Page 31 of Roberto

The bartender rescued me when she came over and hand-delivered a drink to Mei-Ling. It was an off-white liquid in a martini glass with three small, white, pulpy orbs speared on a tiny bamboo umbrella.

Mei-ling said something in Chinese to the bartender, who nodded and walked away.

“That looks delicious,” I said. “What is it?”

“A lemon lychee cocktail. Have you had lychee fruit before?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“It’s quite good. Very sweet and delicate. Have Jiangbei make one for you later.” She took a sip of the drink. “So – what is it that you do, Roberto?”

I wanted to say something sexy and dangerous:I’m a member of a Cosa Nostra family fighting a war with my uncle and cousin.

But instead I said, “I’m in finance.”

Technically correct, but utterly boring.

On the other hand, it would have been idiotic and foolhardy to reveal the true nature of my business just to impress a woman.

“We have quite a few customers in that field,” she said pleasantly.

“So you work here?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

My heart began beating much faster. “I…”

Then I trailed off.

Mei-ling raised her eyebrows in anticipation of my question.

“…how much would it be to spend the evening with you?” I asked.

She gave me a smile, though it was cool and slightly contemptuous. “You don’t have enough money to spend the evening with me, Mr. Rosolini.”

Thatanswer took me aback.

And not just that she’d stopped using ‘Roberto.’

You don’t have enough money to spend the evening with me, Mr. Rosolini.

I wanted to say,I have a cashier’s check in my pocket for $227,000 that says otherwise,but that would have been crude and boastful – the opposite of how I wanted to present myself.

“What about $10,000 per hour of your time?” I offered.

I was expecting the offer to surprise her – maybe even stun her into silence.

What Ididnot expect was for her to scoff at me dismissively. “No, thank you.”

I frowned. “I don’t understand. You said you work here – correct?”

“Yousaid that.Isaid, ‘In a manner of speaking.’”

“So what does thatmean, exactly?” I asked, a bit more sharply than I intended. I didn’t like verbal games and clever asides – mostly because I was terrible at them. I always preferred to be direct.

All warmth dropped from her voice, leaving only cool condescension. “It means IownDe Sade, Mr. Rosolini.”

“…ah,” I said, realizing just how badly I’d overstepped. “I apologize. I’m unfamiliar with the club and how things work around here.”

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