citizens.” He waved away Mr. Heat, who hesitated before thumping the logo on his shirt, grinning at the crowd, and hurrying off. Giulietta sauntered to the Jeep.
“The Cotton Ground station has received complaints,” the officer said, turning back to Els.
“About Mum?”
“About disturbances at your establishment.”
Probably fewer than when Jack was alive, she thought. “I specifically have permission to fire Bessie—the cannon—at sunset,” she said. “Otherwise, we’re positively sedate.”
He looked at her. “It is unwise to contribute to disruption,” he said, and walked toward the police station.
By the time Els returned to the Jeep with their groceries, Giulietta had refreshed her lipstick and was filing a fingernail.
Els slammed the shift into reverse. “If you’re going to get me and my business in trouble, Mum, I’ll leave you home from now on.”
“You brag to be so tough in your bank,” Giulietta said. “What makes you shrinking flower all of a sudden?”
“The government could close me down in a heartbeat.”
“Because I refuse insults from un nero?”
“It’s their island, Mum.”
CHAPTER 40
Jack’s had been busy all of Thanksgiving weekend. On Saturday night, Els was frantically doling out drink orders when she spotted Paul Salustrio and a familiar-looking man coming up the drive.
She intercepted them in the court. Salustrio, cigar in hand, flicked his eyes over her.
“You’ve changed,” he said. “Or is that stiff little investment banker still under there somewhere?”
She was wearing a strapless batik sundress and the blue bead necklace.
“I believe you know each other,” Salustrio said, pushing his companion forward.
Franklin Burgess. She’d failed to recognize him because a sunburn had replaced his normal pallor except for patches around his eyes. A raccoon in negative.
“I snagged him right after the Standard Heb debacle,” Salustrio said.
“What do you think, boss,” Burgess said, “can Lady Eleanor, the legendary Fire and Ice Queen, have mellowed a bit?” He stuck out his hand.
She crossed her arms. “Did that deal you stole from me nail your promotion, Foghorn?” she said.
“It would have,” Burgess said. “But Paul hired me away—as a managing director—the minute the shit hit the fan.”
“Are you here because Goldman’s throwing some group grope over at the Resort?” she asked.
“A private cruise,” Burgess said.
“Not on Iguana.”
“Wouldn’t charter anything else,” Salustrio said.
Glass shattered on the patio. Genevra bent over the dropped tray. Pinky bolted from the kitchen, dustpan in hand.
“Without your families at Thanksgiving?” Els asked.
“They’re resting up tonight,” Burgess said. “It’s a hell of a trip to your little paradise here.”
“Keeps out some of the riffraff,” she said.
“I wondered where you’d disappeared to,” Salustrio said, “until I saw that Condé Nast Traveler bit.” He tapped cigar ash onto the gravel.
“We can’t seat you until at least nine o’clock.”
“How continental,” Salustrio said. “We’ll wait in the bar.” He scanned the restaurant. “Who’s the voluptuous vision?”
“My mother.”
Giulietta, in a flowered silk dress with ruffles at its deep V-neck, a glass of red wine in hand, was visiting each table, laughing and speaking her English-Italian mix and telling people what to eat. Salustrio watched Giulietta cock her hip and flirt with a patron.
“So I was right about the red-hot mama,” he said. “I can’t wait to hear her take on Sir Harald, rest his dour soul. Sorry for your loss, by the way.”
“Talk to her about Father at your peril,” she said.
“A little protective of family secrets?” Salustrio said.
“She parts with them harder than I do with my virtue.”
Salustrio’s Diet Coke was watery and Burgess was on his third scotch and they’d consumed a platter of coconut shrimp and two orders of bruschetta. The lounge stank of cigar, Salustrio having challenged the men to sample Els’s supply of top-of-the-line Cubans and Dominicans. Cigar sales alone would make it a decent night.
She finally got the bankers seated, and when she’d reeled off the remaining menu choices, Burgess said, “Some career shift you made, Gordon.” In the year since she’d seen him, he’d put on a stone and switched to contact lenses. The contacts had turned his stare glassy, but the real change was in his air of entitlement, the way he lifted his chin and looked down his nose.
“That strapless number would knock ’em dead back home,” he said.
“It’s a relief not to have to dress for success,” she said.
“And those nifty cashmere sweaters were, no doubt, a large part of your success.” He exchanged a look with Salustrio. “Tell me, is waiting tables an improvement over M&A?” With his voice at its customary blare, he broadcast this question all over the restaurant, causing other patrons to stare.
A burst of laughter