prices way beyond a bartender’s salary. He picked out a pair of tan linen pants there that cost $400, then exhaled hard, and bought a long-sleeved pink shirt with a small blue-green flamingo on the breast pocket for just under $300.
Next he found a hand-tailored double-breasted blue blazer marked down from $1,200 to $600 which he felt exuded GQ . Fortunately, he didn’t have to spring for a tie. He had rummaged through Spencer Robertson’s mildewy closet and found a rack of them. He had turned one of them around to examine the label—hoping, praying almost—and yes, there it was, the distinctive label of the fabled Lilly Pulitzer. He was over the moon.
After buying the pants and shirt, Nick walked back to the shoe department. The cheapest pair of loafers cost more than $600. That would come close to wiping him out. He thanked the salesman, then asked for directions to a shoe store he had heard so much about.
It was time to step up—and into—his first pair of Stubbs & Woottons, which he’d heard didn’t actually cost an arm and a leg. They were fashionable shoes he had become aware of several months ago, having spotted a pair on a well-heeled Viggo’s patron. The shoes, actually black needlepoint slippers with martini glasses on the vamp, seemed to immediately proclaim the man a bon vivant, a swell, a player. Nick had seen another pair with crossed golf clubs on another Viggo’s patron. They were essentially theme shoes and he just had to own a pair.
He walked across the street into an alley of chic shops, following the directions he had been given. He saw the sign and went inside. There were several pairs in his size. He felt the slightly rough texture of the celebrated slipper shoe. It was a tough choice, between a pair with dice stitched into them—showing a five-two lucky seven, then another with skull and crossbones, and a third, the sun on the left shoe and the moon on the right one. Then he looked up and saw the perfectly coiffed salesgirl come toward him. She had found another pair in his size. They had a caricature of the devil in red with a pitchfork. He nodded, smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.
He wore them proudly to his appointment with a cosmetic surgeon in Boca Raton later that day. He had been told Boca had more cosmetic surgeons than landscapers, pool guys and personal injury lawyers put together.
L ATER THAT afternoon, when Alcie was off duty, Nick carefully removed a painting by an artist named Seagraves Albaran off of a wall in the powder room of Spencer Robertson’s house. He wrapped it in brown paper and took it to a gallery at the corner of Worth and South County, which specialized in American realism.
“Oh, my God,” said the young blonde working there, “I know a man who collects Albarans. This is one of the best I’ve seen in a long time.”
In less than a half hour, the woman had snapped a shot of the painting with her cell, e-mailed it to her buyer and gotten his approval to buy it.
Nick loved his new line of work even though he had a sneaking suspicion that the woman might not be giving him full market value, and he knew for a fact, that her 50 percent commission was highway robbery. But what did it matter . . . he had gotten a check for $16,000, not to mention her card and cell number.
So in practically no time at all, he had a nice, new bank account—adding three zeroes to his net worth—and had met an elegant Palm Beach beauty to boot. He imagined an intoxicating future ahead of him with the woman. He looked at her card.
Lil Fonseca. Had a nice exotic ring to it.
Besides being suddenly flush with cash and the possibility of a new woman in his life, Nick had become the de facto grandson of a man who had paintings worth millions. So what if the old guy wished him Happy New Year twice a day, wore Depends and called him Oswald?
Nick was seeing Spencer Robertson’s life close up—such as it was—and realized, like most people, his was a series of routines. He slept
Next he found a hand-tailored double-breasted blue blazer marked down from $1,200 to $600 which he felt exuded GQ . Fortunately, he didn’t have to spring for a tie. He had rummaged through Spencer Robertson’s mildewy closet and found a rack of them. He had turned one of them around to examine the label—hoping, praying almost—and yes, there it was, the distinctive label of the fabled Lilly Pulitzer. He was over the moon.
After buying the pants and shirt, Nick walked back to the shoe department. The cheapest pair of loafers cost more than $600. That would come close to wiping him out. He thanked the salesman, then asked for directions to a shoe store he had heard so much about.
It was time to step up—and into—his first pair of Stubbs & Woottons, which he’d heard didn’t actually cost an arm and a leg. They were fashionable shoes he had become aware of several months ago, having spotted a pair on a well-heeled Viggo’s patron. The shoes, actually black needlepoint slippers with martini glasses on the vamp, seemed to immediately proclaim the man a bon vivant, a swell, a player. Nick had seen another pair with crossed golf clubs on another Viggo’s patron. They were essentially theme shoes and he just had to own a pair.
He walked across the street into an alley of chic shops, following the directions he had been given. He saw the sign and went inside. There were several pairs in his size. He felt the slightly rough texture of the celebrated slipper shoe. It was a tough choice, between a pair with dice stitched into them—showing a five-two lucky seven, then another with skull and crossbones, and a third, the sun on the left shoe and the moon on the right one. Then he looked up and saw the perfectly coiffed salesgirl come toward him. She had found another pair in his size. They had a caricature of the devil in red with a pitchfork. He nodded, smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.
He wore them proudly to his appointment with a cosmetic surgeon in Boca Raton later that day. He had been told Boca had more cosmetic surgeons than landscapers, pool guys and personal injury lawyers put together.
L ATER THAT afternoon, when Alcie was off duty, Nick carefully removed a painting by an artist named Seagraves Albaran off of a wall in the powder room of Spencer Robertson’s house. He wrapped it in brown paper and took it to a gallery at the corner of Worth and South County, which specialized in American realism.
“Oh, my God,” said the young blonde working there, “I know a man who collects Albarans. This is one of the best I’ve seen in a long time.”
In less than a half hour, the woman had snapped a shot of the painting with her cell, e-mailed it to her buyer and gotten his approval to buy it.
Nick loved his new line of work even though he had a sneaking suspicion that the woman might not be giving him full market value, and he knew for a fact, that her 50 percent commission was highway robbery. But what did it matter . . . he had gotten a check for $16,000, not to mention her card and cell number.
So in practically no time at all, he had a nice, new bank account—adding three zeroes to his net worth—and had met an elegant Palm Beach beauty to boot. He imagined an intoxicating future ahead of him with the woman. He looked at her card.
Lil Fonseca. Had a nice exotic ring to it.
Besides being suddenly flush with cash and the possibility of a new woman in his life, Nick had become the de facto grandson of a man who had paintings worth millions. So what if the old guy wished him Happy New Year twice a day, wore Depends and called him Oswald?
Nick was seeing Spencer Robertson’s life close up—such as it was—and realized, like most people, his was a series of routines. He slept
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