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."