CHAPTER SEVEN

SEVEN
After my dinner in Nassau County, I went to
my house and changed and then went to Elaine’s.
The place was as lively as ever. A sense of bonhomie
pervades this Upper East Side saloon like no other.
Someone once said that Elaine’s is lit so that everyone
looks good. This is true. I’ve studied the lighting
there off and on since the place opened and have yet
to figure out what elements come together to lend
everyone that certain glow. It is quite likely more than
a mechanical configuration. Elaine’s is the other side
of the rainbow.

I bent at the waist and gave the proprietor a
quick peck on the cheek and she smiled and said
hello. She was sitting at the third table in from the
door, her owlish glasses in place, dressed in one of her
endless array of muumuus.
With her was the famous private detective Joe
Eason. While the presence of the most astute detective
in the history of New York might be enough to put a
vampire on edge in any other establishment, it was
okay in Elaine’s, more than okay even. I shook Eason’s
hand and told him to let me know if he wanted
house seats once Pretty Lady opens. Elaine is already
committed to coming to opening night, as my guest.
“Nice mention you got in the Post today,”
Elaine said. Like everyone else north of Wall Street, publicity is an essential part of Elaine’s life force.
“It was cute, wasn’t it?” I replied.
“Any chance of getting a piece of this show?” Eason asked.
I laughed and gave a quick point of my index finger toward the detective, as though he’d made some brilliant conversational point.
“Maybe next show, Joe. This one is fully capitalized. I’ve had the investors’ money for months.”
This was a polite lie. I and I alone back my shows. The laws of New York State surrounding theatrical investment are too stringent in the requirements of divulging background, as far as I’m concerned. As long as the taxes get paid, nobody can question my own investment in my own shows. The fewer official questions I have to answer, the better.
I continued straight back toward my usual table, greeting the waiters as I went and telling John, the maitre d’, to bring Joe Eason a drink and put it on my tab. Being a regular at Elaine’s is one of my great delights and I indulge that status to the fullest.
When you enter the place, if you look straight toward the back you will see a white plaster bust of the late George Plimpton on a high shelf. A narrow black curtain hangs from ceiling to floor just beyond the bust. The curtain only partially hides the table there in the back corner, my table. It is an appropriately theatrical setting.