Temptation by Douglas Kennedy Read Free Book Online Page A

from Motor City. NowI’m a short wop from Motor City
with money
. So, naturally, I’m going to use that fact as a way of
schtupping
all those cheerleaders who used to consider me a grease monkey.’
    After spending one or two evenings with Bobby and his
squeeze du jour
, I let it be known that I wasn’t really interested in his idea of the fast lane. So we restricted our monthly boys’ night out to a low-key dinner
à deux –
during which I’d sit back and let Bobby regale me with his non-stop spiel on just about everything. Sally couldn’t understand why I liked him. Though she approved of the way he was investing my money, her one and only meeting with Bobby was something of a social disaster. Having been very supportive during my break-up with Lucy, he was keen to meet Sally once the proverbial dust had settled . . . especially as he was well aware of her player status at Fox Television. So, around three months after we officially became an item, he suggested dinner at La Petite Porte in West Hollywood. From the moment we all sat down together, I could tell that Sally had instantly filed him away under ‘
peasant
’. He tried to charm her with his usual palaver. ‘Everyone who’s anybody knows the name of Sally Birmingham,’ he fawned. He attempted to show off his bookish credentials, asking her to name her favorite Don DeLillo novel. ‘I don’t have one,’ she shot back. ‘Life’s too short for his brand of literary self-importance.’ He even played his ‘I know A-List people’ card, mentioning how Johnny Depp had phoned him from his home in Paris yesterday to discuss some stock options. Once again, Sally narrowed him in her sights and said, ‘What an interesting life you lead.’
    It was an unnerving spectacle, watching Sally quietlypuncture Bobby’s manic attempts to win favor. Yet what was most intriguing about this demolition job was the patrician smile Sally retained throughout. Not once did she say, ‘You’re full of shit.’ Not once did she raise her voice. But by the end of the evening, she had cut him down to Toulouse Lautrec size and let it be known, in her own quiet way, that she considered him low grade,
petit bourgeois
, and not worth her time.
    On the way home that night, she reached over to me in the driver’s seat, and stroked the back of my head, and said, ‘Darling, you know I adore you, but never put me through something like that again.’
    Long silence. Finally I said, ‘Was it that bad?’
    ‘You know what I’m saying. He may be a brilliant broker . . . but socially speaking, he’s a fool.’
    ‘I find him amusing.’
    ‘And I can understand why – especially if you ever end up writing something for Scorsese. But he’s a people collector, David – and you’re this month’s
objet d’art
. If I were you I’d let him handle my investments and nothing more. He’s cheap and meretricious: the sort of hustler who might splash on Armani aftershave in the morning, but still stinks of Brut.’
    I knew that Sally was being cruel – and didn’t like seeing this unsympathetic side to her. But I said nothing. I also said little to Bobby when, a few days after the dinner, he called me at my office to announce that he was projecting a twenty-nine per cent return this year.
    ‘Twenty-nine per cent,’ I said, stunned. ‘That sounds positively illegal.’
    ‘Oh, it’s legal all right.’
    ‘Just joking,’ I said, picking up his defensiveness. ‘I’m very pleased. And grateful. Next time I’ll buy dinner.’
    ‘Is there going to be a next time? Sally really thought I was a jerk, didn’t she?’
    ‘Not to my knowledge.’
    ‘You’re lying, but I appreciate the sentiment. Believe me, I know when I strike out with someone.’
    ‘The chemistry just didn’t work between you guys, that’s all.’
    ‘You’re being polite. But hey, as long as you don’t share her sentiments . . . ’
    ‘Why should I? Especially when you’re making me twenty-nine per