Bulls Island (Continued)

He swung around to face me and actually smiled, something I had rarely seen him do. "Yes, Betts . . . do you mind if I call you 'Betts'?"

"Not at all."

I was dubbed "Betts" — short for Elizabeth — when I was six years old because I never backed away from a dare. To date, I'd always won.

At that precise moment my eye twitched hard and my self-assurance wavered. Something told me, something that made me shiver with dread, that my confidence and nonchalance were packed and leaving for an extended vacation in another solar system.

"Please, sit down." He walked around his desk and indicated with his left hand for me to sit in one of the two green leather chairs in front of him. "Coffee? A cold drink?"

"No, I'm fine. Thank you."

"Okay, well then . . . I asked you here, Betts, because I have been following your progress for some time. I have to tell you, companies that my partners would have dumped, you've revived. And turned a profit."

"Thank you, sir."

"Betts? For the sake of my vanity, do not call me 'sir.' We're almost the same age."

"Okay." Pause. "Mr. Bruton."

"Ben. Please."

"Ben."

"Right, then . . . where were we? Ah, yes. That fixtures company? Brilliant. The taxi company? Great work. Dealing with the TLC isn't for pansies."

"No." Foolishly, I began to relax a little. "The Taxi and Limousine Commission isn't for the faint of heart."