Narabedla Ltd Read Free

glumly. Vic had been chubby even in high school, but when he started earning big bucks he really let himself go. He had to be three hundred pounds. Where he found those good-looking suits that actually seemed to fit him I couldn’t guess. He gave me a rueful grin. “Mary-Ellen’s been putting on a little weight, too.”
    I said, “Oh.” His wife had been a skinny little thing when they married; a few more pounds wouldn’t have hurt her.
    “She’s up to two hundred,” he said, sipping his Fernet-Branca almost as though he liked it, and added quickly, “She looks great, though. The only thing is, it gets kind of tricky to, uh, make contact. If you know what I mean.” He gave me a look both comical and gloomy and began to tell me about his doctor’s advice, which was no good because, basically, it came down to eating less—and, my God, hadn’t he been trying to do that for years?—and his wife’s best girlfriend’s advice, which was to put planks under the mattress so Mary-Ellen wouldn’t, you know, sink out of reach.
    It was a great, friendly lunch. We had a bottle of wine with the artichokes and the stuffed veal, swapping personal stories and reminiscences and getting mellow. When I judged he was mellow enough I said, “I’ve got a little problem, Vic.”
    He mopped the last of his crusty bread in the last of his cream sauce, looking at me. “That was true about company policy, Nolly.”
    “I know that, Vic.”
    He nodded and waved to the waiter for coffee. “It isn’t money, is it? Because if it is, hell, Nolly, I know you’re good for whatever you need.”
    “Not money. Just a problem. I have this client, or at least I did have him …” And I told him about Woody Calderon, and the offer he couldn’t refuse, and the thousand-dollar cashier’s check.
    Vic refilled his coffee cup twice while I was talking. He drank it hot and black, swallowing it down as though he wanted to make sure he blotted up the last of the wine before he said anything he maybe shouldn’t.
    Then he sighed. “That’s funny,” he commented. “So what are you going to do? Pay off his I.R.S. tab?”
    “I already did that. There’s two hundred dollars left over.”
    “So that’s your fee. Just keep it— No,” he said, nodding as though the dentist had just told him the tooth would have to be recapped, “I know. It isn’t the money that’s worrying’ you. You want to know if I know anything about it, as far as Narabedla and Mr. Davidson-Jones are concerned.”
    I said, “You can see where I might be curious.”
    “I don’t mind your curiosity, Nolly.” He thought for a moment, beckoning for more coffee. “You understand, Narabedla’s huge. I don’t know everything that goes on in it. Maybe nobody does but Henry Davidson-Jones himself, and I’ll bet even he can’t keep track of the details. I have a specific job. I’m U.S. investments and subsidiaries, that’s all. I audit the statements from the other offices and prepare a consolidated profit-and-loss for the board meetings—that takes my time and seven other people’s, just for that. I don’t have a thing to do with, for instance, any of the offshore holdings, except now and then when one of the U.S. executives makes a trip to Europe or somewhere for meetings and we get his expense records. And I certainly don’t know anything about Davidson-Jones’s personal philanthropies. He’s never discussed his interest in the arts with me. He’s never discussed anything with me. I’ve never met the man.” 
    “It was just a thought,” I said.
    “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Nolly,” he said warmly, his big face friendly enough and regretful enough. To make up for it, he said, “How about a brandy?”
    So we had a brandy, and Vic told me why the Mets couldn’t possibly repeat last year’s season, while the Yankees were bound to improve, and when the check came he grabbed it. “Narabedla’s got more money than you do,” he said. And then, while