It’s quite moving, Nelofar said.
Yes, a complete tour, Shahin said. Bo left no stone unturned.
We’d been discussing the situation, Daisy said.
Yes, a seemingly intractable situation, Shahin said, shaking his head somberly.
We met through a mutual friend—a friend from college days, Bo said.
Of course, Daisy said.
Why had he said that?
My old roommate from Boston days, he said. There’s a terribly funny story behind it—I’ll have to tell you when there’s time. Neil Ford. He’s at JPM and as it happens does some work for Mr. Jahanbani’s family.
Shut up, he thought. Stop talking.
Yes, I’m afraid we’re all but permanent residents now, said Shahin.
It’s awful, what’s happening, Daisy said. Bo forced himself not to sneer. Is the old bag actually bringing her little fucking embroidered hankie up to her nose, the mere thought of revolution too much for her delicate constitution to bear? Yes, she is. And there, with the hankie poised, she waits. What’s she waiting for? She’s waiting for Nelofar or Shahin to divulge some intimacy—the source of their money, their real connection to Bo, an opening into which she might insert her proboscis and drain them of their precious life-giving mammon, but they, in turn, were waiting her out, nodding sympathetically back at her, and Bo saw that they were going to stall her until her wings melted and she fell right out of the sky, and he could have just dropped to his knees and mauled the toes of Shahin’s calfskin brogues with his tongue, and Nelofar, oh, Nelofar, oh, spiced tits and mystery—
But what if it’s too late? What if Daisy’s already got what she needs and she’s just digging in the turd pile to see what stinks?
My god. Look at these poor souls, Bo boomed. Waiting here dry as a bone and I’m just standing by like a drugstore Indian without even offering—champagne? French 75? A scotch? Old-fashioned?
Champagne would be lovely, Nelofar said.
I’ll accompany you, Shahin said. Mrs. Walker? Anything for you?
Daisy held up her glass of white to decline. She tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve.
The two men lurched through the crowd to the bar.
Cagey old girl. Before you arrived, she was trying to suss out my bloodline, Shahin said.
She’s a scourge, Bo said.
Insultingly direct. Something about talking to a brown person does seem to give these people the idea the boundaries of good taste are porous, Shahin said. And the look on your face! Charging over like a mother elephant to protect her calves. I was touched.
Jesus. No way I’d leave you alone with that one.
You have such little faith in us? Look at Nelofar. Like Talleyrand. She’ll take that woman apart and leave her in pieces on the floor, Shahin said.
It was true that already Nelofar had Daisy on her back foot, flashing those porcelain dentures like fangs, and Bo felt another hot surge of lust.
No ill can befall me so long as she is by my side, Shahin said. But you know that. She’s not the one you’re worried about. You’re worried what I might slip and offer up without so much as a finger’s pressure?
Nonsense. Only trying to protect the investment, Bo said.
Ah well. In any case, misplaced concern, though I admire the energy you expend guarding your investment. I am sober as a judge, I promise. And when in this unfortunate state, I do know how to keep my mouth shut. Didn’t I tell you about my exit interview? SAVAK had me in a chair for three days before they’d grant us visas and I can assure you they were slightly less civilized than dear old Daisy over there. I’m not a complete moron, you know, Shahin said, turning back to the bar to collect the scotch and champagne. And, Bo? If you want to shag my wife, just come out and ask. I know you Americans are pathologically afraid of voicing your urges, but it’s just pitiful to watch you try to keep your tongue in your mouth.
With that, Bo’s twenty-five-million-dollar long position in the West Texas Intermediate crude market walked back to his wife to present her with the champagne flute he so elegantly cradled in his fingers. Shahin leaned in and spoke into her ear. She smiled broadly and raised her glass to Bo, diamond bracelet flickering at him like a thousand tongues. Goodness gracious, he thought. There’s something to file away for a rainy day.
Dirty business, this, and gee, he felt terrific. Except the soul-sucking Beatles were still killing his party, hacking at its shins with their ice-cream sundae spoons, and he made haste for the hi-fi cabinet. The Idiot or Lust for Life? Lust for Life, of course. Ozone and hot aluminum when he opened the door. The needles tipping to George Harrison’s guitar, barely even touching 100 watts. Pathetic. Bo hadn’t paid some kid with bad skin in a Zeppelin T-shirt to build a system for him. He had sourced every item himself. Teac X-300 reel-to-reel direct from Tokyo. Two Audio Research EC-5 crossovers; Sansui amps and preamp; a TU-717 tuner; Bang & Olufsen Beogram turntable. He had two pairs of KLH Double Nine speakers, but those were for private listening. A party was a waste of their reproductive qualities. Arguably, a party was a bigger waste of the beasts from White Bear Lake he had running now, and which he’d taken delivery of only months earlier, Magneplanar Tympani IIIAs and a IIIA-W bass panel, speakers the size of room dividers, and that were, without question, the best money could buy, the Hope Diamond of speakers, the Holy Grail and the Ark of the fucking Covenant right there blowing divine wind into your ears. Too much for these cretins. But to hell with it, he was letting everyone listen to them because that’s the type of guy
