New Year’s Eve971219: Friday, December 19, 1997
Bogey pushed his black queen’s pawn forward to meet John’s then leaned back. “Rick’s Café Américain” throbbed white neon at John through a haze of cigarette smoke. Wobbling overhead, fans swirled the smoke in lazy eddies among crowded tables.
“Another closed defence,” John muttered.
“You’re a closed kinda guy,” Bogey replied, immaculate in a white jacket and linen shirt, black bow tie and slacks. The beginning strains of “As Time Goes By” wafted from a piano somewhere off-display. He glared over his shoulder, motioning to a plump white-haired waiter in a black tuxedo. “Carl, get me a whiskey, and tell Sam to stop playing that damn song.”
“Yes, monsieur, and for you, sir?”
“Mr. Dunne doesn’t drink, Carl,” Bogey said. “He hasn’t figured th
