Free Night Watch by Linda Fairstein Page B

I’ll go schmooze when you’ve got them inside. You have a telephone number for the no-shows?”
    “Hotel du Cap, Monsieur Rouget.” The waiter bowed his head and left the bar.
    “That was another thing that got my father noticed in New York,” Luc said to Jim and me, warming up as he talked. “He couldn’t abide no-shows. Thought it was the height of rudeness when part of the attraction to other customers was filling every table and turning them over if he could. So Andre would wait till midnight, then callthe offender, asking whether he wanted the kitchen to stay open in case their party was still planning on coming in.”
    “Ouch,” I said. “I guess he didn’t see many of those folks again.”
    “You’d be surprised. I think the harder he made it for people to get what everyone else wanted, the more they came crawling back anyway.”
    Luc was in his element and I was happy to see him beginning to relax. The three of us ate and drank, and told stories about our favorite food experiences. Jim seemed almost as excited as I that Luc was coming to New York to re-create Lutèce—named for
Lutetia
, the Latin word for the ancient city of Paris.
    I could have set my watch by Luc’s prediction that Jacques Belgarde would show up at nine o’clock. He came into the bar alone, and saw us as soon as he entered.
    As he made his way to the table, Luc tried to explain to his guest that we needed to cut the evening short. Jim Mulroy didn’t ask any questions. He got up to excuse himself and practically bumped into Belgarde, who clearly wanted to be introduced and find out about the man who was with us.
    The captain reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, which he unfolded as he spoke. “Were you in town last night, Mr. Mulroy?”
    “I just arrived at five o’clock today. I’ve come from Lyons.”
    “Then you missed Luc’s soiree, too?”
    “My misfortune, yes.”
    “Maybe next year we’ll both be favored with an invitation,” Belgarde said. “And you, Alexandra, it looks like your colleagues think they’ve got a big case on their hands.”
    He handed me a printout that he had downloaded from his computer. It was a news headline from a French site much like CNN, with a photo of Mohammed Gil-Darsin featured in a perp walk—a uniquely American tradition for the high-profile criminal.
    Baby Mo looked the camera directly in the eye. His hands were cuffed behind his back, the collar of his dark trench coat stood up,almost as though styled for the photo op. There was none of the head-hanging or sense of shame that such moments usually engendered.
    Two first-grade detectives from Manhattan’s SVU—Mercer Wallace and Alan Vandomir—gripped his arms, one on each side.
    The text above the image was in bold caps, three inches high. I held it up so Luc could read it, too. L’AFFAIR MGD !
    “That’s unbelievable,” Luc said.
    “What is?” I asked.
    “You couldn’t do that to a man in this country. Photograph him in handcuffs before he’s been convicted of a crime. It’s—it’s indecent.”
    “So is first-degree rape.”
    “I’ll owe you the caviar for sure,” Luc said, shaking his head as he crumpled the paper. “I tell you, the French won’t be happy with your justice system.”
    “Who cares?” Jacques said. “Bébé Mo isn’t French.”
    “He certainly is. He’s spent half of his life in this country. His father’s been good to your men, Captain. He probably spends more money bribing them for favors than they make in salary.”
    “Watch your step, Luc. My guys like to eat as well as you and I do. And the Gil-Darsins—uh—they’re African, after all. They’re not French.”
    “You mean they’re black, is that it?” I asked.
    “I said African, didn’t I?” Jacques buffed the nails of his right hand on the edge of the tablecloth. “Don’t make me out to be a racist.”
    “Mo’s mother was French,” Luc said, talking to Jim Mulroy and me. “Her father