groaned. “Can you imagine what it felt like to say no to
two million wu
?”
“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, Eric,” Mom drawled.
“Some pleasure! About as pleasant as . . . as . . .”
Mom eyed him knowingly.
“A case of the blue balls?” she suggested.
“The
what
. . . ?”
“Nuts in a vise, kiddo, non-coitus mucho interruptus.”
Mom had become a devotee of these obscure American gangsterisms after Dad died, many of which had probably become obsolete a century or so before she was born. Freed from any need to conceal her previous identity and forced by necessity to come out of retirement and reactivate her citizen-shareholder status in Bad Boys, she amused herself by overplaying the out-of-date “gun moll.”
Her present costume was typical. A black leather dress suit with an antique mannish white shirt and tie, a gray felt fedora cocked jauntily off center on her rather closely cropped iron-gray curls, and swept-back mirrored sunglasses hiding the wrinkles around her hard blue eyes.
“Foxy grandpa, your father never was,” she liked to say with a lubricious wink, “but foxy grandma, that’s me.”
And indeed she seemed to be in the eyes of gentlemen of a certainage, and for sure in the La Fontainian sense. Eric was under no illusion that he would’ve gotten where he now was without what she called her “backdoor street smarts,” and he needed them now.
“What’s the problem, Eric?”
“I not only felt like an idiot turning her down, it made me feel, well . . .
impotent
. As if I were only some sort of . . . of . . .”
“Doorman in a fancy monkey suit?” Mom suggested.
Eric flushed. “I’m sure that’s how I must’ve seemed to her.”
“So whaddya want me to do, tell her you’re really a tough guy who’s made his bones?”
“I want you to call Eduardo. I want you to do it now.”
Eduardo Ramirez was Eric’s official non-official conduit to the Bad Boys board and Eric could just as well have called him himself. But Eduardo was also one of Mom’s lovers and dealing with him through her gave her son a certain twisted leverage.
“And tell him what?”
“About Monique Calhoun’s offer.”
“Why?”
“
Why
? So he can authorize me to accept it.”
“You’ve gotta be thinking with your dick, Eric, because your brain’s gotta know it ain’t gonna happen.
La Reine
is not for rent period, and you know why. An extra mil over ten days would be nice, but not worth the risk of compromising the real operation.”
“Call Eduardo, Mom. Tell him the story. Sweet-talk him.”
“I’ll humor you as far as making the call, Eric,” Mom told him. “But if and when and how I sweet-talk Eduardo is between him and me.”
She pulled her mobile out of her purse, got up from the outdoor table, and walked a discreet distance away down the street before she used it.
Eric sat there drumming his fingers on the table for a good five minutes as he watched Mom talking to Eduardo Ramirez. When she finally finished, she turned, took off her sunglasses in a kind of a thoughtful gesture, and sauntered slowly back to the table with a bemused expression.
“Well?” Eric demanded.
“Well, Eduardo will meet us on the boat,” Mom told him, shakingher head slightly. “He’s very interested. He wants to have a serious talk about it.”
Eric regarded her slyly. “Come on, Mom, how did you do it?” he wheedled. “What did you tell him to make it happen?”
Mom shrugged.
“Just the facts, ma’am,” she said in a strange flat voice, no doubt another of her obscure gangster pix references.
Eric didn’t get it.
And from the look on her face, it seemed that Mom didn’t either.
La Reine de la Seine
provided food, music, drink, drugs, sex, and gambling for her guests above deck, but not any prospect of privacy for Prince Eric Esterhazy, who spent two hours doing the usual—greeting guests as they came aboard, chatting at the bar and the baccarat and poker
two million wu
?”
“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, Eric,” Mom drawled.
“Some pleasure! About as pleasant as . . . as . . .”
Mom eyed him knowingly.
“A case of the blue balls?” she suggested.
“The
what
. . . ?”
“Nuts in a vise, kiddo, non-coitus mucho interruptus.”
Mom had become a devotee of these obscure American gangsterisms after Dad died, many of which had probably become obsolete a century or so before she was born. Freed from any need to conceal her previous identity and forced by necessity to come out of retirement and reactivate her citizen-shareholder status in Bad Boys, she amused herself by overplaying the out-of-date “gun moll.”
Her present costume was typical. A black leather dress suit with an antique mannish white shirt and tie, a gray felt fedora cocked jauntily off center on her rather closely cropped iron-gray curls, and swept-back mirrored sunglasses hiding the wrinkles around her hard blue eyes.
“Foxy grandpa, your father never was,” she liked to say with a lubricious wink, “but foxy grandma, that’s me.”
And indeed she seemed to be in the eyes of gentlemen of a certainage, and for sure in the La Fontainian sense. Eric was under no illusion that he would’ve gotten where he now was without what she called her “backdoor street smarts,” and he needed them now.
“What’s the problem, Eric?”
“I not only felt like an idiot turning her down, it made me feel, well . . .
impotent
. As if I were only some sort of . . . of . . .”
“Doorman in a fancy monkey suit?” Mom suggested.
Eric flushed. “I’m sure that’s how I must’ve seemed to her.”
“So whaddya want me to do, tell her you’re really a tough guy who’s made his bones?”
“I want you to call Eduardo. I want you to do it now.”
Eduardo Ramirez was Eric’s official non-official conduit to the Bad Boys board and Eric could just as well have called him himself. But Eduardo was also one of Mom’s lovers and dealing with him through her gave her son a certain twisted leverage.
“And tell him what?”
“About Monique Calhoun’s offer.”
“Why?”
“
Why
? So he can authorize me to accept it.”
“You’ve gotta be thinking with your dick, Eric, because your brain’s gotta know it ain’t gonna happen.
La Reine
is not for rent period, and you know why. An extra mil over ten days would be nice, but not worth the risk of compromising the real operation.”
“Call Eduardo, Mom. Tell him the story. Sweet-talk him.”
“I’ll humor you as far as making the call, Eric,” Mom told him. “But if and when and how I sweet-talk Eduardo is between him and me.”
She pulled her mobile out of her purse, got up from the outdoor table, and walked a discreet distance away down the street before she used it.
Eric sat there drumming his fingers on the table for a good five minutes as he watched Mom talking to Eduardo Ramirez. When she finally finished, she turned, took off her sunglasses in a kind of a thoughtful gesture, and sauntered slowly back to the table with a bemused expression.
“Well?” Eric demanded.
“Well, Eduardo will meet us on the boat,” Mom told him, shakingher head slightly. “He’s very interested. He wants to have a serious talk about it.”
Eric regarded her slyly. “Come on, Mom, how did you do it?” he wheedled. “What did you tell him to make it happen?”
Mom shrugged.
“Just the facts, ma’am,” she said in a strange flat voice, no doubt another of her obscure gangster pix references.
Eric didn’t get it.
And from the look on her face, it seemed that Mom didn’t either.
La Reine de la Seine
provided food, music, drink, drugs, sex, and gambling for her guests above deck, but not any prospect of privacy for Prince Eric Esterhazy, who spent two hours doing the usual—greeting guests as they came aboard, chatting at the bar and the baccarat and poker
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