Murder at the Table of Fools

SEDUCTION OF BRITE
The disadvantage of piece work is you have to work to get paid. The advantage of government employment is that such a burdensome stricture is missing. Being free, walking about under the city's overly large sick-leave umbrellaI still had a good week of time and energy to engage in various unproductive self-destructive pursuits, one of which was Toni Brite.
Catching my interest with her agreeable,well developed body and sympathetic mind, I thought a symbiosis between us was established at Cavanaugh's. Additionally. her hints of possessing Park Avenue wealth and Manhattan's sophistication was a bonus, although in my mind she was well below me in intelligence and the real knowledge only experience can impart.
The Friday after our Cavanaugh connection, and being sufficiently recovered from my liquor indulgence, I used her business card to arrange for drinks at her place for that night.My goal was to bed her,an ego enhancing conquest and a libido exercise. My expectation was, loosening up with sharing drinks at her place, accompanied by chit chat exchanges preparatory to her bedroom, a room feet away easily traversed, and the awkwardness of moving there could be quickly and easily overcome with walking hugs, kisses and whispered nonsense women find irresistible.
For some reason,all my mental expectations vaporized at her apartment's door. She came rushing out before I could press the bell a second time.Passing me she explained she had heard of a fabulous watering hole she was dying to visit.
I just had time to glance over her shoulder at her apartment's miniscule interior,an interior suggesting the couch was the bed Forestalling my attempt to enter by slamming the door, she turned and in her wake,informed me our reservations were for nine and we'd have to hurry.
Damn it,the bed suddenly moved miles away and she was taking me to 'her' place,'her' venue.Was this the modern liberated 'take charge' woman: or just a woman trying to impress with her night life sophistication;or a woman hoping to present herself against an enhancing background;or was she distancing herself from her bedroom to play coy and innocent, or was she upping the price of entrance; or was it because her apartment,although at a prestigious address was embarrassingly small or was our initial Cavanaugh's instilled sense of intimacy a delusion on my part In any case I wasn't pleased she moved the goal post further away, necessitating additional time, energy, and most important money to get her to the bed post.
I asked, 'What reservations?"
"You didn't say where you wanted to dine, and in Manhattan on Friday night you absolutely must make reservations to ensure you'll have a table,so I took the liberty.You don't mind, do you?"
Dinner reservations?I certainly did mind. I wanted strong booze, soft music, whispered words, silk sheets,smooth skin, and a quick exit.I was beginning to feel she was playing a board game and I was the token being moved from space to space.
She continued her assault "Not knowing your favorite restaurant I took a chance and chose The Tides."
As a dollop of cuteness she added "It could be 'our' restaurant."
Shit,I hadn't had my feet in her apartment, my ass on her couch,head on her pillow,and we already have 'our' restaurant chosen by her. What next?Our song?Our joke? Our favorite day of the week? When were we to have our favorite position?
Located In Soho, The Tides had several empty forlorn tables outside surrounded and protected by a wrought iron fence attempted a faux pretentious Parisian sidewalk cafe. Inside, next to a podium, a tuxed maître d' stood guard over a large leather ledger. Running a Monte Blanc pen down the list he announced in tones similar to announcing one's entrance to Heaven that the Brite party was listed in the book and could enter, but not to eat, and must wait at the bar and answer the buzzer when our table is ready.
Sitting at the bar what could one do but order drinks? Obviously I had to pay in order to wait to eat. Toni had a Cosmopolitan that cost the price of a Cavanaugh's roast beef sandwich. My highball equaled a fifth of my house whiskey
Eyes bright, looking around, she commented, "I don't see any famous people. I've heard Dustin Hoffman and Beyonce often eat here."
"Really!"
"Read it in The Times magazine section. Must be an off night for celebrities."
I didn't hide my sarcastic laugh, but Toni was too busy trying to uncover a name, no matter how obscure, to mention at work tomorrow.
Eyeing her Cosmopolitan level, fighting the urge to down mine and face another fifth in cost, the buzzer sounded, and like lap dogs we hopped off the stools and eagerly raced to the maitre, oh the hell, head waiter.
We serpentined our way past white linen draped tables inches apart, to be delivered to a table only feet away from the kitchen. Obviously Toni didn't possess the weight she thought she possessed.
Unlike Cavanaugh's basic red and white checkered cloth which was used to cover the table's scars, here gleaming linen provided a spotless white canvas for a series of numerous stem glasses of various volumes, and a gilt-edged plate guarded by an imposing battalion of military aligned silver. You had to wonder what could be the possible purpose for the multitude of silverware and glasses on display.
Toni arranged us so I was facing the kitchen, while she could survey the crowd for a celebrity sighting.
As we waited for our server I gloomily thought: the white starched linen adds twenty to the bill, each glass adds at least two bucks, the military parade of silver, a dollar a soldier, and the empty gilt plate added fifteen to the bill. I'd gone from hoping for free drinks at her place on her couch leading to bed and quick goodbyes, to being seated here looking at a kitchen door. I realized Toni thought herself very dear, possibly too dear for me, certainly overpriced. There is no more true measure of the strength of desire than the effort and cost it commands.
Our server Mosidek was stunned when we declined wine. To be correct, I quickly announced for Toni and myself we were wine abstainers, suspecting a glass of wine resting in her mind was moving down to her lips. With no wine, and my decline of imported spring water, our stemware instantly disappeared, except for one forlorn glass each.
Mosidek presented a large leather folder containing a two sheet menu without prices (either The Tides was too proud or too ashamed) with all the panache of St. Peter asking who on the list would you chose to be worthy of saving. As I perused the difficult to read menu of artistic script sprinkled with French adjectives, Toni announced that Mr. Woerle, a senior partner at MAD, had said we simply must order the filet mignon with The Tides' secret sauce. "Mr. Woerle guaranteed the meat cuts as easily as the clouds, and tastes simply heavenly. Mr. Woerle said The Tides' angus beef imported from Japan was never frozen, and fed only organic grains."
With the steak ordered, the silverware army was gathered up to guard other plates on other linen battlefields. In their place a large steak knife made its entrance. The size and heft suggested the flown in beef from Japan may not be as soft as a cloud.