The headwaiter tried to stop him.
“I’m meeting someone,” Malone said, and kept walking.
He found an empty stool next to a woman who was desperately trying to appear younger than the calendar made her, and whose perfume filled his nostrils with a scent that reminded him of something else he hadn’t been getting much—any—of lately.
When the bartender appeared, he almost automatically said “Ortleib’s” but at the last
moment changed his mind.
“John Jameson, easy on the ice,” he said.
Fuck it, I’ve been a good boy lately. One little shooter will be good for me. And one I can afford.
Wohl appeared as the bartender served the drink.
“Been waiting long?”
“No, sir, I just got here.”
“What is that?”
“Irish.”
“I feel Irish,” Wohl said to the bartender. “Same way, please. Not too much ice.”
A heavyset man appeared, beaming.
“How are you, Inspector?”
“How are you, Charley?” Wohl replied. “Charley, this is Lieutenant Jack Malone. Jack, Charley Meader, our host.”
“You work with the inspector, Lieutenant?” Meader said, pumping Malone’s hand.
“Yes, sir,” Malone said.
“I’ve got you a table in the back anytime you’re ready, Inspector,” Meader said.
“I guess we could carry our drinks, right?” Wohl said. “When I get mine, that is.”
“Whatever you’d prefer,” Meader said, and waited until the bartender served Wohl.
“House account that, Jerry,” he said.
“Very kind, thank you,” Wohl said.
“My pleasure, Inspector. And anytime, you know that.”
He patted Wohl on the shoulder and shook hands with both of them.
“Whenever you’re ready, Inspector, your table’s available,” Meader said. “Good to see you. And to meet you, Lieutenant.”
Wohl waited until he was gone, then said, “There was once a Department of Health inspector who led Charley Meader to believe that he would have far less trouble passing his inspections if he handed him an envelope once a week when he came in for a free meal.”
“Oh,” Malone said.
“Charley belongs to the Jaguar Club,” Wohl went on. “You know I have a Jaguar?”
“I’ve seen it.”