Free Hurt Machine by Reed Farrel Coleman Page B

appreciate it.”
    “You didn’t hear it from me,” he said.
    “Here what from whom?”
    The barman liked that and asked if I wanted another scotch on the house.
    “No, thanks,” I said. “I’m not supposed to be drinking this one. But I’ll tell you what you can do.”
    “What’s that?”
    “That fireman who started up with me the other night, Hickey, what’s his story?”
    “He’s too young to have a story. Leave it alone. I don’t need any trouble in here.”
    “Fair enough.” I took a last sip at my Dewars and threw a ten on the bar for a tip.
    Suddenly, I wasn’t feeling very well and decided that what I needed more than anything was an afternoon nap. Sleep, I found as I got older, was a much better retreat than the bottle.

FOURTEEN
     
    The High Line Bistro was over in the West Village on Little West 12th Street in an area known as the Meatpacking District. The Meatpacking District had for many decades been the hub of the city’s commercial butchery. And, until the eighties, it had also been known for its many gay clubs. Some of the clubs were notorious for catering to the rough trade segment of the community. But the AIDS epidemic and the city’s insatiable thirst for real estate development remade the Meatpacking District into a chic neighborhood of exclusive shops and designer chef restaurants. Rising above the cobblestone streets of the district, north into Chelsea, was the High Line Park or, as it was more commonly known, the High Line: a long-disused stretch of elevated railroad track that had been converted into an elevated park replete with plantings, artwork, and great vistas on the Hudson River and the Manhattan skyline.
    The High Line Bistro was in an old warehouse. The walls were the original brick and the interior post and beam construction was also original equipment. That’s where the quaintness came to an abrupt halt. The tables and chairs, made of train rails and ties, were more sculpture than furniture and each must have cost a small fortune. The walls were covered with historical photographs of the High Line when it was operational and trains were bringing meat to and from the butcheries. There were also original paintings of the High Line itself and of the views of the city it offered. The bar was simple and sturdy, no rails and ties here. But when I sat down on one of the barstools and looked at the wine list just to pass the time, I nearly swallowed my tongue. Their wine list was pretty extensive and absurdly expensive. A bottle of good old vine Zinfandel, which you could buy on sale at one of our stores for under thirty dollars, was listed at one hundred and forty bucks. At that price, I thought, the waiter should not only open the bottle and pour the wine, but hold the glass and pour it into your mouth for you. The lunch menu prices, while not quite as outrageous, were no bargain. I could only imagine what the prices on the dinner menu would be.
    Something wasn’t right. I had that prickle on the back of my neck thing going. What were two EMTs doing in a place like the High Line Bistro for lunch? They’d have had to take out a loan just to walk through the door. Not to judge, but I didn’t see Alta or Maya Watson as two women who were going to take a quick lunch of frisee salad with lardon or Thai duck confit with tamarind and pomegranate drizzle, certainly not at these prices. But the media reports had been absolutely consistent about the fact that Alta and Maya had called into dispatch that they were taking their lunch break at this address. I looked around at the half-full restaurant. There were lots of tourists, business types in expensive lightweight suits, women in lovely summer dresses, and not a single person in uniform.
    The bartender broke my concentration. She was the ultimate Manhattan stereotype: a beautiful early-twenty-something with rich dark skin, exotic features—vaguely Asian and Hispanic—speaking mildly accented English. She was thin as a blade of