to Key West.”
“Fantastic.” Annie’s adrenaline seemed to be running on high. “Gives you more time for the project. Sorry, gives us more time.”
“Things nifty at your end?” I asked. “I feel something like sparks emanating from the receiver.”
“God, Crang, you wouldn’t believe what a marvel Tavernier is, so intelligent and so articulate and so French.”
“You got the interview taped?” I said. Bertrand Tavernier was in Toronto from Paris on a North American tour to hype the latest movie he’d directed.
“Two interviews already. Twelve minutes each, two different topics. And he enjoyed the interviews so much he agreed to come back tonight for a third after he’s had dinner with his Canadian distributor.”
“Sounds like you made an impression.”
“What we’ll do, we’ll drop the interviews into the next three shows, starting this coming Tuesday.”
Annie has a TV program about movies. She landed it after some television guys with good taste caught her in her former job, reviewing movies on the local CBC morning show, Metro Morning, and made her an offer. Annie’s the host and the program’s a syndicated deal, carried on twelve stations across the country, channel eleven out of Hamilton in the Toronto area at seven every Tuesday night. The budget is minuscule, enough to pay Annie, a producer, and a part-time researcher. The syndicate guys inflicted the frivolous title on Annie, Flicks, but by general consensus, the show is smart and lively, a nifty balance of reviews, interviews, and panel discussion stuff.
“You talk to Tavernier about Round Midnight? I asked.
“Not till the last interview.”
“Best jazz movie ever made.”
“I’ll tell him you think so,” Annie said. “Listen, sweetie, I only have two minutes. What’s this about striking out?”
“Alex didn’t exactly leave his apartment strewn with leads, and Genet isn’t saying a thing.”
I gave Annie a precis of events during my prowl through Alex’s drawers and ceramic bowls.
“Bingo,” Annie said.
“Which bingo?”
“The Purple Zinnia’s a well-known gay restaurant. There you go, a place to start.”
“It’s not a well-known gay restaurant to me.”
“It’s the local for some CBC people. That’s how I’ve heard about the Purple Zinnia.”
I was silent.
“Does it make you nervous?” Annie asked. “The thought of going to a gay place by yourself?”
“I was considering the ramifications. For numbers of gay bars and bathhouses and hair salons and so forth, I gather it goes San Francisco, Greenwich Village, Fire Island, and then probably Toronto. I could disappear into the subculture for weeks.”
“But you’ve got something firm that this one particular restaurant might supply some answers.”
“What qualifies a restaurant as gay, anyway?” I said. “The food?”
“No, silly, the clientele and usually the ownership.”
“Apart from me, the clientele.”
“Don’t be insecure,” Annie said. “Just have a nice dinner and ask if anyone there knows Ian in a special way.”
“I’m not insecure.”
“Then you’re going?”
“Yeah, but I won’t wear my most fetching getup.”
Chapter Five
The Purple Zinnia was in a large grey-brick house on the block of Carlton before you get to Parliament Street. From the outside, it didn’t look like much, just the grey brick, the largeness, and a discreet wooden sign that announced the restaurant’s name. But inside, past the front door and the small foyer, I had the feeling I’d been whisked by magic carpet to the shores of Malibu.
The walls were stark white, and the curtains, tablecloths, and napkins were blues, greens, and tans. The visuals spoke of sky and water and beach. Airy paintings of flowers hung on the walls. Some of the flowers were purple. Some of them may have been zinnias. Horticulture isn’t my long suit. Blossom Dearie was singing on the sound system.
“Just for one?” a waiter asked me.
“I’ll probably miss the Saturday dance, too,” I said. “Don’t get around much anymore.”
The waiter was too young for Duke Ellington lyrics, but he chuckled politely. He showed me to a table against the back wall.
“Something from the bar?” the waiter asked. He was a trim guy with a tidy moustache and short hair, and he had on a summery outfit consisting of a white button-down shirt and beige pleated trousers.
“Vodka on the rocks. Wyborowa if you have it.”
“Will Stolichnaya do?”
“In a pinch it will.”
The drink came fast, along with a menu. The waiter recited the specials.
“Ian Argyll?” I asked when he finished. “Does that name ring any bells? Any chance you served him the last year?”
“This is only my second week here. Sorry.”
“Just wondering.”
I ordered an avocado salad, blackened catfish, and a half bottle of Chablis.
“I’ll hold the wine till you finish your cocktail,” the waiter said. His manners were wonderful.
“Do that.”
The place was two-thirds full, almost all men. There were no boy-girl couples, and I was the only patron alone at a table.
Three waiters did the serving. One of the other two passed my table. I stopped him and tried out Ian Argyll’s name.
“This isn’t my station,” he said.
“That means you can’t answer a question?”
“I am busy, sir.” He had short hair and a moustache, too, and the same cheery shirt and pants. But he was taller and heftier than the first waiter, and his grumpiness needed working on.
“How about Ian Argyll?” I asked. “Has he come in here?”
“I wouldn’t know,” the waiter answered in a tone close to a snap.
The catfish was just right, firm and moist. I made it and the Chablis last almost thirty minutes. The room filled up, and people were waiting at the door.
I
