a help if you could ID him. When I mentioned the curse, he said something about the curse being purity. That make any sense?”
“No. So if I find out who he is, I get a cut of the cure, right?”
“I always need you when someone’s got a curse, don’t I?”
“Just checking. When?”
“No date yet. I figured I play him for another office visit before we cure him.”
“Not like you to leave the afflicted strung out.”
“He’ll be back tomorrow. For sure. Like I said, he’s got it bad. See if you can figure out who he is. Maybe check the Web.”
“I was just on Facebook when you had your attack.”
“OK, then.”
“If I find out who he is, what do I get? I should get more than a small piece of the cure.”
“Why?”
“If it’s important and we find out all kinds of stuff, it could be worth a lot of money.”
“Let’s see who he is first, then we’ll talk.”
“No way, Lena. Remember that other time?”
“What other time?”
“That woman. The model.”
“Seventy-five, twenty-five.”
“Fifty, fifty.”
“Seventy, thirty. Going, going…”
“Sixty, forty.”
“Sixty-five, thirty-five. Done?”
“Done.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
LET US CUT AWAY FROM the smoky confines of the palmist’s inner sanctum to the briny exuberance of the sea crashing white froth on the dark sandy shores of East Hampton. The party lights of a lounge called El Rolo are visible beyond the dune. Lightning flutters on the west horizon.
El Rolo was a velvet rope place. If you were a man, you could only get in if you were accompanied by several beautiful girls or if you were famous and preferably both. Beautiful girls could get in even if they were not famous as long as their shoes were of the Prada equivalent.
You think I’m kidding, but Wilmer was the bouncer, and he had to know his shoes. Not only could he tell you the manufacturer of almost any woman’s upscale shoe, but he knew them by type: pump, mule, thong flat, espadrille, and even peep-toe slingback. He could even tell the cheap knock-offs, the Canal Street Specials sold in Chinatown back rooms. His job was as much as anything to keep out the riffraff and the paparazzi, so being able to tell a pair of Gucci cork wedges from Payless cork wedges was an important part of his job. That and being large enough to intimidate anybody on the planet. It’s a fact: Mike Tyson came there one night and got drunk. Wilmer threw him out. And I mean that literally. After taking a punch to the chest from the heavyweight champion of the world, Wilmer picked up Tyson and flung him out the back door into the dune.
It was closing time this particular night. Wilmer had provided drivers for about ten people so far. El Rolo provided drivers and follow cars to get people home safely and help keep them out of the tabloids for DUI. This pleased the customers and the local police, who did not like having to arrest their meal tickets but could not turn a blind eye to their crashing into trees, either.
Wilmer drew the chain across the driveway so nobody else could try to come in. The sign by the road was turned off, but that didn’t always stop Billy Joel from trying to come in for a nightcap. There were only four cars left. His drivers were all back now, and looking sleepy. So Wilmer went inside to assess who else was there that needed a nudge toward the door and a drive home.
There was a blond Dolce & Gabbana crisscross sandal with two brunettes, one a Ferragamo leopard-print platform slingback, the other a turquoise Christian Dior slide. No men.
“Excuse me, ladies, hate to bother you, but it’s that time.”
The turquoise Christian Dior slide looked sleepily up at him. “Thanks, Wilmer. Any drivers still here?”
“Sure, sweetheart. All three of you girls need drivers?”
“Not me,” said the Dolce & Gabbana. “I’ve been on smoothies all night. Can’t be puffy tomorrow for the shoot.”
“I’m OK,” yawned the Ferragamo, “but you better check on
“No. So if I find out who he is, I get a cut of the cure, right?”
“I always need you when someone’s got a curse, don’t I?”
“Just checking. When?”
“No date yet. I figured I play him for another office visit before we cure him.”
“Not like you to leave the afflicted strung out.”
“He’ll be back tomorrow. For sure. Like I said, he’s got it bad. See if you can figure out who he is. Maybe check the Web.”
“I was just on Facebook when you had your attack.”
“OK, then.”
“If I find out who he is, what do I get? I should get more than a small piece of the cure.”
“Why?”
“If it’s important and we find out all kinds of stuff, it could be worth a lot of money.”
“Let’s see who he is first, then we’ll talk.”
“No way, Lena. Remember that other time?”
“What other time?”
“That woman. The model.”
“Seventy-five, twenty-five.”
“Fifty, fifty.”
“Seventy, thirty. Going, going…”
“Sixty, forty.”
“Sixty-five, thirty-five. Done?”
“Done.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
LET US CUT AWAY FROM the smoky confines of the palmist’s inner sanctum to the briny exuberance of the sea crashing white froth on the dark sandy shores of East Hampton. The party lights of a lounge called El Rolo are visible beyond the dune. Lightning flutters on the west horizon.
El Rolo was a velvet rope place. If you were a man, you could only get in if you were accompanied by several beautiful girls or if you were famous and preferably both. Beautiful girls could get in even if they were not famous as long as their shoes were of the Prada equivalent.
You think I’m kidding, but Wilmer was the bouncer, and he had to know his shoes. Not only could he tell you the manufacturer of almost any woman’s upscale shoe, but he knew them by type: pump, mule, thong flat, espadrille, and even peep-toe slingback. He could even tell the cheap knock-offs, the Canal Street Specials sold in Chinatown back rooms. His job was as much as anything to keep out the riffraff and the paparazzi, so being able to tell a pair of Gucci cork wedges from Payless cork wedges was an important part of his job. That and being large enough to intimidate anybody on the planet. It’s a fact: Mike Tyson came there one night and got drunk. Wilmer threw him out. And I mean that literally. After taking a punch to the chest from the heavyweight champion of the world, Wilmer picked up Tyson and flung him out the back door into the dune.
It was closing time this particular night. Wilmer had provided drivers for about ten people so far. El Rolo provided drivers and follow cars to get people home safely and help keep them out of the tabloids for DUI. This pleased the customers and the local police, who did not like having to arrest their meal tickets but could not turn a blind eye to their crashing into trees, either.
Wilmer drew the chain across the driveway so nobody else could try to come in. The sign by the road was turned off, but that didn’t always stop Billy Joel from trying to come in for a nightcap. There were only four cars left. His drivers were all back now, and looking sleepy. So Wilmer went inside to assess who else was there that needed a nudge toward the door and a drive home.
There was a blond Dolce & Gabbana crisscross sandal with two brunettes, one a Ferragamo leopard-print platform slingback, the other a turquoise Christian Dior slide. No men.
“Excuse me, ladies, hate to bother you, but it’s that time.”
The turquoise Christian Dior slide looked sleepily up at him. “Thanks, Wilmer. Any drivers still here?”
“Sure, sweetheart. All three of you girls need drivers?”
“Not me,” said the Dolce & Gabbana. “I’ve been on smoothies all night. Can’t be puffy tomorrow for the shoot.”
“I’m OK,” yawned the Ferragamo, “but you better check on
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