Jack spread his arms. "And what do my clothes say about the inner me?"
"You really want to know, Jack? I mean, I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything."
"Don't worry. You can't."
"All right, then: The way you dress, it's like… it's like there is no inner you."
Jack allowed himself a smile. "Cool."
"How can you say 'cool'? That was not a compliment. I offered it with only the best intentions, but some—myself included—might consider it an insult."
"Don't worry about it. Empty is exactly how I like to look."
"Jack, dearest, you do know that you're a very odd man, don't you. I mean very, very odd."
"So I've been told."
He handed Jack the shirt. "Okay. We'll keep this as a possibility. I'll pick out some others and…"
He was staring at Jack's hair.
"What's wrong?"
"With the way you look? Everything. But especially that hair." He pulled a phone from his bag and hit a button. "Christophe? I need you, baby… No, not for me. It's for a friend… I know you're busy"—he looked at Jack and rolled his eyes as he made a chitterchatter sign with his free hand—"but you've just got to squeeze him in. It's an emergency… I never exaggerate!" A quick glance at Jack's hair. "You'll understand when you see him… Okay, we'll be over in half an hour."
"Who's Christophe?"
"He does my hair."
"You have your barber on speed dial?"
"He's not a barber.'" Pres pulled at his curly mop. "Do I look like I go to a barber? Christophe is an artiste, an architect with hair. He's agreed to see you as a personal favor to me."
"I don't have much time, Pres. Supposed to meet this creep—"
"Christophe can't give you much time. Sunday is one of his busiest days. But I understand." He started fanning through the shirts again. "Come over here. We haven't a moment to lose."
9
Richie sat at his office desk studying his horoscopes for the day. He'd been too dazed this morning to pick up the paper. But he'd fixed that and now he was staring at the readings with pure wonder. He'd read and reread them and could find no way to doubt that he'd made the right choice about meeting Gorcey.
First came Gemini: Brighter financial horizons can only be met with diligent planning. Do what it takes to keep work fresh and surprising. Be enthusiastic about how much you appreciate your current position, and it only gets better.
Could anything be better or clearer than that?
And then Cancer: Engaging conversations improve your financial status. Focus intently on your communication skills.
This was just too much. One mentioned "brighter financial horizons" while the other said "conversations improve your financial status." And here he was, waiting to take money from a guy just to listen to him talk.
How could Neva keep on saying astrology was junk?
Richie heard the expected knock on the outer door. That would be Gorcey.
As soon as he'd got in the office he'd looked up Dobbins's number and called to check on this guy. But Dobbins wasn't around. Too bad. He would have felt better if he'd been able to talk to him, have him vouch for Gorcey. But since that wasn't gonna happen, Richie would just have to take some precautions.
As he pulled his .38 from its shoulder holster, he called out, "Come on in! It's open!"
The pistol gave him comfort and he'd have liked to keep a hold on it, but he was going to have to shake hands. So he slipped it under the newspaper on his desk and pushed himself to his feet.
"Hello?" said a voice from the outer office.
"Back here!"
A guy of average height and build stepped through the door. He was maybe twenty years younger than Richie and wore black-rimmed sunglasses. He had a newspaper folded under his arm, and that was the last normal thing about him.
His spiky brown hair was just too perfect and he had this dainty little mustache crawling along his upper lip. The nun hadn't said anything about no mustache on Jack. As for the rest of him, well, queer was the only way Richie knew how to describe the coat and pants he was wearing. And he was carrying a fucking pocketbook to boot.
Shit, the guy looked even faggier than he'd sounded on the phone.
"Mr. Cordova?" He extended his hand over the desk. "Louis Gorcey. Thanks so much for seeing me."
"My pleasure, Mr. Gorcey."
Yeah, right, he thought as he got a dead-fish handshake.
"Call me Louis."
This guy looked about as dangerous as somebody's crippled grandmother, but that didn't mean he couldn't be carrying. A couple of times, Richie had learned the hard way how looks could deceive.
"Fine. But before we go any further, I'll need you to take off that fancy coat."
Goreey's brows knitted under his perfect hairdo. "1 don't understand.'"
"Humor me, Lou. I'm in a business where you can't be too careful. You call me up on a Sunday and you've just gotta see me, can't wait till tomorrow, and I start to wonder. I ain't no whacko paranoid, but I ain't no fool neither."
"Really, I don't think—"
"Don't get all huffy with me, Lou. It's a simple thing: You gonna take the coat off or ain't you?"
For a second or two, when Richie thought he wasn't going to do it, he tensed and slid his hand toward the newspaper. His fingers were almost to the gun when Gorcey let out this big sigh.
"Oh, very well. If you insist."
He untied the belt, shrugged out of the coat, folded it, then draped it over the back of the client chair. He raised his arms and did a slow, graceful turn.
Richie gaped at Goreey's shirt. What the hell was it made of? It looked like the tablecloth his mother had brought back from her trip to Venice about three hundred years ago, the one she picked up on some island called Burano or something like that. Except this one looked like it had been dunked in blueberry Kool-Aid. The guy was wearing a fucking tablecloth.
But what he was not wearing was lots more important—no shoulder or SOB holster. Richie let himself relax a little.
"There. Satisfied?"
"Almost," Richie said. "One more thing: Empty your bag on the desk."
"Really, Mr. Cor—"
"Do that and we can get down to business."
Another sigh. "This is very unusual, and if I didn't need your help I'd refuse. But I guess it doesn't matter."
He upended the bag and out tumbled a set of keys, a cell phone, two eyeglass cases, and a couple of legal-sized envelopes.
Richie took the bag from him and shook it.
Gorcey gasped. "Careful! That's a Marc Jacobs!"
Like I care, Richie thought as he checked the inside. Nothing hiding in there. He handed it back to Gorcey.
"That's it? You carry that big thing around and that's all that's in it?"
With floppy wrists and raised pinkies, Gorcey started putting the stuff back into his bag. "Sometimes there's more. But even so, I don't like to distort the lines of my clothing with bulging pockets."
"What? Afraid someone'll think you're glad to see them?"
Richie thought that was a good one but Gorcey didn't even smile. Instead he slid one of the envelopes across the desk.
"As promised."
Richie casually picked it up with his left hand. He didn't want to look too eager but he wasn't about to get suckered either. It wasn't sealed. He flipped up the flap with a thumb and glanced inside. He quick-counted a sufficient number of hundreds.