Lucky Bastard Read Online Free PDF Page B

before contacting him, as a routine precaution.)
    Arthur was so frightened that I thought he might hang up on me, but instead he argued. The time was too short. He had other plans, a dinner party downtown; how could he explain this to his wife? He didn’t know where Jack was.
    â€œFind him,” I said.
    He protested, he wheedled. How could I place this impossible burden on him? It was bad, exposing him this way.
    â€œArthur, this is not a request ,” I said. “Are you refusing me?”
    A silence. “No. Of course not.”
    â€œGood.” I told him the name under which his table would be booked. “Eight o’clock exactly. Do not be late or early, not even by one minute.”
    â€œI’ll do my best,” Arthur said.
    â€œYou will do as I say. Exactly as I say.”
    My tone of voice left him with the impression that he had two choices: success or death. At the other end of the line he breathed deeply, as if hyperventilating. I told him where to go, Lombardia on West Fifty-fourth Street, a place frequented by publishers and their more successful writers at lunch but virtually deserted after dark.
    â€œSoon after I sit down, I will order a glass of pinot grigio,” I said. “That will be the all-clear signal. I will then go to the men’s room. Follow me. Do you understand?”
    In a small voice he said, “Yes.”
    After hanging up on Arthur, I called the restaurant and, posing as a hotel concierge, booked two tables for eight o’clock and a third for eight-fifteen.
    Peter liked Lombardian food, Piedmont wines, and especially tartufa , the dark chocolate ice cream that was a specialty of the house even though it was not a northern Italian specialty. In America, who knew the difference? This restaurant was quiet, no music, a well-lighted place in the Italian style. Peter hated Muzak and candlelight. He liked to see his food, liked to see the other faces in the room—and above all, he liked to hear what was being said.

3 Just before eight o’clock, as soon as it was dark enough, I took up a position in a deep doorway across the street to await Arthur’s arrival. At a minute or two before eight o’clock he got out of a taxi with two young men. One of them, bony and nervous, was clearly Jack Adams. The other was a muscular fellow with short black hair. He wore a blazer and tie. He glowed with health, and one could tell from the lithe way in which he moved that he was an athlete. But he represented an unforgivable breach of security. Trailed by the boys, Arthur shambled into the restaurant.
    I followed. They were seated in the back, against the wall, next to the kitchen, because Arthur was dressed in his usual tramp’s costume, and had brought along two guests instead of the one I had mentioned when I called. The headwaiter started to seat me up front, far from these rowdies, but to his puzzlement I gave him ten dollars (he would have remembered a twenty) to seat me at a table from which I could see and hear what was going on at Arthur’s table.
    I ordered my pinot grigio in a loud voice, then headed for the men’s room.
    Arthur joined me.
    â€œWho,” I asked, “is the extra man?”
    Arthur raised his hands in a gesture of apology. “Don’t blame me,” he said. “That’s his old high school buddy Danny Miller, who just hitchhiked in from Ohio. Jack wouldn’t come without him.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œDanny’s been drafted, he leaves for basic training next week, so he drove to New York to say goodbye to Jack. It’s his only night in town. He plans to get drunk.”
    â€œHe’s not a draft dodger like Jack?”
    A sour grimace. Arthur said, “He’s a jock. Glad to go if his country needs him.”
    This was interesting. “When was he drafted?” I asked.
    Arthur sighed. Who cared? “Recently, I guess,” he replied. “His number wasn’t supposed to