The young man's hand was trembling as he handed the creamy vellum envelope embossed with the FGCC crest over to the older man. Edward Winslow held the younger man's finger between his and the underside of the envelope for an extra couple of seconds before taking the envelope and placing it carefully on the top of the cigarette table beside him. He puffed on his cigar and smiled a satisfied smile to himself. He wanted Bill Brewster to tremble at the thought of handing over that envelope. It was final nail in this particular coffin.
Bill Brewster shifted nervously in his crackled-leather Chippendale lounge chair in the dim corner of the First Gentlemen's Covenant Club smoking room and moved his slender, finely manicured hands together in a tented position, his fingertips centering between his patrician-shaped nose and his full, dry lips. He was doing all he could do to control the trembling of his hands, and he didn't want Winslow to see the trepidation his face surely revealed. He wasn't looking directly at his boss at First Families Securities, but Edward Winslow was looking directly at him and was smiling, clearly enjoying not just the young man's resignation but also his discomfort.
A tall, fine-figured Hispanic in a smartly tailored black silk uniform materialized at the side of Winslow's chair and set down a snifter of port. In withdrawing his hand, he barely brushed Winslow's hand with his. The senior partner of First Families Securities, the son of a son of a son going back to the arrival of the Mayflower on America's shores—the very prize that qualified Winslow for membership in the Beacon Hill First Gentlemen's Covenant Club—twitched his hand back, almost as if he'd been shot, and sent the port in his glass into a brief tempest.
"Damn Mexicans," Winslow muttered, as the servant moved silently behind the two chairs and, appearing at Bill Brewster's elbow, quietly slid the second snifter of port on the cigarette table beside the younger man.
"The old club's going to the damn Mexicans," Winslow continued to mutter. "At least the darkies they had in here before knew to wear gloves."
Bill Brewster picked up the snifter and moved it toward his mouth. But his hand was trembling so hard that he had to take the crystal vessel in his other hand as well to hold it steady. He took a gulp from the glass—quite out of character for a son of a son of a son, who had equal rights to FGCC membership to those Winslow had. But these were circumstances he'd never faced before.
It wasn't until this evening that Winslow had fully believed Brewster would actually go through with it. The room key in that vellum envelope lying beside Winslow's snifter settled that question.
Winslow snapped his fingers and the liveried attendant appeared at his side.
"Casa Blanca Jeroboam. No two. Now."
The servant vanished in search of the cigar humidor behind the long bar.
Winslow looked back over at Brewster, who was breathing heavily, obviously trying to contain himself. This had been a campaign of his for nearly a year. When Winslow had offered the younger man the broker's position, he had made it clear the extent to which Brewster was to show his gratitude. Brewster was a natural for the firm and looked the part perfectly, but he had majored in partying and tennis at Harvard, where only his name had stood him in good stead, and he normally could not have expected to have been given a position in the firm, despite his lineage.
The attendant reappeared, and Winslow snatched one of the cigars from him and motioned with an irritation usually reserved for the slow of mind for the other one to be placed on top of the vellum envelope. He hissed his disapproval that the Mexican had handled the cigars; they should have been delivered on a white linen napkin.
"No training whatsoever," Winslow muttered. "Can't train a Mexican. Heh, William?"
"Ye . . . yes, Edward, that's . . . that's right." Brewster was obviously uncomfortable, but it wasn't about Winslow's berating of the servant, because he added the unnecessary. "Training would be a waste. He'll be slipping back across the border as soon as he's made a few bucks."
"Next time on a napkin, Jose," Winslow hissed.
"Yes, sir," the servant said, his eyes downcast, as he backed into the shadows.
"You know his name?" Brewster asked, the tone of his voice revealing how incredulous he thought the idea that Winslow would take that much notice of one of "them."
"They're all called Jose, aren't they?" Winslow said. And they both laughed, although Brewster's laugh was edged with a bit of hysteria.
"So, are you sure?" Winslow said, fingering the vellum envelope. "I've heard that Fenton and Felton are hiring."
"Yes, I'm sure," Brewster responded in a small voice. The mention of Fenton and Felton, a decidedly plebian firm, was pregnant with meaning.
"You'll have to ask for it," Winslow said. "I'll not force it."
"Yes, thank you, sir. I understand," Brewster said. "But you will . . . we can . . . you know, what we agreed on."
"Yes," Winslow whispered sotto voce, his voice laced with exasperation. "If you have a blindfold, you can use it. And I have restraints. If it's easier for you, we can do that if it makes you feel less guilty."
"Light," Winslow said in a louder voice like the flick of a whip. He snapped his fingers as he said it, and the Hispanic attendant materialized from the shadows and lit Winslow's cigar for him. And then he faded away as quietly as he had appeared.
"Well, you'd best be going up," Winslow turned to Brewster and said. "I'll be up shortly. I don't care if the lights are off and you are blindfolded. You are going to enjoy it, so don't look so glum."
"Yes, sir," Brewster muttered in misery. He gulped down his port and moved unsteadily toward the door and to the elevator.
Nice ass, Winslow thought, as he watched the young man move away. Good looker, nicely muscled and trim. Just the way I like 'em. And young men of his pedigree are hard to come by. As only America can produce through generations of residence.
