We had four restaurants here on the grounds of Delmar including the master dining hall where you could get a five-star lunch or dinner any day of the week. I was partial to the Italian joint, but that's only because I was partial to Italian food in general. Nothing beat a chicken parmigiana hero or, for the uninitiated, sandwich, sub, grinder, or whatever you call breaded and fried chicken with tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese on a long roll of Italian bread in your neck of the woods. This place also served coal-oven pizza and an assortment of other Italian favorites.
"I'm starving," I said.
"It's been a long day."
"Can we get—"
"Italian?" she asked, interrupting me.
"How did you know?"
"How could I not know?"
We entered through the gate of the Delmar Country Club and drove up to the guard tower. I showed him my identification, and we were off. I have to admit though, I did like John's perk of flashing a badge and driving on without so much as bothering to utter a word.
Down the long drive toward the clubhouse we went, but this time we hung a left. The Italian place was around the corner. It was on the front nine of the golf course. About a quarter of a mile down on our right came Delano's. I pulled in the lot, parked the car, walked into the restaurant and over to the host.
"Mr. and Mrs. Slade, hello," he said.
"Hi, Mike," I said.
Imogen smiled. Sometimes she plays the demure one. Lies.
"Let me find you two a table. Do you want to eat course-side?"
"Sure, it's nice out. I wouldn't mind watching some guys hack away while I eat."
Mike laughed. "Oh, Mr. Slade, give me one moment."
He walked away and left Ginny and me alone at the host station.
"Oh, Mr. Slade, haha," Imogen said, mimicking Mike. "Aren't you the cat's meow, Max?"
"Jealous?"
"Yes, quite. I'm trying to win Mike over. I want to be the comedy queen of Delano's."
"Well, with that attitude you'll need to try harder."
Mike returned. "Follow me."
We strolled through the restaurant. I was busy looking at the giant floor-to-ceiling windows that gave everyone a view of the golf course no matter where you were sitting. I once asked Mike how many windows had been broken since they opened. In case you were wondering, six.
We walked out the back door and onto the patio that sat about thirty. Mike walked us over to a table for two, and we sat.
"How's this?"
"Perfect," I answered.
"Bon appétit. Your server will be right with you."
We thanked Mike and picked up our menus.
"Why does he say 'bon appétit'?" I asked.
"He's being polite, Max."
"But that's French. This is an Italian place. Shouldn't he be saying buon appetito?"
"Mike's not Italian."
"So? Fake it. This is an Italian place."
"Max, if you want to hear buon appetito so bad get your ass on a plane and visit Italy. You need a glass of vino, prego."
"That's the spirit, ol' girl. White or red?"
"Red. It will go with your chicken parmigiana, right?"
"How'd you know?"
"You order one thing here. Or haven't you noticed?"
I hadn't noticed. But that's not all that unusual. I have a permanent menu. I order the same thing at the same restaurants. I'm very predictable or boring. I'm still deciding which one, although I'm sure Ginny has made up her mind on the subject.
The waiter came over, took our drink and entree orders, and then left. Moments later he was back with the bottle of Merlot that we had ordered. He opened. I tasted. He poured, and we drank—all under the beautiful late afternoon sun.
"That painting was something else," I said, sipping my wine.
I needed that. If I could have, I would have injected the wine into my veins.
"It was phenomenal," she said. "The story is crazy though. A lost Klimt comes to auction."
"Agreed. And what about the death threats?" I asked.
"It's crazy. But whoever is sending those threats is thinking the same way we are. People don't call each other Nazis unless they believe it."
"And Nazi bitch no less," I added.
"Kind of has a nice ring to it," Imogen said. "Nazi bitch."
"Maybe, if you're psychotic."
"Oh, Max," Imogen said, laughing.
"See, I am the king of comedy at Delano's."
Imogen continued to laugh as we both sipped our wine.
"If you think so," Imogen said.
Our food arrived, and we ate. Mine was delicious. I was enjoying my hero, watching a foursome try to play golf. We were sitting by the green of hole number seven. Three of the four were hacking, trying to get on the green in under five shots. One of the guys hit a great shot from the fairway, landing about five feet from the pin. I wondered how much that guy was taking home off of his friends.
As I was eating and blankly staring out at the course, Eric Milford, who was off to my right, spotted us. He was sitting outside with his wife, enjoying a meal as well. He waved, and then, before I knew it, the two of them were standing in front of our table. We shook hands. I kissed his wife twice on the cheek. Imogen received the same from Eric, and then the two ladies embraced with double air kisses.
I was just about finished with my meal as was Imogen when they arrived, so there was no point in inviting them over to the table to sit. We did have a couple of glasses of wine left in the bottle that I wanted to drink before this lunch was over.
Shannon, Eric's wife, had already pulled over a chair from the table next to us and was gabbing with Imogen. Eric was still standing.
"You want to finish our drinks over there?" Eric asked, pointing to the edge of the patio.
There was a white rail that lined the perimeter of the patio.
"Sure," I said. "You ladies don't mind if we stand and watch these guys try to play golf?" I asked, pointing to the rail.
"Not at all," Ginny said. "You lads have fun."
Her English accent gets a little stronger when the drinks start flowing.
Eric and I strolled over to his table, he picked up his martini, and then we walked over to the rail. I sipped my wine on the way. I had already refreshed my glass before I had gotten up.
"Did you hear what happened?" Eric asked.
Of course I had heard what happened. I was there. At the crime scene. On the case.
"Just the basics," I answered.
"Unbelievable," he said.
I sipped my wine. I wasn't going to offer up anything new to Eric. I changed the subject.
"So how's the old market treating you?" I asked.
I know nothing about Wall Street. All I know is how to evaluate, finance, and structure a technology company. I can read a balance sheet and an income statement, but that's about the beginning and the end of my financial acumen.
Eric, on the other hand, was a finance guy at some hedge fund. I wasn't really sure what he did or if it had anything to do with Wall Street. The only thing I really knew about him was that he liked his martinis dry. And he was pleasant enough to be around.
He laughed. "You really have no idea what I do, do you?"
I laughed back. "None."
"Work is great. In fact, I'm glad that I bumped into you. I was going to wait until I saw you at the club alone, but now's as good a time as any."
"Oh Jesus," I said. "Here we go…"
He kept laughing, "Max, Max. Come on. Hear me out."
Money. Everyone's got it here at Delmar. And everyone wants more of it. It never ends.
I sipped my wine, hoping I'd be numb enough by the time Eric spoke.