Bob: “If one of these assholes kills you, you’ll have a new suit to get buried in.”
“There’s that,” Lucas said.
—
THEY WENT BACKto the hotel, where Rae took the rented Tahoe and headed for the National Gallery. Bob got his camera but asked Lucas if he could tag along to the tailor shop, and that was fine with Lucas. Parking was rare around the shop, so they took a cab.
At Figueroa & Prince, Lucas was met by Ted, who smiled, reached out to shake hands, and said, “Lucas, happy to see you back. We have a preliminary cut... There were some interesting discussions here about how to accommodate the pistol...”
Lucas introduced Bob, who took a chair to watch the fitting and, after a few minutes, got up to wander around the shop, checking out the suits on display, the accessory racks, and finally the fabrics themselves. Lucas was trying on the first cut of a wool winter suit when he noticed Bob talking to another one of the salesmen.
When Lucas was finished with his fitting, he found Bob draped in a pale blue crepelike material and looking squint-eyed into a mirror. Ted walked over, and said, “Mmm, I think we can do better.”
“What does that mean?” Bob asked Lucas.
“It means that color makes you look like a fuckin’ boxcar,” Lucas said. “You ought to have them embroider Burlington Northern on your back.”
“I might not have put it quite that way,” Ted said. To Bob: “We should spend a while talking about your goals.”
“My goal is to have a good-fitting suit that I can wear in southern Louisiana, because I’ve never had one of those in my life.”
Ted considered that, and said to the other salesman, “Not one suit—I think two...”
They wound up spending three hours in the store, and when they left, Lucas, looking both ways before letting the door close behind him, said, “Well, that was a quick way to blow six grand. I’m proud of you.”
Bob shrugged. “I’ve got a good job, I don’t care about cars, don’t gamble, don’t chase too many women or use drugs... I’ve got a few extra bucks, and I’ve never had a suit that fit right, so why not?”
Lucas clapped him on the back. “Like I said, I’m proud of you—I’m serious. You, my friend, are gonna look terrific. You’ll be able to hold your head up, even in New Orleans.”
“I like that part about working around the gun... I never knew any of that shit. I’ll tell you, though, I ain’t spending four grand for a pair of wingtips.”
Lucas said, “You’re standing on a slippery slope, Bob. I predict there are wingtips in your future, but not for... three years. Once you go over, you’ll never go back.”
“I heard somebody say that about gay sex,” Bob said.
“Almost the same thing,” Lucas said. “They’re very close.”
17
Parrish arrived at Grant’s house, and when Grant came to the door—the housekeeper had been sent home—he asked, “Who’s here?”
“George,” Grant said. “We’re in the SCIF.”
Parrish followed her through the house, past the heavy door to the basement, which silently slid closed behind them, and down the stairs. Claxson was spread across the sofa. He was wearing aviator sunglasses and an unwrinkled blue-striped seersucker suit; a fashionably battered leather briefcase sat at his feet.
Parrish took a seat, and asked, “What’s up?”
Grant looked at Claxson, and said, “The electronics say he’s carrying a big chunk of metal but no electronics, other than a cell phone.”
“He’s got a gun,” Claxson said.
“Jesus,” Parrish said. Then, “So what?”
Grant slid open her desk drawer, took out the 9mm, and laid it on the desktop. “Just good to know.”
Parrish shook his head. “I’m not going to shoot anyone... I assume you’re doing video or sound; I hope it spools to something you can erase.”
“It does,” Grant said. “Of course it does.”
