7
Jack finally found Preston Loeb's number in an old notebook. They'd met in a martial arts class back in their twenties. Preston had been involved in one of Jack's early fix-its.
The second ring was answered by a soft, "Hello, Preston speaking."
"Preston? This is Jack." When silence followed he added, "From Ichi-san's class, remember?"
"Jack! How've you been, dearie? You never call, you never write—"
"I need a favor, Pres. A little sartorial guidance."
"You? Oh, don't tell me you're finally going to get with it! At your age? Well, better late than never, I guess. And you want me to do the Queer Eye thing for you? I'm flattered."
Even if he had the time—which he didn't—Jack was not in the mood for banter. But he tried to keep it light.
"I need help looking like someone who might be a friend of yours."
A pause, and then, "Now that's interesting. When would you want to—?"
"Now. As in right away. You free?"
"Just working on some sketches, and you know I don't like football, so, why not? Meet me at… let's see… how about Praetoria on Green Street?"
Way downtown in SoHo. He'd have to hurry.
"I'm leaving now."