“That was Columbus,” Pookie said. “The man distinctly said Christopher Jones. Who the hell is Christopher Jones?”
“Christopher Jones,” Max said, “as all you pathetically ignorant Yanks should know, was captain of the Mayflower.”
“Mayflower is correct,” Roscoe intoned. “We have a winner.”
They all went quiet when their waitress arrived-not out of politeness, but just because she was that kind of beautiful. She handed out their menus, and then Max surprised everyone by asking her to wait a moment.
“Everybody,” he said, “I want you to meet Sabrina, child of an old, old friend of mine. My dear, there are a thousand Maxwells in the phone book but only one Magnus Max. Surely you remember? Used to visit you when you were still playing with dolls.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t say I do. You knew my parents? How’d you know where to find me?”
“Your father has had people looking out for you here and there, and I’ve done my own modest research. I asked Luigi to make sure we were seated in your section.”
Max introduced everyone at the table. When he came to Owen, Owen found himself blushing for no reason whatsoever, other than the fact that Sabrina was flat-out gorgeous. Her dark hair was pulled back into a twist, exposing a perfect neck. The effect was erotically prim, and Owen found himself imagining her with her hair spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes were green and caught the light in a way that reminded him of certain purloined items back at the Rocket.
“I still miss your mum,” Max said. “Sweet lady. I used to love to visit just to bask in her beauty. You’re the very image of her.”
“I am not,” Sabrina said. “She was way more elegant than I’ll ever be.”
Max raised a hand to forestall argument. “My dear, the two halves of a cleft apple are not more like. Now, before we move on to food, we shall require an extremely cold bottle of Dom Perignon. Have to get the best,” he added with a nod toward Roscoe and Pookie. “I’m trying to buy their loyalty.”
“Do you think it’ll work?” Sabrina said.
“It will fail miserably,” Max said. “But I shall be happy as a clam nevertheless.”
Sabrina smiled and it was as if the power had just been restored after a blackout. Owen had to fix his gaze on the tablecloth to avoid gaping at her. Pookie and Roscoe were entranced as well, though Roscoe registered this by fiercely gripping his menu, and Pookie by drumming his fingers on the tablecloth, skull-and-crossbones ring flashing.
“Sabrina,” Max informed the table when she was gone, “is no other than the daughter of John-Paul Bertrand, otherwise known as the Pontiff. The thief’s thief, and a gentleman of the first order. Promised him the day he was hauled off to Oxford that I would look in on her whenever I could. Make sure she was okay.”
“Looks okay to me,” Roscoe said.
Pookie ran through the menu, warning the others of cholesterol here and triglycerides there. He became more fanatical on the subject each year.
Sabrina returned with the champagne and Owen felt her beauty pass through him in waves of benign radiation.
“A timely arrival, my sprite,” Max said to her. “We are gnawed by the tooth of hunger.”
The champagne was followed by a bottle of Amarone, and then another. Owen burnt his tongue on his spinach ravioli and had to keep cooling his mouth with sips of wine.
Max noisily devoured a huge plate of osso bucco. “Nothing like a first-class meal,” he said, swilling the last of the Amarone in his glass. “Makes all seem right with the world.”
“What word do the Amish use,” Roscoe inquired, “to refer to anyone outside their community?”
“Auslander,” Pookie said.
“Amish-Not,” from Owen.
“Must we?” Max said.
Roscoe looked around the table, solemn as a horse. “English.”
“I’m so glad we cleared that up,” Max said. He launched into a war story about Peter O’Toole, making the others laugh. He became bossy over dessert, ordering tiramisu for everyone. Owen wished they could have ordered separately, just to keep Sabrina lingering at their table.
Later, the older people had brandies and espressos.
“I gotta say, that Sabrina is one good-looking girl,” Pookie said.
“She doth indeed teach the torches to burn bright.”
“I think the kid here is smitten,” Pookie said, pointing across the table at Owen. “He’s looking a little dreamy.”
“It’s just the wine,” Owen said, and excused himself to go to the washroom.
On his way back to the table he passed close by Sabrina, who was waiting at the end of the bar for a round of drinks.
“You having a good time?” she asked him.
“This may be the best restaurant I’ve ever been to,” he said, hoping desperately to come up with something witty to say and failing.
“That’s nice to hear.”
She turned her attention back to the bartender, and Owen made his way back to the table.
They lingered over their brandy, the trivia questions popping back and forth and Max spouting quotations. Owen barely listened. He kept analyzing his brief exchange with Sabrina with the intensity of a code-breaker. He knew there probably was no code, that she was just being polite. In any case, by the time they left, the busboys were putting chairs upside down on stripped tables and Sabrina was gone.
“So why didn’t we bring Stu along?” Clem wanted to know.
Zig didn’t answer. He hated being cooped up in a car with Clem, who suffered mightily from low frustration tolerance, ADD, claustrophobia and all the other disorders formerly known as ants in the pants. Clem was not one to suffer in silence.
“Boss? Did you hear me? I asked you why didn’t we bring Stu along?”
“Maybe I don’t trust him yet.”
“Stu’s a stand-up guy,” Clem said. “You think I’m gonna recommend some jerk-off’s gonna waste your time?”
“I’ll trust him when I feel like trusting him.”
Clem reached for the radio dial.
“Don’t.”
Clem sat back again. There were only a handful of cars left in the restaurant lot. Three hours now they’d been sitting here watching people coming out of Luigi’s looking pleased with themselves. Clem was getting more and more hyper, obviously, but Zig didn’t mind sitting it out. He was sure Max was behind the San Francisco job. Old guy, young guy, two associates. And he’d heard Max’s theories about dinnertime robbery back in Ossining.
“Finally,” Clem said.
“Looks like they’ve been into the vino pretty good.”
“Bald guy’s Pookie. Other guy’s Roscoe.”
The kid had to practically lever Max into their car, the old guy was so busy holding forth. He boomed and blustered and cackled, even as the kid was getting into the driver’s side. The other two got into separate cars.
“Three cars, three Tauruses,” Clem said. “Musta got a volume discount.”
“Staying in separate places too, I bet,” Zig said. “That’s smart.”
“So which one we gonna take down?”
“I like Baldy.”
“A fine evening,” Max said when they were moving. “Sumptuous meal. Good service. See, lad, these are the good things the diligent life will bring your way. The rewards of application far outweigh talent. The productive man wants for nothing.”
“Last week you said there was no meritocracy.”
“Oh, plague me not with your last week this and your previously that.”
“You’re always contradicting yourself.”
“Last week I was talking of the theatre. Not real life.”
“Hey, look!”
They were stopped at a traffic light. In the parking lot beside them a man was screaming at a girl. Owen rolled down his window.
“Ask yourself this question, missy,” the man yelled. “Just ask yourself what kind of woman do you want to be? Do you want to be the good woman, whose worth is above rubies? Or do you want to be some no-account whore of Babylon?” The man grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him.
“Do my eyes deceive me,” Max said, “or is that not Sabrina?”