Dirty Deeds by Armand Rosamilia Read Free Book Online

have clothes you want to change into? You’re still wet and very casual.”
    I laughed. Jean shorts, a black t-shirt and a pair of black Converse All-Star high-tops were my normal wear. I knew I probably looked like an old guy trying to act like a young guy. Marisa had finally convinced me wearing my Braves cap backwards wasn’t a good look for me, either.
    “I need to change first,” I said.
    “I know a spot not too far, once we get out of the area. You can change or buy a new set of threads. Up to you,” the driver said.
    “Sounds like a plan.” It really didn’t. Already I was wishing I’d asked to get me to the hotel so I could get changed into my sleep pants and another black t-shirt and watch TV.
    I wasn’t surprised when we pulled into a parking garage and I was led by the driver to an elevator. Even when things were legal (or seemed legit) people loved the air of secrecy and the games.
    “Go to floor seven. Jacques is expecting you. Take your time,” my driver said.
    I handed him a fifty dollar bill and he gave a polite nod. Now it made me wonder if I’d under-tipped the guy or maybe he was expecting a twenty. No tip? I hated all these non-rule rules in life. The amount wasn’t the issue. It’s knowing what the right amount for things like this was.
    Jacques was, indeed, expecting me, and he offered me a glass of wine and a quick tour of his suite. It wasn’t a storefront, although they usually never are. A designer would rather entertain you in a private setting, away from the glare of customers and employees. Jacques wanted to not only sell me something expensive but keep selling me expensive something’s over and over, each time I landed in New York.
    It was a simple setup like I’d seen in big cities: small, cramped rooms with a large open studio area faced with giant windows. I knew the rent was astronomical and unnecessary unless you wanted to brag you could afford it, or give the allusion you could.
    “Are you in town often?” Jacques asked as he took my measurements.
    “Often enough.” I decided to be vague. I was in a mood after being soaked and not being able to make a decision when it came to how I spent my night. I was also paranoid after Keane’s bold but otherwise sloppy move in Boston and Little Chenzo washing ashore and the multitude of problems it caused me. Across the river, on the Jersey side, was Chenzo as well. I hated being this close to danger but I really had no choice.
    “Is there a particular style you’re looking for? A certain cut?” Jacques was staring at me, his wine glass tipped at an odd angle for effect. He was doing everything he could to get me to loosen up and spend too much money. A true salesman.
    We chatted about the crummy weather and traffic in Manhattan and anything else he wanted to talk about, all the while trying to casually up-sell me on a string of suits I would rarely wear.
    “I’m really looking for something to wear tonight,” I said. “If I like it I’ll order a few for home.”
    “Where is home?”
    I always hesitate when asked this simple question. “Atlanta.”
    “You don’t have a southern accent. If I had to guess I’d say Midwest,” Jacques said. He, of course, had a thick French accent I was positive was faked. He was probably a failed actor, originally from Los Angeles by way of Boise, and had stumbled into expensive clothing on the opposite coast after never making it in movies or TV.
    “I travel extensively across the country and sometimes the world,” I said.
    “I read somewhere your accent is set on the schoolyard as a child. I’m not sure I believe it. What line of work are you in, if you don’t mind me asking?”
    “Sports cards and memorabilia,” I said. I looked out the enormous windows of the flat and could see the pelting rain against the glass, tinkling sounds as it struck. As a kid I loved the comforting sound of a heavy rainfall.
    Jacques disappeared behind a set of screens in the room.
    My new phone,