PLEASE COME, JEAN-CLAUDE, IT’ S BEEN FOREVER SINCE WE’’VE SEEN YOU.Casson stood in Marie-Claire’s living room, talking to Charles Arnaud, the lawyer. Everyone in the room was standing—one didn’t sit down at a cocktail Américain. Casson sipped at his drink. “A cuba libre, they called it. It has rum in it.”Arnaud rapped a knuckle twice against his temple and made a knocking noise with his tongue. It meant strong drink, and a headache in the morning. Casson offered a sour smile in agreement. “Always the latest thing, with Bruno,” he said.“Have I seen you since I came back from Belgrade?” Arnaud said.“No. How was it?”Arnaud grinned. He had the face, and the white teeth, of a matinee idol, and when he smiled he looked like a crocodile in a cartoon. “Bizarre,” he said. “A visit for a week, a month of stories. At least. I went down there for a client, to buy a boatload of sponges, impounded in Dubrovnik harbor under a Yugoslav tax lien. Actually, at that point, I’d become a part owner.”
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