He pointed to the plant we'd been looking at earlier, the titan arum, the largest unbranched inflorescence in the world. In simple terms, the biggest flower that isn't on a tree. Spectacular and rare, but unsettling, since the corpse flower looks like a giant phallus, and smells, well, like rotting meat; hence the name, and the need for an enclosure. I was guessing some dumb schmuck who didn't know any better thought the titan arum would be a clever promotion for Titans. I was also guessing same dumb schmuck was currently looking for another job.
'I heard the Mishkins had to fork over five grand for that box,' he said, 'to keep the stench away from the paying customers. And they're probably going to trash it once the damn thing blooms and it's shipped back to the jungle.'
'I doubt they'll do that. Smarter to donate it and get the tax deduction. The University of Wisconsin has a few corpse flowers. I'm sure UConn would love to have it; theirs bloomed a few years ago.' He eyed me as if I'd just spoken in tongues or cracked the human genome. Okay, he wasn't into plants . . . or big words. But the longer I looked at him, the less I cared. Brains weren't everything, and anyway, we were just talking.
If I stuck to club soda and we stayed in safe territory conversationwise, he could stay. Besides, I'd enjoy the look on Lucy's face when she rushed in breathlessly with stories and apologies and saw me sitting with a sexy beast like Nick Vigoriti. She and the rest of my friends had been after me to start dating again ever since I left New York City, and this little encounter might shut them up for a while. He might even contribute something interesting about the hotel that I could use for the article. Who knew?
'Who are the Mishkins?' I asked, surreptitiously keying that info into the laptop.
'Bernie Mishkin and his sister,' he said, watching me use the computer. 'Are you writing this down now?'
'Yeah. Is that a problem?'
Vigoriti shrugged. 'Same difference. The Mishkins own the place,' he said, waving the sad-eyed bartender over. 'They and their numerous partners.'
The bartender had a heart-shaped face and lank hair that hung in a skinny braid halfway down her back.
'What're you having, Nicky?' she asked, in an accent I couldn't initially place, then decided was Russian. She wiped non ex is tent spills from the bar and slipped a coaster in front of him, grazing his fingers.
'Dirty martini,' he said, pulling back his hand. 'You?' he asked me.
Every stupid thing I'd done in my adult life had come after a few drinks, and I could imagine getting very stupid with Nick Vigoriti, so I stuck with club soda.
'Can you introduce me to them?' I asked. 'The Mishkins?'
'You think that's a good idea?'
'Why not?' I said. 'I may have a lucrative proposition for them.'
'They're always interested in money.' He laughed. 'I haven't talked to Bernie for a while, but that may change. His wife died a few months back. I haven't seen much of him since then. . . . I was really friendlier with her.'
Why was I not surprised? What woman wouldn't want to be friends with a handsome stud who hung on your every word and made you feel as if you were the only woman in the room worth talking to?
The bartender brought our drinks. Nick's had six green olives on two plastic toothpicks. The bartender moved off to another customer but not before giving me a look that suggested she wouldn't mind seeing my head on a sharpened stick.
'What did
'Oksana's a good kid,' he said, swallowing hard and nodding in her direction.
'Adorable.'
'I used to work here,' Vigoriti continued. 'Before Mishkin brought in the Malaysians, the Ukranians, let's see . . .' He rattled off a laundry list of ethnic groups, then took a long pull on his drink. 'Who is it now, Oksana?' he called out to the bartender.
'Chinese, I think,' she said, over her shoulder, already fixing him a second drink.
'Their board meetings must look like a Benetton ad,' I muttered.
'Most of them cut bait.'
'It doesn't look like business is too bad; there are people here,' I said.
'We could go somewhere private to discuss this,' he said, signaling Oksana that he was ready for round two. He polished off his drink and slid all the olives into his mouth in a surprisingly suggestive move that made me rethink how friendly I wanted to appear.
'You know, I was just trying to be polite. Always dangerous at a bar. I'm sorry if I misled you, but I really am waiting for someone, and it isn't you.' As if on cue, my phone beeped with a text message. Lucy was running late. Typical. She'd gotten a late start to begin with and one of the cheap Chinese New York-to-Boston shuttle buses had collided with a construction-materials truck. Gravel was spread all over I-95. The result was the same as if a load of ball bearings had spilled out on the highway; cars were drifting side to side as if they were in a Japanese video game. Lucy was stuck on the road, near Stamford, and wrote that she'd call when she got closer.
Locals were trickling into the bar for after-dinner drinks, working guys with puffy baseball caps. And businessmen who might have heard about the mess on 95 and preferred to sit here instead of in traffic. I debated the pros and cons of staying at the bar with Nick and possibly moving on to the harder stuff but decided against it. Life was complicated enough.
I chugged my drink and shut down the computer. 'I'm gonna cut bait, to use your expression. I have to go. I was serious about meeting the Mishkins, though. I may have a buyer.' I whipped out my business card and handed it to Nick as I got up to leave. He looked puzzled and studied the card for longer than it took to read the six or eight words on it. Was it possible the guy couldn't read? 'For the green house,' I said, 'the glass enclosure?'
A smile crept over Nick's handsome face.
'What's so funny?'
'My mistake,' he said, flicking the card with his index finger. 'Not the kind of dirt I thought you dug up.'
* * * * *
