“What? To dress nice and go to a party. No fuck ‘n’ suck, remember.”

“She’s special, she’s spectacular, she’s exactly what you want. She’s seven K. Plus one for me.”

“If I meet her and don’t want her?”

“I’ll find you a second choice, even a second and a third choice. Included. Because of our prior relationship. I only ask one thing. If you don’t have the money…and you’re looking for a hundred an hour tart, like that, let me know now, so we don’t fuck around and waste time.”

“I have the money,” I said.

“I have the girl,” he said, sounding more certain of his product than any car salesman I’ve ever met. “Isn’t life fun? You want a meet, I’ll call, or she’ll call, and set it up.”

“Soon,” I said.

“Soon,” he said, “tonight or tomarra.”

—

As I turned to leave I noticed a new set of pictures on the wall. It was a sort of series, going from left to right, the way we read. It started with the cover of Charley Rosen’s book, The Chosen Game: A Jewish Basketball History. It was followed by five black-and-white photos of basketball players from the 1920s and ’30s, white, mostly short, and presumably Jewish.

Owen was right behind me. “You like that?”

“Interesting,” I said.

“My grandfather, who was all of five foot six, was on the City College championship team”—he pointed at one of the photos—“back in the 1920s.”

The little exhibit reached its conclusion with a quote from Farewell to Sport, by Paul Gallico, who’d been a sports writer and the sports editor for the New York Daily News during that period. It said basketball “is a game that above all others…appeals to the Hebrew with his Oriental background…the game places a premium on an alert, scheming mind and flashy trickiness, artful dodging, and general smart-aleckness.”

“I take it it’s a dig at racial and ethnic stereotyping.”

“Nah,” he said. “I think that’s an accurate description of my people.”

Both of us keeping straight faces, neither of us sure if the other was mocking or utterly sincere.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MERETRICIOUS

“The martinis tasted like rubbing alcohol.”

BUSINESS INSIDER, REVIEW OF TRUMP GRILL

WE MET IN THE TRUMP Grill in Trump Tower.

I was there first. A girl walked in and I said to myself, “That, that girl would be perfect.” She looked to be fourteen, possibly a little younger even, less possibly a little older. She was pretty, slender, almost skinny and a little bit gawky, like fawns that haven’t grown into their own bodies yet. The clothes, the grooming, the hair styling, you’d figure her for an expensive prep school and wealthy parents. So perfect that she couldn’t possibly be the hooker I was seeking.

Until the hostess brought her to my table.