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“You should be doing room service,” he says through a mouthful of food.
“We do have room service,” I answer blandly.
“No, I mean this,” he waggles his fingers in the direction of the tent with the buffet. “You could put this in every room.”
“I certainly could.”
He continues chewing, pausing every few seconds to dig his pinky nail between his teeth. In the sun, his tan is so dense, he really does look leathery. I wonder if he’s browned himself to a point where skin cancer could never even get through his tough, mammoth hide.
“And girls, where are they?”
Out of habit, I glance around. Three quarters of the people here are women.
When I don’t respond right away, he raises his bushy eyebrows and turns to me.
“You fucking kidding me? No girls?”
Suddenly the word sounds more than a little bit creepy.
“You know what, Rocco, I heard you are the guy to talk to about casinos,” I smile, making it up on the spot. “I know you are usually shy to talk about your own successes on this…”
Rocco lets out a roar that sounds likeehhhhhhhhhhhhin slow motion. It goes on and on while he grins, congratulating himself for something that must be very vivid in his own imagination.
“I’ll tell you what,” he nods, pursing his lips dramatically, “if this island were in the Mediterranean? The Baltic Sea?”
“The Baltic?” I repeat to egg him on.
“Yeah. It would be a done deal.”
Shit.
He is telling me it is not a done deal. This is his negotiating tactic. I was even warned not to invite him. He’s Portuguese, and the economy makes his holdings less than stable at the moment. Everybody—even Branson—told me Rocco wasn’t in the position to be giving anybody half a billion dollars. Not even for the most advanced, beautiful resort the world has ever seen.
And now it looks like we are going to play the game where he makes it clear that I am supposed to chase him, sweeten the pot, basically beg.
“All of this over here,” I answer, gesturing far to my left where the lagoon glows bright turquoise at this time of the morning. “This is our private dock. Guests will be able to land by helicopter, yacht, submarine. I’m going to make it so Batman could stay here.”
Rocco shrugs. That Batman joke usually works. I’m disappointed.
“That Carmela, what’s her deal?”
I just smile.
Rocco finally chuckles to himself, shaking his head and taking a noisy slurp of coffee.
“This is your idea of hospitality? I don’t know, Cal. I just don’t know.”
“Well, why don’t you just give it some thought.” I continue smiling as I stand up.
I can see the surprise on his face. He expected me to fight a little bit harder.
“That’s a funny name,” he barks. “Cal. Cal Galloway. Should have called yougal.”
“Good one,” I shrug, pivoting away from him. “It’sCalvin. You can call me Calvin.”
I should not walk away. I should go back there and find out what he really wants, and whether or not I can get it for him. But I’m sure it’ll be fine. Investors come and go. Everybody has a different style where they expect you to do a performance for them. Some people, like Richard Branson, just tell you right up front what they want, what they’ll give. Other guys, like Rocco, want to see just how far you’re willing to go, how much they can bleed you. They want to play with you, like a housecat. It’s something my father was good at. It is something my brother is good at. Me? I don’t know. It seems dirty. Bad karma.
The surf is still calm at this time of morning, and I let the warm water drift over my feet as I walk along the white, powdery beach. The vision of the resort is so clear in my mind, I practically see it laid over the rocks and sand that are here now. Crystal clear. There are just a few puzzle pieces left to make it all happen.
