Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [39]
“You put this on the expense account?”
“Sure. Getting sloshed in a fancy bar with a homicide detective who tells me nothing.”
“Joe.”
“What?”
Languth brought his lips close to Potamos’s ear. “You want the scoop on the Canadian in the park?”
“Yeah.”
“Meet me here tomorrow, six o’clock.”
“You buyin’?”
“Hell, no. I’m the seller, you’re the buyer.”
“You’d better be selling something good. I’ll be here at six.” He turned to Nathan. “Thanks, buddy. See ya.”
“Say hello to your lady.”
“Shall do.”
Potamos paused in the lobby to call Roseann. He got the machine, then remembered it was Friday, the night of her regular stint at the Four Seasons Hotel. He stopped in a stationery store and bought the last six copies of the Washingtonian, hailed a taxi, and went to the Four Seasons, where Roseann was seated at a grand piano in the center of the hotel’s opulent lounge. Well-dressed, well-heeled men and women sat on overstuffed chairs and love seats in pockets of partial seclusion throughout the grand space. Roseann saw Potamos enter, smiled, finished “Summertime,” left the piano, and gracefully crossed the lobby to him.
“Hi, babe,” he said, kissing her cheek.
She saw the magazines, laughed, and kissed him on the mouth. “You saw it and bought all these,” she said. “You are so sweet.”
“Yeah, well, I figured you’d want to send a couple to your mother, other people.”
“I do, I do. I’m almost finished. Another ten minutes.”
“I figured we’d catch some dinner someplace.”
“Love it. Good day?”
“The same. I’ll wait outside. A little too rich here for my blood, or bank account.”
She joined him outside twenty minutes later and they went to Bacchus, near Dupont Circle, a favorite spot when they were in the mood for Lebanese food. Instead of a full meal, they opted for a variety of appetizers, mezze, and beer, and settled back as the small dishes were brought in succession—hummus topped with pine nuts and ground meat, eggplant with pomegranates and sesame paste, stuffed grape leaves, and phyllo dough filled with piquant sausage and cheese. Roseann looked across the table and smiled. Potamos seemed relaxed; she loved being with him at times like this, when the edge was off.
“You weren’t mad they mentioned you and Bowen in the piece?” she asked, picking up a radish and taking a bite.
“No, of course not. It’s no secret what happened. The piece should get you plenty of work.”
“Bill Walters called,” she said. Walters owned Elite Music, Roseann’s booking agent. “He said the same thing.”
“Yeah, well, that’s great.”
“He wants me to start taking jobs out of the area.”
“Yeah? Like where?”
“Not far. Fancy resorts in West Virginia, Delaware, maybe even some of the better piano bars in New York.”
“Makes sense to me, as long as you remember Joe Potamos when you’re on Broadway.”
She placed her hand on his. With all his bluster, all his cynical, tough-guy persona, his dyspeptic view of the world, especially since the incident with Bowen, she knew a painful vulnerability and lack of confidence were an inch below the surface.
“When I’m on Broadway—why would you think I’d be on Broadway? I’m just a saloon piano player.”
“The Four Seasons; some saloon.”
“I’ll never be on Broadway. And as for forgetting Joe Potamos, that’s as likely as forgetting the C scale.”
His mood picked up as the appetizers and bottles of beer kept coming. She knew he’d been drinking earlier in the day, which he confirmed by telling her he’d met Languth at the Carlton Hotel: “He’s getting me some stuff on the Canadian who was murdered.”
“Canadian? Oh, in the park.”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you want more information about him?”
“I don’t know. This guy wasn’t mugged. It was no street robbery, nothing like that.”
“How do you know?”
“Instinct.”
“Why do you think he was killed?”
“No idea. But I want to know. Have to know. I don’t write unfinished stories. Maybe what I get from Languth will give me some answers.”
“I hope so.”
They finished their meal with strong coffee and a shared piece of lemony yogurt