Page 9 of The Hamptons Lawyer

“Even with somebody like him?” Jimmy asks.

“Especially with somebody like him,” Norma says.

“He’s a very bad boy, Norma,” I say.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” she says, her bright blue eyes practically gleeful.

SEVEN

MARTIN ELIAN LOOKS AROUND his restaurant, Café Martin, every table occupied, the main room noisy but not too noisy, the soundtrack really one of life and fun.

Comme le Seigneur l’a voulu,he thinks.

As the Lord intended.

And Martin knows he should be happy about this, happy about business being good again after he nearly lost everything, first because of COVID, and later because of his gambling, and the mountain of debt both had created.

He promised himself he would stop gambling for good after the very bad men to whom he owed money had threatened to kill him. That was before he saw on the news that his ex-wife, Jane, killed one of those men, even if she hadn’t done it for him.

Now the restaurant is back on its feet and so is he.

But for how long?

When he started gambling again, he told himself this time he would only do it in moderation. But Martin Elian is self-aware enough to know that this is an addiction with him the way beautiful women always have been, even when he was still married to Jane Smith.

When he had started betting again, small at first, he had done it legally, with FanDuel and DraftKings, where you could only lose what you put in. He told himself that thiswas just a way of scratching the itch, and that he would never again put himself into the position of gambling away the restaurant.

But then, after an early hot streak, he started to lose. Not all of his profits from Café Martin. But enough that he started betting with bookies again, thinking it was the best way for him to get even, and fast. Just this one last time. And not with his old bookie on Long Island. A new one in the city.

As much as he hated what he was doing, he knew it was more than just the familiar thrill of the action. There had always been a different kind of thrill for him, when he first started betting on sports, the danger of working with men he knew worked for the mob, making it even more of a guilty pleasure.

But once he got behind, the vicious cycle started up all over again. And then, almost like the natural order of things, he was borrowing from the same people with whom he was placing his bets.

Again.

Now he is more than just behind.

Martin Elian is drowning.

And knows a visit is coming, another part of the natural order of things for people with a problem like his. He just doesn’t know when.

FanDuel and DraftKings don’t send people around when you start losing with them. The only debt is your own. You’re betting your own money, not theirs.

He remembered reading a magazine article by a reporter in Los Angeles who said anyone opening a restaurant wasn’t just a chef or a business manager. They were gamblers, too, placing huge bets on themselves.

Toute la vie est un pari.

All of life is a gamble, that is what he keeps telling himself. Only his gambling is controlling him all over again, and not the other way around. He can’t shake the image inside hishead: taking the kind of money coming in tonight with one hand and with the other handing it over to the men who are essentially his bankers. Just bankers with far more punitive interest rates.

As he surveys the busy main room once again, he sees the man who’s kept eyes on Martin since he was seated at one of the window tables.

The man is eating alone, but now he’s motioning Martin over.

Now he feels a chill come over him, fearful that this has become a different kind of big night for him at Café Martin.

The man is wearing what Martin, who prides himself on knowing men’s fashion, can see is an expensive navy suit, one that fits him so well Martin wonders if it has been made for him. White shirt. Tie the same color as the suit.

He has already finished his dinner, Martin’s own signature foie gras appetizer and the most expensive steak on the menu. Now there is only a glass of brandy on the white tablecloth. The man takes a sip, even that simple motion measured with the extreme precision of a surgeon.