“What about?”Cutter snapped.
“Who you are,” the taller said, “where you’re from, what you do.”
Only two people had ever expressed as much interest in Cutter in as short a time—Eugene and Pam.Neither of the men struck Cutter as having the heart Eugene had, and neither of them in any way, shape, or form resembled Pam.
“That’s none of your goddamned business,” he answered.The men exchanged quick grins.Cutter didn’t like the looks of it.
“If you guys are queer, get the hell away from me and stay away.”
The taller man reached into his pocket and handed Cutter a business card.The name on it was Douglas Verrana, and it claimed that he was the vice president of a firm whose name meant nothing to Cutter.
He turned the card forward and back.“Nice feel.”
Hillary took it from his hand.Her response was more respectful.“I’m not familiar with your name, Mr.Verrana, but I am with Wald, Newcomb.”To Cutter, she said, “It’s one of the leading advertising firms in the city.”She extended her hand to the man.“I’m Hillary Cox, and my friend is Cutter Reid.What can we do for you?”
“Your friend,” Verrana said.“Is he new around here?”
“Relatively.”
“Where is he from?”
“Maine.”
“Hillary …” Cutter warned, but she silenced him with a hand on his arm.
“What line of work is he in?”
Hillary hedged.“Why do you ask?”
The second man answered.“My name’s Pete Shorb.I work with Doug.We’re looking for a model.Your friend has the face we want.”
The face in question donned a look of distaste.“Model?”
“For an ad campaign we’re doing.”
“An ad campaign for what?”Hillary asked.
Cutter couldn’t believe it.She actually sounded interested.“Hillary—”
She tightened her hand on his arm.“What are you advertising, Mr.Shorb?”
“A collection of clothes by Girard Jondier.He works out of Paris.His line has a loyal following on the Continent, but he’s only now thinking of going for the American market.”He regarded Cutter assessingly.“The idea is to get one man with the right look—the right American look for the clothes—and make that face instantly identifiable with the line.You look different.Independent.Like a rebel.”He lowered his gaze to Cutter’s shoulders and chest.The table cut off the rest.“How tall are you?”
Hillary spoke up before Cutter could tell him to get lost.
“What are his clothes like—this Girard Jondier?”
“Elegant.Expensive.”
Verrana elaborated.“He got his start in informal wear, but he’s recently branched into sportswear.He’s introducing both lines in this country.We’re talking high fashion.The man who wears Jondier’s suits is affluent and self-assured.He’s a leader.His clothes make a statement, but it’s a subtle, classy one.”
Cutter liked the sound of that hypothetical man.He was everything he wanted to be but had virtually no chance of in the immediate future unless something drastic happened.Being discovered in a bar and turned into a model, though, went beyond the drastic to the absurd.
“How tall are you?”Shorb repeated.
The thought of being a pretty-boy model was ridiculous to Cutter.But Hillary was listening as though theremight be something to it.He figured he could go along and listen, too, at least until he heard the bottom line.Somewhere along the way he’d read that models made big money.He could use big money.
“Six-two,” he said.
