She looked up.

“How was Paris?”

So it was true. Leaving her to her blushes, Max went back to get his jacket and an umbrella, bracing himself for a dash through the rain to Leadenhall Street. He hesitated in the doorway of the building before plunging into the thicket of oversized golf umbrellas-this summer’s style accessory-that had sprouted everywhere like multicolored mushrooms, blocking the pavement and making progress slow and difficult. He was going to be late.

He arrived in the crowded, vaulted room to find Amis already at the table, cell phone to his ear. During his time among the movers and shakers of Wall Street, Amis had picked up some of their more flamboyant sartorial affectations-the aggressively striped shirt with white collar, the scarlet braces, the tie spattered with bulls and bears-decorative flourishes that clashed with his hard, thin-lipped face and convict’s haircut. Whatever he wore, he would always look like a thug. But he had a genius for deal making, and for that he was much loved by the Lawton brothers.

He finished his call, and made a point of looking at his watch-gold, and even bulkier than Max’s, its face encrusted with a multitude of dials: depth in meters, elapsed time, and, a special feature, the waxing and waning of the Nasdaq. “What happened to you, then? Lost your way?”

Max helped himself to a glass of red wine from the bottle on the table. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Umbrella jam in Leadenhall Street.”

Amis grunted, signaled to one of the waitresses, and became suddenly jovial. “You know what would make me a happy man, my love?” He gave her a wink and a smirk. “A nice juicy sirloin, well cooked, none of that blood all over the place. Get enough of that at the office.” The waitress did her best to smile. “And chips. And then I’ll have the crème brûlée for afters. Got that?” His cell phone chirped, and he muttered into it while Max ordered lamb chops and a salad.