Suits

I was contemplating being invisible when a honey of a silver Maserati Quattoporte drove up to the entrance and out stepped . . . the suit from Hernando’s. At least he was still noticing me. He picked up on who I was right off, and I was afraid he might take a swing at me for messing up his Brooks Brothers—but he didn’t. He was all flashy smiles and knowing looks. And he had been slumming the other night. Tonight he was wearing a lustrous brown Armani suit, easily worth three times what the blue pinstripe the other night had been worth, and he had on an ochre silk shirt under that, a flashy silk tie, and diamond cufflinks. All just as expensively and closely cut as the suit of the other night was. The man was dripping money. It was almost like I could walk along behind him and pick up gold coins as he shot them out of his ass like a bunny with diarrhea.

Two hours later he reappeared through the hotel entrance. Another one of the car hops reached for his ticket, but he held off from giving it to the guy and looked around until he spotted me. He walked over, flashing that big, “see what I’ve got and you don’t” smile at me and handed me the ticket. But he also had $200 in folded fifties in the hand holding the ticket, and he wouldn’t let loose of either of those or my hand as he said in a husky whisper, “Shall we up the ante?”

I was going off duty then anyway. And two hundred bucks meant a lot to me—obviously far more than it meant to him. When I drove the Maserati around, I didn’t get out of the driver’s seat; I just leaned over and flipped open the passenger seat door. This was a signal to him, a gauntlet, so to speak. If we were going to do this thing, I was going to do the driving. I liked the idea of the $200, but if he thought he was going to get off as cheaply as that, he was mistaken. Tonight was going to cost him a whole hell lot more than $200.

He got in the passenger side without hesitation, and I fisted the stick shift and he fisted my stick as I drove him into the parking lot and back to the corner where I had my Chevy van parked. I clicked open the sliding side door to the van, and the suit got in without hesitation and whistled in appreciation. I had it outfitted for love. Smoked windows; floor, sides, and ceiling covered in padded sapphire blue velour; straps anchored strategically here and there, and an easily accessible sound system with speakers embedded all around. And that stool. He’d be introduced to the stool later.