carpet had two gold interlocking D s cut into it. Custom made for the ego-driven.
Carmela strode across the D s to greet Durrell. “I know we spoke briefly on Wednesday night, but I wanted to offer my condolences in a more personal way.”
“Thank you,” said Durrell. “I appreciate your concern.” He looked subdued and a little haggard. Maybe because he was still in shock, maybe because he hadn’t gotten much sleep. Or maybe because he was a little spooked that the police had drilled him with so many questions.
“I’m sure this is a trying time for you,” said Carmela.
Durrell offered a thin smile and indicated that Carmela should take a seat. Once she’d settled in, he sat down behind his desk and faced her.
“You have no idea,” said Durrell. “It’s been ghastly.”
Carmela decided that Durrell didn’t look like a financial guru. Rather, he gave the outward appearance of an indolent Southern rich guy who sat around drinking Sazerac and trying to impress women by quoting verses from Proust. Which, for some reason, reminded her of Shamus, whose picture should definitely be in Webster’s Dictionary under the word lazy .
But Durrell possessed the requisite three computer screens crawling with columns of red and green numbers; two iPhones, one at the ready and one plugged into a charger; an acre of mahogany desk; and photos of himself with his arm casually slung around the shoulders of a dozen or so minor celebrities—if you considered lawyers, real estate moguls, and a New Orleans Saints nose tackle minor celebrities.
“Anyway,” said Carmela, touching a hand to her chest, “my heart goes out to you. If there’s anything I can do . . .”
Durrell nodded. “You’re very kind. Your words come as a great comfort.”
“Good to know,” said Carmela, trying to muster a sincere smile that wasn’t too smiley.
Durrell gazed across his desk at her, as if waiting for Carmela to continue.
“So,” she said, “I understand you’re a money manager?”
“That’s correct,” said Durrell. “I work with a select group of rather well-heeled clients.” He offered a thin smile. “Are you an investor yourself? I understand you’re recently divorced . . . from Shamus Meechum?”
“That’s right,” said Carmela.
Durrell leaned forward, rested his elbows on his desk, and steepled his fingers. “Forgive me, but newly divorced women often find themselves with generous settlements, yet they don’t always possess the . . .”
“Financial savvy?” said Carmela. “The wherewithal to handle their own money?” Warning bells were suddenly clanging in her head. Granted, she’d come here under false pretenses. But now Durrell had suddenly spun the tables on her and was giving her a soft-sell pitch!
Durrell gave a helpless shrug, as if acknowledging the fact that not all women were financial geniuses.
“I’m managing just fine,” Carmela said, deciding the man was pretty much pond scum. “In fact, I very much enjoy business.”
“Do you now?” Durrell sounded just this side of disappointed.
“Running my own retail operation can sometimes be a challenge, but for the most part I’m loving it. As far as following the whims of Wall Street and directing my own investments . . . I’d say it’s a constant learning experience.”
“I’m sure Shamus must have been a great help,” said Durrell.
“You know what?” said Carmela, “Shamus was no help at all. His family may own Crescent City Bank, but Shamus doesn’t exactly have a degree in high finance from Wharton.” Fact was, Shamus could barely balance his own checkbook and had made it through Tulane by the seat of his pants and lots of help from his frat rat buddies.
“Oh dear,” said Durrell, feigning interest, “it sounds like you and Shamus have a somewhat hostile relationship.”
“Not really,” said Carmela. “Now that we’re out of each other’s hair, we get along better than ever.” Yeah, right. Sure we
Carmela strode across the D s to greet Durrell. “I know we spoke briefly on Wednesday night, but I wanted to offer my condolences in a more personal way.”
“Thank you,” said Durrell. “I appreciate your concern.” He looked subdued and a little haggard. Maybe because he was still in shock, maybe because he hadn’t gotten much sleep. Or maybe because he was a little spooked that the police had drilled him with so many questions.
“I’m sure this is a trying time for you,” said Carmela.
Durrell offered a thin smile and indicated that Carmela should take a seat. Once she’d settled in, he sat down behind his desk and faced her.
“You have no idea,” said Durrell. “It’s been ghastly.”
Carmela decided that Durrell didn’t look like a financial guru. Rather, he gave the outward appearance of an indolent Southern rich guy who sat around drinking Sazerac and trying to impress women by quoting verses from Proust. Which, for some reason, reminded her of Shamus, whose picture should definitely be in Webster’s Dictionary under the word lazy .
But Durrell possessed the requisite three computer screens crawling with columns of red and green numbers; two iPhones, one at the ready and one plugged into a charger; an acre of mahogany desk; and photos of himself with his arm casually slung around the shoulders of a dozen or so minor celebrities—if you considered lawyers, real estate moguls, and a New Orleans Saints nose tackle minor celebrities.
“Anyway,” said Carmela, touching a hand to her chest, “my heart goes out to you. If there’s anything I can do . . .”
Durrell nodded. “You’re very kind. Your words come as a great comfort.”
“Good to know,” said Carmela, trying to muster a sincere smile that wasn’t too smiley.
Durrell gazed across his desk at her, as if waiting for Carmela to continue.
“So,” she said, “I understand you’re a money manager?”
“That’s correct,” said Durrell. “I work with a select group of rather well-heeled clients.” He offered a thin smile. “Are you an investor yourself? I understand you’re recently divorced . . . from Shamus Meechum?”
“That’s right,” said Carmela.
Durrell leaned forward, rested his elbows on his desk, and steepled his fingers. “Forgive me, but newly divorced women often find themselves with generous settlements, yet they don’t always possess the . . .”
“Financial savvy?” said Carmela. “The wherewithal to handle their own money?” Warning bells were suddenly clanging in her head. Granted, she’d come here under false pretenses. But now Durrell had suddenly spun the tables on her and was giving her a soft-sell pitch!
Durrell gave a helpless shrug, as if acknowledging the fact that not all women were financial geniuses.
“I’m managing just fine,” Carmela said, deciding the man was pretty much pond scum. “In fact, I very much enjoy business.”
“Do you now?” Durrell sounded just this side of disappointed.
“Running my own retail operation can sometimes be a challenge, but for the most part I’m loving it. As far as following the whims of Wall Street and directing my own investments . . . I’d say it’s a constant learning experience.”
“I’m sure Shamus must have been a great help,” said Durrell.
“You know what?” said Carmela, “Shamus was no help at all. His family may own Crescent City Bank, but Shamus doesn’t exactly have a degree in high finance from Wharton.” Fact was, Shamus could barely balance his own checkbook and had made it through Tulane by the seat of his pants and lots of help from his frat rat buddies.
“Oh dear,” said Durrell, feigning interest, “it sounds like you and Shamus have a somewhat hostile relationship.”
“Not really,” said Carmela. “Now that we’re out of each other’s hair, we get along better than ever.” Yeah, right. Sure we
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