The manager of Rusterman’s Restaurant is much annoyed when Wendy, the new hostess, interrupts him to say that a customer up front claims he really must see him.
“At 10:22 a.m.? With luncheon prep underway and Chef threatening to quit again if the sous chef keeps wearing that damn Axe body spray?” He gestures dismissively, “Tell him to come back later. Like the 30th of February.”
His quip sails right over her hair-extensioned head. “Here’s his business card anyways.” The card she proffers has discrete gray lettering – engraved, not printed – on lux cream-colored stock: Martin Pemberley, ESQ, Attorney at Law. There is a phone number but nothing else, no address, no email or website.
The manager of Rusterman’s is a connoisseur of elegance, an acolyte of style, and this card strikes him as the ne plus ultra of class. As quiet as the card is, it shouts money. Rusterman’s manager is also ardent about powerful patronage. Despite the pressing need to get the moving parts of this five-star establishment ready for the hungry crowd arriving soon, he is intrigued enough to head to the restaurant’s glass-fronted entryway for a look, where he becomes even more intrigued.
The man waiting for him is 30ish, tall, trim, and broad-shouldered, with flawless mocha-toned skin. He could pass for a male model, that Tyson fellow for... was it Polo? And he appears to be ready to walk the Milan runway. Stone gray flannel trousers, a cream-colored roll-neck sweater – surely cashmere – all set off by a military-cut beige suede jacket with a stand collar and four prominent pockets.
Grinning with genuine appreciation, the manager purrs, “I am Alec. How may I be of service, Mister Pemberley?”
Pemberley leans in confidentially and says in a Barry-White-worthy baritone, “Let’s step into the quiet bar area, I don’t want to cause any scene.”
Scene? At luncheon prep? This model/customer is becoming less attractive by the second. “I understand you’re a lawyer. Is this some legal matter?”
“Well, yes and no.”
Alec’s smile calcifies and he herds the other man into the bar area. “Please explain your issue succinctly, this is a crucial hour in the restaurant.”
“I dined here last week. A first date, very promising, so of course I opted for the best,” he says. “Rusterman’s.” The manager gives the compliment a curt nod.
“We dined royally, from starters to Stilton and walnuts after dessert. I wanted to make an impression; this was a very promising date as I say, so I sprang for a bottle of the ‘95 Margaux to go with the Beef Wellington.”
“An excellent choice,” the manager murmurs automatically.
“As the waiter was pouring the first taste, a busboy jostled him, sloshing wine on the sleeve of my new Armani suede jacket. See, here.”
“Oh, no! What waiter? What busser?”
“No, it was accidental; I don’t want anyone fired or to make a scene. I just want Rusterman’s to reimburse me for the jacket.”
The manager shudders, having seen one displayed at Sak’s. Having seen the price tag too: $6,500.
“You want–”
“I want $257.55.”
“What?”
“For the cleaning.” He hands the manager a receipt for suede jacket cleaning from Fenton Specialty Leather Restorers – $257.55. “I know that seems high, but this jacket requires expert care. I wouldn’t bother to ask but that aforementioned special date is also an attorney and argues that it’s the establishment’s liability. I’ve been challenged to get reimbursed for the cleaning. Or else.”
“Or else?”
“Or else no second date.”
The manager breathes again, so relieved he almost giggles. Two attorneys involved, a $6,000 jacket, and he will get out of it for less than Pemberley paid for the bottle of Bordeaux.
“Rusterman’s prides itself on impeccable customer service,” Alec recites. Time to get this decorative but potentially litigious fellow satisfied and gone: “Would you like a cheque or, I suppose we could Venmo you?”
Pemberley shakes his head. “You’re incredibly busy and I need to get uptown. Why don’t you just take $250 from petty cash, and we’ll call it even? You do have $250 in petty cash?”
The manager draws himself up to his full height – plus the two-inch lifts in his Ferragamos. “But of course, sir.” He steps behind the bar and presses keys on the cash register, opening the drawer. He selects four crisp fifties, two twenties, a ten, a five, two ones, two quarters, and a nickel.
“Here you are, Mr. Pemberley, paid in full.”
“And here is the dry cleaner’s receipt for your records,” the lawyer replies. “Thank you for being such a good fellow. I will be sure to return with my friends and clients. And my dates.” He winks and gives the manager’s hand a warm, lingering handclasp.
“Five stars on Yelp, too,” he says as he heads to the door.
On the street, out of sight of the restaurant windows, he steps into a building’s inset entrance, stashes the $257.55 in the top left pocket of his Armani field jacket, and fastens the button. Unbuttoning the right top pocket, he removes a deck of business cards collected from bars and offices. He shuffles through and chooses Frank Lingardi, Senior Regional Vice-President, Bank of America, transferring it to his lower right-hand pocket. He pulls a stack of duplicate dry-cleaning bills from his left side pocket, peels one off, and puts it in the right-hand pocket with the chosen business card.
Then Cyril Sharpe straightens his lapels and smoothes the nap of the butter-soft suede pockets appreciatively. The stain was already on the jacket when he stole it but so faint you’d hardly notice unless it’s pointed out. He whistles a few bars of What a Wonderful World as he strolls uptown three blocks and over two to the next five-star restaurant on Yelp.
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