to spend too long in there.
They sat down at a table, and a waiter soon appeared unbidden with menus, two glasses, and a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
She laughed. “That was pretty effective, the way you handled that ma?tre d’.”
“If I can’t intimidate a waiter, what kind of a cop am I?”
“I think he was expecting a tip.”
D’Agosta glanced at her quickly. “You do?”
“But you managed it all right and saved yourself some money.”
D’Agosta grunted. “Next time I’ll give him a fiver.”
“That would be worse than nothing at all. The going rate is at least twenty.”
“Jesus. Life is complicated at the top.” He raised his glass. “Toast?”
She raised hers.
“To . . .” He hesitated. “To New York’s finest.”