From the bookLast Call: A True Story of Lust, Love, and Murder in Queer New York.
Copyright 2021 by Elon Green.
Published March 9 by Celadon Books, an imprint of Macmillan Publishers.
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Lisa Hall, a short, mouthy blonde who acted and sang, was behind the bar.
An off-duty bartender, Barbara Ross, sat in front.
At 10:30, regulars filed in for a birthday party.
Marie Blake was on the piano and the patrons were singing.
The Five Oaks was about a hundred feet from Maries.
There were thirteen steps between the sidewalk and the street, which was quiet and mostly residential.
To the left was a dining room of a dozen tables.
And in between, near the entrance to the ladies room, was a Black woman playing piano.
Blake was the anchor of the Five Oaks, and its most sustained draw.
Hal Prince, too, came in for early dinners with his wife each Sunday.
Stephen Sondheim recalled the Five Oaks as a fixture in the Village.
Ross, the off-duty bartender, became upset about something and went home.
By 1:00, the birthday guests were gone.
Michael, it was often said, was to the Five Oaks what Norm was toCheers.
The last stool at the end of the horseshoe bar was his.
From that vantage, facing the street, he could see everyone coming down the entrance steps.
They bickered like siblings.
She was worried about him, that he drank too much.
Which was true; he could down three scotches in an hour.
Michael thanked Ross for her concern and offered to retrieve her keys.
This was unusual; it was not his practice to leave the bar before closing.
Michael was gone no more than ten minutes, and when he returned with the keys, Ross left.
It was the early hours of July 30, and the Five Oaks was mostly empty.
Marie Blake, half an eye on the entrance, was still playing.
Last call was soon, at 3:45.
Shortly before last call, a man descended the thirteen steps and entered the bar.
He sat down to Michaels immediate left and requested the house scotch and water.
Hall sized him up: white guy, maybe five foot nine.
Wore a blue button-down shirt and had his sleeves rolled up.
Other patrons had seen the man around the bar, and had even gone home with him.
Hall, though, didnt recognize him.
Hall, in fact, would later speculate that perhaps theyd run into each other at the Duplex.
This is Mark the nurse, Michael said, ordering a scotch and water.
He works at St. Vincents.
The men talked, but Hall couldnt hear the conversation.
The nurse seemed drunk.
There was an increased chance of being robbed by a late arrival.
Still, she was grateful Michael had company.
Sitting nearby was an editor fromThe New YorkTimes.
He came to the Five Oaks twice a month, venturing downtown after work.
Preparing to move out of the city, he had come to say his goodbyes.
The newsman knew Michael and could see he was lost in conversation.
Engrossed in their own little world, is how he described it years later.
He also knew the man talking to Michael, having gone to college with him in the 1970s.
Theyd run into each other in September at the Townhouse and had crossed paths a few times since.
But he let the two men be and said nothing.
She carefully wrote down the bottles shed used that night.
Peripherally, she could see Michael and the nurse still in deep conversation.
It was finally time for last call.
A dozen new customers had arrived, maybe more.
This is it, Hall announced.
I want everything, replied Michael, which is what he always said.
Hed downed twelve scotches already and had eaten nothing.
Sometimes he and Hall shared a dinner, but not tonight.
But then he changed his mind and ordered another scotch and water.
Hall noticed he hadnt finished the first drink, so she watered down the second with ice.
Just after 4:00, Hall collected her tips and took the candles off the bar.
She grabbed Michaels leather briefcase from the cubbyhole, where he always stowed it.
As Hall placed it on the bar, she noticed condoms inside.
The man considered keeping the bounty, but looking at the personal papers gave him an eerie feeling.
That morning, he stopped for coffee and then shopped for supplies.
He got to work at 10:30, just as a light purple van was pulling out.
The barrels were emptied the prior morning.
Colandrea inspected the contents, hoping to find the address of whoever left the garbage.
Resting near the lip was a green plastic trash bag tied in a knot.
Colandrea partially opened it, and wooziness overtook him.
Staring up at him was a face.
They, too, were double-bagged.
The arms, Colandrea would remark, were cut nice and even, like butchering a cow.
At 11:15 a.m., he enlisted a customer to drive to the Haverstraw Police Department.
The first patrolman on scene was skeptical.
You think theres a head in the barrel?
But when he donned gloves and opened the bag, he, too, felt ill.
The patrolman called his command, which, in turn, contacted the Rockland County Medical Examiner.
The Rockland County District Attorneys Office also was notified.
Detective Stephen Colantonio, a decade into his career with the DAs office, arrived within a half hour.
He lived eight miles away, in Nanuet.
Dark-haired with a dimpled chin, Colantonio exhibited a tendency toward self-improvement.
Hed been studying karate for years and was a student instructor at the local dojo.
The martial art, he told a reporter, teaches you self-control maintaining your composure.
It was erase the body parts hadnt been there long.
Even the hot dog vendor could see that.
He had to be dumped overnight, he told a reporter.
It was still fresh and there were no flies.
With that identification, detectives put together a teletype announcing the prosecutors offices recovery of body parts.
It was sent out late that night to surrounding areas in the hopes of finding similar cases.
They wanted to talk about the fresh case, but also one of their own.
