Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle Page A

comfortable clothing.” She glanced at Arnold and quelled his half-hearted protest. “Mr. Penstemon’s compliments. He wants you to be comfortable for the game.”
    â€œVery nice of him. Tell him thanks.”
    She smiled. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
    Arnold watched her stroll out, then looked back at Alphonse, who was regarding him as a sculptor might look at a chunk of marble. “This is not my usual style,” he said.
    â€œOf course not,” said Alphonse. “I could tell that immediately. You belong in silk, of course. A classic cut, I think. Let’s look over here.”
    Alphonse turned and with quick, busy steps led the way down a wall of suits. One small section was a bouquet of pastel colors that made Arnold want to gag. Another ranged from dull gold to rust to brown. Alphonse passed both by, to Arnold’s great relief, and paused before a rack of suits in varying shades of gray and black, with one or two dark blue for variety. He reached in and took down a hanger.
    â€œThis one?”
    Arnold gazed at a suit that could have come out of his own closet. “Sure.”
    Alphonse held the jacket out for Arnold to try on. He hesitated, doubting it would hang right over the heavy shirt he was wearing. Alphonse’s brows went up.
    â€œOh! Stupid of me.”
    The tailor waved a hand and a cold wind whirled around Arnold. A second later it stopped, and Arnold was wearing a white silk dress shirt. Goose bumps rose on his arms, and not from the breeze.
    â€œThat’s better. Here, now.”
    Numbly, Arnold slid his arms into the sleeves and stood still while Alphonse walked around him, twitching the jacket and tut-tutting.
    â€œA little longer in the sleeve, I think,” said Alphonse, taking hold of the left jacket cuff, which rode above Arnold’s wrist. He gave it a sharp tug, then smoothed it. The sleeve now brushed the back of Arnold’s hand.
    â€œBetter,” said the tailor, and tugged the other sleeve to match, then passed a hand along Arnold’s upper back. “And a little wider across the shoulders, I think. You do have fine shoulders, if I may say so.”
    Arnold didn’t bother to thank him. He wasn’t sure he could get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth. He tried to decide if he was hallucinating, or in hell. Neither seemed to fit.
    The jacket was fitting better, though. Alphonse muttered and ran his hands down the side seams, and Arnold could feel the cloth shifting to conform to his shape.
    â€œNow the trousers.”
    More breeze, and more adjustments. Arnold tried not to shiver as he stood there. It was not just the wind that had made him cold and caused his balls to retreat. It was the whole situation. What the hell had he let himself in for?
    â€œThere you are,” said Alphonse from the floor where he’d been kneeling to take up the trouser cuffs, a process that seemed to involve caressing the cloth. “Much better, if I may say so. Let’s just get you some shoes and then you can have a look.”
    He put his hands on Arnold’s supple walking shoes and a small flash like lightning made Arnold jump. His feet were now cased in fine leather. Alphonse smoothed his hands over the shoes and they hugged Arnold’s feet while the hair on his legs stood up.
    â€œC-could I keep those other shoes?” Arnold asked, noticing with pride that his voice didn’t quaver.
    Alphonse stood up and brushed his hands. “Of course. I’ll have them sent up to your suite. Did you want the other clothes as well?”
    â€œUh, no.”
    â€œGood. I’ll send up a selection of casual wear for you, and some additional shirts and so forth. Would you care to step over here and choose a cravat?”
    Arnold obediently followed him to the display case and picked out a pearl-gray tie with matching pocket square. A sea-blue silk set caught his eye as well, and Alphonse set it aside