Excerpt

    Yes, it's Schmidtie here. Hello hello. Yes, this is Schmidtie speaking.

    He had knocked the telephone off his night table and was groping under the bed for the receiver. People shouldn't be calling a retired gent before nine. Or was this some sort of bad news? Charlotte!

    I hope this is not an inconvenient time.

    The speaker's voice was agreeably deep, with a mystifying rough intonation at the edge.

    You don't remember me.

    Terribly sorry, I'm not good at recognizing voices.

    Look, there's no reason you should remember me, though people usually do remember my voice. I'm Michael Mansour. That's right, in this country I pronounce "Man-sower," not "Man-soor." Anything to make it easy for the natives. We met yesterday, at the Blackmans' party. You know who I am?

    Now Schmidt had his bearings. Of course, the billionaire investor who backs Gil's films. Egyptian, or something, but lodged firmly toward the top of Forbes magazine's list of the richest tycoons in America.

    Of course. I've read about you, more than once. The king of bottom fishers.

    Ha! Ha! I like that—you made a pun, right? But that's just how I make money. I'm a friend of Gil's, he gave me your telephone number. I'd like you and your wife to come over for lunch on Saturday. My house, at one-thirty, unless you want to take a dip in the ocean before we start drinking. Gil says you're his best friend. He's told me what kind of lawyer you were. I'm sorry