'Burt Reynolds,' he repeated dumbly.
'Actually,' she admitted, 'I'm not sure if it's still owned by him. Not since he filed for bankruptcy anyway.'
'You know, back in the seventies, he was just about my favorite movie actor.'
Kate's grimace became even more pronounced. Jesus, that clinched it. She was with the one guy in the whole world who enjoyed Smokey and the Bandit.
Bowen said, 'You know, I think I can probably persuade Presley that this is a good idea.' He handed back the binoculars.
'Great.'
'You said two crew?'
'Just two.'
'Any undercover mission is not without its dangers,' he said pompously. 'But it's just possible that we might also have some fun along the way.'
Kate swallowed. 'We?'
Bowen glanced at his cheap sports watch.
'Why don't we go to Burt's place and discuss it over lunch?' he said.
'Burt's place?' She wondered if Bowen hadn't heard what she had said about the bankruptcy.
'It's still open, isn't it?'
'Yeah. OK. If you really want to,' said Kate, wondering if there was some kind of opposite for the saying 'Every cloud has a silver lining.'
In Bowen's Jimmy, driving toward 'A' dock and the restaurant, she managed to buoy herself up with the thought that she might be able to deflect him -- put him off the whole idea of coming along. Perhaps she could paint a picture of a transatlantic crossing that was a wave or two higher than Gericault's great masterpiece The Raft of the Medusa. A few well-chosen images over lunch that might scare the landlubbing shit out of him. By the time they reached Burt & Jack's, Kate was on an even keel again and paid little or no attention to a news report on the radio about an air traffic controllers' strike. Even if she had listened more carefully she would have had no reason to think the strike would last more than a couple of days; nor to suppose that it would have implications for the March voyage of SYT's semi-submersible vessel, the Grand Duke. There was only one thing on her mind now and it was that she somehow had to put Kent Bowen off a transatlantic voyage without jeopardizing his backing for the whole operation. Entering the restaurant she got ready to tell her boss a story that would make the storm in The Caine Mutiny look like another Pleasant Valley Sunday.
Chapter TWELVE
Inspired by Jimmy Figaro's purchase of a sculpture for his office, Tony Nudelli bought a bronze for his pool-house. A life-size Marilyn Monroe as she had appeared in The Seven Year Itch, her white skirts frozen voluminously as she stood over the subway vent.
'Nice,' said Al. 'Real classy.'
'Glad you like it,' said Nudelli. 'Cost me a fuckin' fortune. And then some. The refinements I had done were almost as much as the original bronze.'
Al frowned and then looked a little more closely at Marilyn. The halterneck dress, the big breasts, the same look of ecstatic delight on her dippy blonde face. She looked exactly the way he remembered her from the movie. Right down to the red polish on her toenails. Finally, admitting defeat, he said, 'OK, I give up. I can't see no difference. Exactly what were these refinements you had done?'
Nudelli grinned. 'Take a look under her dress,' he suggested.
'You're kidding.' But Al bent down, peeked between Marilyn's legs, and let out a loud guffaw. The white panties she had been wearing in the movie were gone. And what was there instead looked as realistic as if she'd been a table dancer flashing her pussy in your face in return for a bill underneath her garter. Right down to the gash in the pubic hair.
Still laughing Al said, 'Now that's what I call a conversation piece.'
'I thought so.'
'She's beautiful, Tony, just beautiful.'
'I'm thinkin' of having her up on some kind of table. It can't be this one, she's too heavy for glass. But I want to be able to look at that trim now and then, whenever the fancy takes me.' He lit a cigar and puffed it, happily watching Al as he squatted down to take another, closer look.
'Can I touch her pussy?'
'Be my guest.'
Al reached up and pressed the palm of his hand over Marilyn's private parts, laughing like a kid. He said, 'I never thought I'd get to give Marilyn Monroe some index finger.'
'You and Bobby Kennedy.'
'Not forgetting Jack.' He sang, ' "Happy birthday, Mister President."'
'She looks like she's enjoying it, Al.'
'I've always known how to please a woman, y'know? It's all in the wrist action. Man, this feels good.'
'Who says modern art don't mean nuthin'?'
'Not me. You won't hear me complaining.'
For Tony's benefit, Al sniffed his forefinger experimentally, each nostril vacuuming along its hairy knuckled length as if it had been the choicest cigar from Tony's rosewood humidor. He said, 'Too bad you couldn't get it made scratch 'n' sniff.'
'I'm workin' on it.' Nudelli waved his Cohiba at the seat in front of him. 'Sit down, Al. We've got some business to discuss.'
'I figured.'
