He might have said Walt Disney or Joe DiMaggio. The name was a famous one, but out of context, it sounded like nonsense.

“The rich guy?” I said, wincing in confusion.

“The very rich guy,” he said, putting a slow Southern two-syllable emphasis on “very.”

“The richest man in Canada is what I read,” I said.

“Except he lives in the Bahamas, now-in Nassau.” Foskett’s eyes glazed over with admiration. “Here is a man who could live in a marble palace, big as the Taj Mahal, with a gilded dome sparkling with precious gems. Yet he prefers to live a relatively simple life in a tropical paradise.”

I managed not to laugh at that twaddle. “You don’t have to tell me why Oakes lives in Nassau-there’s no taxes in the Bahamas.”

Foskett seemed just a little offended. “Well, that too.” Then he brightened. “Don’t be misled: Mr. Oakes is very generous. I think you’ll like working for him.”

I shrugged. “I don’t mind working for rich people. In fact, I don’t mind saying I downright like it. But I do need to know what the job is first.”

The waiter came and we both ordered the finnan haddie. A green salad appeared almost instantly.

Instead of answering me directly, Foskett leaned forward chummily and said, “Let me tell you how I came to work for Sir Harry.”

I nodded, as if to say, Fine, while I began eating my salad. It was his nickel.

It seemed that once upon a time, in 1932, Oakes had business with the Palm Beach law firm in which Foskett was the juniorest of junior partners. The senior partners kept the bear of a man cooling his heels in the reception area for over an hour; Foskett, walking through, had smiled and apologized to Harry, who was fuming.

“Kid-d’you like working with a rude bunch of goddamn stuffed shirts?” Oakes had asked.

“Not particularly.”

“Come with me then,” Oakes had said, grabbing Foskett by the arm. “I’ll set you up in practice and be your only client.”