in Florida, the young guy is gonna be fine once he’s got some responsibility to be responsible for, the family’s gonna keep an eye on him —”
“Sure,” Kelp said.
“They always do,” Stan said.
Tiny said, “You know, all this is after it’s over. It’s over.”
Dortmunder said, “The O.J.’s still open.”
“If you call that open,” Tiny said. “But the goods have been bought, Dortmunder, the credit line’s used up. The place is a shell, it’s going down. What we’re supposed to be thinking about is that place on Fifth Avenue, full of good things that Albright is gonna pay us all this green.”
“We’re thinking about it,” Kelp assured him. “We’re working on it. Aren’t we, John?”
“In a way,” Dortmunder said.
“Let’s think about it some more,” Tiny suggested.
“Definitely,” Dortmunder said.
Stan said, “Just for the heck of it, though, why don’t we go and take a look at this Raphael?”
“Well, yeah,” Tiny said. “Sure we’re gonna go look at Raphael. Just don’t think anything’s gonna be done about the O.J.”
Kelp said, “In that case, why bother to go see him at all?”
Tiny smiled; the others flinched. “Because,” Tiny said, “I wish to attract his attention.”
Chapter 17
----
There were so many ways in which Preston Fareweather found Beryl Leominster beautiful. Her body was beautiful, hard and trim and as bronzed as an award statuette, with only the faintest little scars here and there to record a lifetime of nips and tucks. Her face was beautiful, if a little blank, but framed by cascades of honey blond hair, penned in a snood at night so it wouldn’t “get in the way,” as she’d explain. Which was another thing that was beautiful about her — her thoughtfulness. She was eager and knowledgeable in bed, without being too greedy. She was probably within seven or eight years of her declared age, twenty–nine. She was happily spending an ex–husband’s money, which wasn’t beautiful in itself but created the potential for Preston eventually to wreak some indirect revenge, which was certainly beautiful. But the most beautiful thing about Beryl, in Preston’s eyes, was that today was Friday, and tomorrow morning Beryl would go away.
The system was, most vacationers reached the resort on Saturday afternoon, coming down from mainland North America on charter flights. Some were singles; some were couples; some were families. Among the singles, the pairing off was usually accomplished by some time Sunday and frequently involved fraternization between guests and staff, an activity on which management neither beamed nor frowned. Just as often, however, guests would find each other perfectly acceptable. And the most acceptable often was the long–term guest like Preston, who could, in his phrase, “show the ropes” to the lovely newcomer.
Over the following week, the newly minted couples would explore the wonders of the island and of one another, and then, on Saturday morning, the vacationers would leave again, so that the staff had the few midday hours to prepare the rooms for the next week’s arrivals. Friday night, therefore, was the moment of truth among many of the pairs at the resort. Was this good–bye? Would phone numbers and e–mail addresses be exchanged? Would lies be told?
Not by Preston Fareweather. He lived for Friday evening and the truths he would tell the current stand–in for the despicable ex–wives. This week it was the lovely Beryl.
“I’ve had the most wonderful time, Pres,” she murmured in his ear, on her bed on that final Friday, after an evening spent mostly with white wine on the veranda outside her room, contemplating a wonderful moon, barely one–quarter full but gleaming as white as a mime’s smile for all that.
“I know you have, my darling,” Preston murmured back, left arm curled around her, one eye on the bedside clock. Physically he was spent, but mentally he still had a few
“Sure,” Kelp said.
“They always do,” Stan said.
Tiny said, “You know, all this is after it’s over. It’s over.”
Dortmunder said, “The O.J.’s still open.”
“If you call that open,” Tiny said. “But the goods have been bought, Dortmunder, the credit line’s used up. The place is a shell, it’s going down. What we’re supposed to be thinking about is that place on Fifth Avenue, full of good things that Albright is gonna pay us all this green.”
“We’re thinking about it,” Kelp assured him. “We’re working on it. Aren’t we, John?”
“In a way,” Dortmunder said.
“Let’s think about it some more,” Tiny suggested.
“Definitely,” Dortmunder said.
Stan said, “Just for the heck of it, though, why don’t we go and take a look at this Raphael?”
“Well, yeah,” Tiny said. “Sure we’re gonna go look at Raphael. Just don’t think anything’s gonna be done about the O.J.”
Kelp said, “In that case, why bother to go see him at all?”
Tiny smiled; the others flinched. “Because,” Tiny said, “I wish to attract his attention.”
Chapter 17
----
There were so many ways in which Preston Fareweather found Beryl Leominster beautiful. Her body was beautiful, hard and trim and as bronzed as an award statuette, with only the faintest little scars here and there to record a lifetime of nips and tucks. Her face was beautiful, if a little blank, but framed by cascades of honey blond hair, penned in a snood at night so it wouldn’t “get in the way,” as she’d explain. Which was another thing that was beautiful about her — her thoughtfulness. She was eager and knowledgeable in bed, without being too greedy. She was probably within seven or eight years of her declared age, twenty–nine. She was happily spending an ex–husband’s money, which wasn’t beautiful in itself but created the potential for Preston eventually to wreak some indirect revenge, which was certainly beautiful. But the most beautiful thing about Beryl, in Preston’s eyes, was that today was Friday, and tomorrow morning Beryl would go away.
The system was, most vacationers reached the resort on Saturday afternoon, coming down from mainland North America on charter flights. Some were singles; some were couples; some were families. Among the singles, the pairing off was usually accomplished by some time Sunday and frequently involved fraternization between guests and staff, an activity on which management neither beamed nor frowned. Just as often, however, guests would find each other perfectly acceptable. And the most acceptable often was the long–term guest like Preston, who could, in his phrase, “show the ropes” to the lovely newcomer.
Over the following week, the newly minted couples would explore the wonders of the island and of one another, and then, on Saturday morning, the vacationers would leave again, so that the staff had the few midday hours to prepare the rooms for the next week’s arrivals. Friday night, therefore, was the moment of truth among many of the pairs at the resort. Was this good–bye? Would phone numbers and e–mail addresses be exchanged? Would lies be told?
Not by Preston Fareweather. He lived for Friday evening and the truths he would tell the current stand–in for the despicable ex–wives. This week it was the lovely Beryl.
“I’ve had the most wonderful time, Pres,” she murmured in his ear, on her bed on that final Friday, after an evening spent mostly with white wine on the veranda outside her room, contemplating a wonderful moon, barely one–quarter full but gleaming as white as a mime’s smile for all that.
“I know you have, my darling,” Preston murmured back, left arm curled around her, one eye on the bedside clock. Physically he was spent, but mentally he still had a few
Similar Books
