Way downtown in SoHo. He'd have to hurry.

"I'm leaving now."

8

"And now tell me, dearie, just why you of all people would want to look queer? You haven't crossed the street, have you?"

Preston Loeb stood six-one with a slim build; long, curly black hair—in the old days it had been straight—framed his handsome face. He wore a snug, vaguely fuzzy, short-sleeve, baby-blue sweater. His cream-colored slacks were tight down to the knees where they flared into outlandish bell-bottoms. A black alligator shoulder bag completed the picture.

They stood just inside the entrance to Praetoria, a men's store with a twenty-foot ceiling and front windows nearly as tall. The wan afternoon light filtering through them was swallowed in the glare of the bare flourescents high above. Everything was white except the contents of the clothing-filled racks and shelves that stretched ahead of them.

Jack shook his head. "Nope. Still hetero. And I don't want to look like a flaming queen. More like someone who's, say, just a couple of inches outside the closet."

"Well, as I'm sure you know, a couple of inches can make a world of difference."

Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. "Preston…"

"I know what you're thinking, Jack. That I'm more outrageous than I ever used to be, that I'm such a cliche. Well, you're right. I am. Deliberately. And do you know why? Because I love it. I… love … it. It's my way of thumbing my nose at all the uptight straights wandering this earth. But you know what? My clients, straight or gay, they love it too. They think a guy this flaming has to be a great interior designer. So allow me my fun, okay? Life should be fun. Although looking at you I can see you're not having much."

Jack sighed. He was right.

"You might say that. And soon I'm going to have even less. I've got to meet with a slimeball who might be expecting trouble from a stranger. I want to—How shall I say it?—put him at ease/'

Pres put a hand on a hip. "And you think that if he thinks you're queer, he'll figure he's got nothing to fear."

"That rhymes, you know, and yes, that's the way his kind of mind works."

"But you know better, don't you."

"Oh, yeah."

Pres might be an interior designer and might look like a featherweight pushover, but Jack had trained with him; the guy had lightning reflexes and was a nunchuck wizard.

"Okay, then." Pres clapped his hands and looked around. "Let's get started, shall we." He pointed to the right. "There. Shirts. Always a good place to start."

Jack followed him to a rack and watched him fan through a rainbow of shirts. He stopped and pulled out something Jack could only describe as turquoise.

"Look at this. Isn't it scrumptious?"

"What's that stuff up and down the front? Looks like someone spilled spaghetti on it."

"It's embroidery, dearie. Embroidery is always fun."

"Never thought of clothes as fun."

"Oh, you'll never change: functional, functional, functional. Clothing should be an expression of the inner you."

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.