A Long Line of Dead Men

The Addison Club, named for Joseph Addison, the eighteenth-century essayist, occupies a five-story limestone town-house on the south side ofSixty-seventh Street between Park andLexington avenues. Hildebrand had stationed himself within earshot of the reception desk, and when I gave my name to the uniformed attendant he came over and introduced himself. In the first-floor dining room, he rejected the first table we were offered and chose one in the far corner.

"San Giorgio on the rocks with a twist," he told the waiter. To me he said, "Do you like San Giorgio? I always have it here because not many restaurants stock it. Do you know it? It's basically an Italian dry vermouth with some unusual herbs steeped in it. It's very light. I'm afraid the days of the lunchtime martinis are over for me."

"I'll have to try it sometime," I said. "Today, though, I think I'll have a Perrier."

He apologized in advance for the food. "It's a nice room, isn't it? And of course they don't hurry you, and with the tables so far apart and half of them empty, well, I thought we might be glad of the privacy. The kitchen's not too bad if you stay with the basics. I usually have a mixed grill."

"That sounds good."

"And a green salad?"

"Fine."

He wrote out the order and handed the card to the waiter. "Private clubs," he said. "An endangered species. TheAddison is presumably a club for authors and journalists, but the membership for years now has run largely to people in advertising and publishing. These days I think they'll pretty much take you if you've got a pulse and a checkbook and no major felony convictions. I joined about fifteen years ago when my wife and I moved up toStamford,Connecticut. There were a lot of nights when I would work late and miss the last train and have to stay over. Hotels cost a fortune, and I always felt like a shady character checking in without luggage. They have rooms on the top floor here, very reasonable and available at short notice. I'd been thinking about joining anyway, and that gave me an incentive."

"So you live inConnecticut?"

He shook his head. "We moved back five years ago when our youngest boy finished college. Well, dropped out of it, I should say. We're living half a dozen blocks from here, and I can walk to work on a day like today. It's beautiful out, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Well,New York in June. I've never been toParis in April, but I understand it's apt to be wet and dreary. May's a lot nicer there, but the song works better with April in it. You need the extra syllable. ButNew York in June, you can see why they'd write songs about it."

When the waiter brought our food Hildebrand asked me if I'd like a beer with it. I said I was fine. He said, "I'll have one of the nonalcoholic beers. I forget which ones you stock. Do you have O'Doul's?"

They did, and he said he'd have one, and looked at me expectantly. I shook my head. The nonalcoholic beers and wines all have at least a trace of alcohol. Whether it's enough to affect a sober alcoholic is an open question, but the people I've known in AA who insisted they could drink Moussy or O'Doul's or Sharp's with impunity all wound up picking up something stronger sooner or later.

Anyway, what the hell would I want with a beer with no kick to it?

We talked about his work- he was a partner in a small public-relations firm- and about the pleasures of living in the city again after a stretch in the suburbs. If I'd met him at his office we'd have gotten right down to business, but instead we were following the traditional rules of a business lunch, holding the business portion until we'd finished with the food.

When the coffee came he patted his breast pocket and gave a snort of ironic amusement. "Now that's funny," he said. "Did you see what I just did?"

"You were reaching for a cigarette."

"That's exactly what I was doing, and I quit the goddamn things more than twelve years ago. Were you ever a smoker?"

"Not really."

"Not really?"

"I never had the habit," I explained. "Maybe once a year I would buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke five or six of them one right after the other. Then I would throw the pack away and not have another cigarette for another year."

"My God," he said. "I never heard of anyone who could smoke tobacco without getting hooked on it. I guess you just don't have an addictive personality." I let that one pass. "Quitting was the hardest thing I ever did in my life. Sometimes I think it's the only hard thing I ever did. I still have dreams where I've taken up the habit again. Do you still do that? Have yourself a little cigarette binge once a year?"

"Oh, no. It's been more than ten years since I had a cigarette."

"Well, all I can say is I'm glad there's not an open pack on the table. Matt"- we were Matt and Lew by now- "let me ask you something. Have you ever heard of a club of thirty-one?"

"A club of thirty-one," I said. "I don't suppose that would have anything to do with this club."

"No."

"I've heard of the restaurant, of course. 'Twenty-one.' I don't think-"