Martin has already checked the reservation sheet.
Robby Sassoon is the man’s name.
Not Robert.
Robby.
It makes Martin think of the Sassoon Salon on Fifth Avenue where he used to go to have his hair colored. Not dyed. Just colored, to get the combination of black and flecks of gray just right.
Martin reluctantly moves across the room, nodding to some regulars as he does, then extends his hand to Robby Sassoon.
Sassoon smiles warmly as he shakes it, as if greeting an old friend. He has close-cropped dark hair, eyes pale as the color of water, skin that is almost as pale. Martin can’t help noticing that Sassoon’s nails are polished to a gleam.
“Arrêtez les conneries au travail,”Robby Sassoon says.
The accent is flawless, but that is not what makes Martin flinch.
It’s the man’s choice of words.
Let’s cut the shit and get down to business.
“Was there something wrong with your food?” Martin asks defensively.
“Quite the contrary,” Sassoon says. “The food was delicious, as I expected it to be. I have to say, Martin, that you’re quite an excellent chef, for a dead man.”
Martin hears someone call his name from across the room. He turns and manages to wave absently in the general direction, without even seeing where the voice came from, or caring. But he remains frozen in place at Sassoon’s table, this man threatening him in two languages, his choice of words as precise, as razor sharp, as everything else about him.
Sassoon is completely still as he keeps his smile fixed on Martin.
“Perhaps we should go downstairs to my office,” Martin says, “where we can speak in private.”
“Here is fine,” Sassoon says.
As he takes another sip of his brandy, Martin sits down across from him, suddenly wanting a drink himself. He keeps his voice low as he says, “Listen, I know why you’re here.”
“I should have come around sooner,” Sassoon says. “We were keeping an eye on you, Martin, even before you came back into the fold, when you were just dipping your toe into those places advertising incessantly on television.”
“Wait … how do you know about that?” Martin asks him.
“We know everything about you,” he says. “But what you didn’t know is that the new people taking your action now are actuallyourpeople. We just didn’t announce the merger to the media.”
Martin feels as if he has been cornered in his own restaurant.
“Nothing to say?” Sassoon says. “You’re not being a very affable host.”
“I just need until the end of next week,” Martin Elian says. “A friend is going to loan me the money I need.”
Robby Sassoon’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Don’t lie to me, Martin,” he says. “Or I will hurt you much worse than the others ever did.”
Sassoon idly picks up the dessert menu before putting it back down next to his glass.
“You called me a dead man,” Martin says. “But if I wasn’t worth killing before, why now?”
“Just a figure of speech to get your attention,” Sassoon says. “I’ve really come here tonight to let you in on how you can help me help you, if you can believe it.”
Sassoon still hasn’t raised his voice or changed expression. But there is something more frightening about this man than any of the others sent here before him. And something creepy.
The French word for that iseffrayant.
