The Deceivers by Harold Robbins

more of a turn-on to me than the prince’s expensive fragrance.
    While Prince Ranar reeked of money and culture, Anthony was probably the kind of guy who watched football games with his pals at a sports bar, came home with booze on his breath and lipstick on his collar, and made passionate love with his significant other after a knockdown, drag-out fight about what an inconsiderate bastard he was; the kind of guy I’d met too often in my life and had been attracted to. When it came to men, I had beer tastes when it should have been champagne.
    I wondered what kind of prince Ranar was. Having dealt with “princes” and “princesses” a couple of times when I worked at a big auction house, I knew that the title oftentimes had only vague connections to royalty. Mostly it was a centuries-old empty title passed down long after the last king had lost his head. I discovered Cambodia still indeed had a king when Ranar mentioned that the king was in town to address the United Nations.
    I didn’t want to get into a discussion about his country and expose that I knew little about it other than the brief art history lesson—and political horror story—Bolger had told me. With a proposition being hinted at that meant money for me, exposing my ignorance didn’t seem too clever. I was curious about the proposition, but didn’t press for details because I didn’t want to appear too eager.
    The chitchat about nothing continued through another glass of wine and a dessert that included coconut sorbet and Jasmine ice cream. Wine and ice cream topped my list of favorite foods … next to chocolate, of course, which I ordered as a second dessert along with what I hoped was a ladylike smile to take the edge off of what they thought of my appetite. I didn’t want to leave the impression—the correct impression—that I had been subsisting on fast food and hadn’t had a high-end dinner in months.
    I had inhaled my first glass of wine and ate as slow and ladylike as I could manage with a growling stomach urging me on. The wine hit me almost immediately, giving me a buzz because I drank it before food came. And I ordered another. One good thing about living in Manhattan even if I didn’t have limo service home—I didn’t have to worry about driving and drinking because I’d go home in a cab or subway.
    Ranar finally broached the subject of Cambodian art over coffee drinks and more wine at the end of the meal.
    â€œAs I’m sure you know, Cambodia is one of the areas in the world where antiquities are being looted and destroyed on a daily basis. The pillaging is as blatant and ubiquitous as what happened to Iraq following the American invasion. Organized gangs that Detective Anthony calls a Thai-Cambodian mafia have a network that extends from stealing antiquities to smuggling them out of Cambodia and into the West and Japan, often with a stopover in Hong Kong.”
    Detective Anthony said, “Police agencies internationally have banded together to exchange information about the problem. The FBI, Sûreté and Interpol in Paris, the Art Theft unit in London, NYPD, and LAPD are all cooperating.”
    â€œIs that what Sammy is, some kind of mafia?” I asked the detective.
    â€œSammy’s a deliveryman with a gambling problem. He was supposed to take that Apsaras piece to a gallery, but thought about selling it to you because the gamblers he owed money to were going to cut him off at the knees. When he didn’t show up at the gallery, a phone call went out from the restaurant to find out what happened to him. He was with you, of course. The gunman in the alley was from the gamblers.”
    I gave him one of my brilliant smiles but wanted to stab him in the heart with my fork. “So you knew all the time that he came to my place on impulse, but still put me through the third degree.”
    â€œActually, I didn’t know if you two had