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Instead, they were engrossed in the business of imposing themselves on each other, smoothly in many cases and with obvious charm, but enforcing themselves nonetheless, making their presence felt. That was what the rich did, by and large. They made Larry uneasy.
"Definitely the in crowd, this lot," he told Susan.
They made him feel overdressed too. Most of the men wore white or pale sand-colored slacks with loafers and designer-cut T-shirts. A Marks & Spencer lightweight suit was out of its league in this latitude.
Larry began his third scan of the company, checking the faces, starting half-seriously to pray that he would see Eddie Myers. His conviction was having a hard time standing up, although this was a phenomenon he had noticed before: whenever he was out of his depth his certainty dwindled.
He decided on a quick self-boost. Taking a large gulp of wine, he reminded himself there was no good reason why

these people should daunt him—richer was not better. Furthermore, he was here on the strength of what he had definitely and unquestionably witnessed; it had not been a delusion or a trick of the heat. He had no reason to doubt himself.
Swallowing more of the excellent wine, he glanced over his shoulder and was suddenly reassured. The two blondes he had seen with Myers—the water-skier and the one who stayed on the boat—were there; they were directly across the room, no more than twelve feet away. One of them was putting a red sticker on the wall next to a painting, indicating it had been sold; the other one whispered something to a middle-aged man who looked dangerously red-faced and laughed with a sound like a tire going down in sharp stages.
Larry strained to hear. After a moment he nodded, then curbed it, hoping no one had noticed. The girls were English, as he'd suspected, though they were not the kind who usually hung out with Costa crooks. These were Sloanies, top-drawer types. There was a third girl who seemed to be part of the team, if team was the word: she was Spanish, small and darkly beautiful. Larry heard one of the blondes call her Lola.
Susan had finally been silenced by the sheer enveloping pressure of wealth and ego. She pushed her empty glass at Larry. He took it and threaded his way to the wine table. As he picked up a fresh drink he glanced through the archway into the adjacent room. A group of men were gathered around an easel on which sat a heavy gilt-framed painting. Facing the frame, with his back to Larry, was a tall man in slacks and a loose-fitting shirt. His hand rested on another man's shoulder, revealing the only piece of jewelry he wore, a slim gold Cartier watch.
"This one s not for sale," he said, lowering a drape across the picture.
Larry stiffened at the sound of the voice. He had heard it before. He stared, hardly breathing, running an inventory of the man: his hair was dark, rather long and expertly cut; he appeared to be deeply tanned; his stance and the easy movements of his arms and shoulders hinted at physical fitness. The list added up to recognition. Almost. If Larry's judgement had not gone wildly off line, he was in fact staring at Eddie Myers. All he needed was a look at the face.
"Name the price, you bastard!" one of the men said, and the others laughed clubbily.
The tall man obliged, whispering. The one who had asked looked staggered.
"You're kidding!"
More laughter. The tall man began to turn, taking his leave of the group. Larry stepped nearer, ready to print the face on his brain.
The man turned. He surveyed the room. His tanned body was fit and he wore a silk shirt, fawn trousers, and slip-on leather sandals. The hair was as dark as Larry remembered. Was it Edward Myers? The cheekbones, the mouth, they were the same, weren't they? But there was something different about the nose. Something had been done to his features, almost perfecting the face. Larry licked his lips, sweating, sure he was right, the nose had been straightened, that was it. His hands clenched with