collegiate, but it has to be subtle,” Benedict said to the salesman.
“Ralph Lauren has a very fine herringbone.”
“I don’t see him in anything quite that sporty. It has to be youthful, but classy.”
The salesman had gone to a rack of herringbones, but now stopped. He turned toward the three men and tilted his head, like a little bird studying something outside his cage. “Ah,” he began. “I’m not exactly sure I can entirely visualize the precise statement we’re trying to make.”
“Trustworthiness. Naiveté. Innocence,” Benedict said.
“Something a middle-class college student would wear,” Mr. Morton added.
The salesman made a thoughtful moue.
“I’m charged with selling heroin to an undercover
cop,” Gerard explained. “I’m going on trial Monday and they want me to make a good impression.”
“I understand,” the salesman said brightly. “Very well, come with me.”
He led them around a corner of the room to a rack of suits that had escaped their earlier notice. Benedict’s eyes lit and he smiled in satisfaction. Mr. Morton murmured his approval. The salesman riffled through the rack, stopped, and said, partly to himself and partly to Gerard, “Let’s see. What are you?”
Gerard was about to blurt guilty. The salesman, however, answered his own question, suddenly recalling, “Oh, yes, that’s right. A 38 long.”
The Weather in New York
J ack Latin, retired and divorced, played nine holes of golf, swam a few laps in his backyard pool, and then drove to the airport at West Palm Beach. The tempera-drove to the airport at West Palm Beach. The temperature was eighty-one degrees. Three hours later he arrived at La Guardia, and freezing rain blew into his face and down his neck. Jack cursed his parents, the only people he still knew in New York. By the time he reached their apartment, two rooms on Eastern Parkway, he had the flu.
“You know, if you moved down to Florida like normal human beings, I wouldn’t have to do this every month,” Jack told them. He lay on their couch, under two quilts. His mother was setting the table.
“You should see the co-ops they’ve got fifteen minutes from my house,” he went on. “They’re beautiful. New appliances, terraces, everything.”
“I seen ’em,” his mother said, on her way into the kitchen to check on the soup. “They’re full of old people.”
“Ma, you’re eighty-seven. You’d qualify.”
“Florida? Hah,” his father said, putting aside his newspaper. “It’s a hot New Jersey. You go from one damned mall to another. Gas stations, hamburger places—”
“Sun, swimming pools, more sun, golf courses, even more sun.”
“Go find a decent bookstore.”
“You should take a look at yourselves. You look like ghosts. When was the last time you were down there? Three years ago?”
“It’s so boring. All those people could talk about was how much better the weather there is than it is in New York.”
“Pop, there’s so much to do. You can join clubs, attend lectures, take bus tours—”
“Yeah, kill time.”
Meanwhile, the freezing rain had turned to snow. By the following morning there were fourteen inches of it on the ground. The airports were closed and Jack had a high fever. He lay on the couch, watching his mother in the kitchen. Outside the window, which looked out onto the wall of an adjacent building, snowflakes the size of postage stamps fluttered by.
His father, sitting beside him in an armchair, wouldn’t allow him to turn on the television except for the news. He refused to play pinochle. He had to finish reading the paper. There was more trouble in Albania.
“Albania? Albania? Do me a favor. Look at the weather. What’s the temperature in Florida?”
It snowed the remainder of the day. The weather bureau was predicting the heaviest snowfall in twenty years. At about four o’clock one of their neighbors, a young woman, came by with groceries. “I knew you wouldn’t be going to the
“Ralph Lauren has a very fine herringbone.”
“I don’t see him in anything quite that sporty. It has to be youthful, but classy.”
The salesman had gone to a rack of herringbones, but now stopped. He turned toward the three men and tilted his head, like a little bird studying something outside his cage. “Ah,” he began. “I’m not exactly sure I can entirely visualize the precise statement we’re trying to make.”
“Trustworthiness. Naiveté. Innocence,” Benedict said.
“Something a middle-class college student would wear,” Mr. Morton added.
The salesman made a thoughtful moue.
“I’m charged with selling heroin to an undercover
cop,” Gerard explained. “I’m going on trial Monday and they want me to make a good impression.”
“I understand,” the salesman said brightly. “Very well, come with me.”
He led them around a corner of the room to a rack of suits that had escaped their earlier notice. Benedict’s eyes lit and he smiled in satisfaction. Mr. Morton murmured his approval. The salesman riffled through the rack, stopped, and said, partly to himself and partly to Gerard, “Let’s see. What are you?”
Gerard was about to blurt guilty. The salesman, however, answered his own question, suddenly recalling, “Oh, yes, that’s right. A 38 long.”
The Weather in New York
J ack Latin, retired and divorced, played nine holes of golf, swam a few laps in his backyard pool, and then drove to the airport at West Palm Beach. The tempera-drove to the airport at West Palm Beach. The temperature was eighty-one degrees. Three hours later he arrived at La Guardia, and freezing rain blew into his face and down his neck. Jack cursed his parents, the only people he still knew in New York. By the time he reached their apartment, two rooms on Eastern Parkway, he had the flu.
“You know, if you moved down to Florida like normal human beings, I wouldn’t have to do this every month,” Jack told them. He lay on their couch, under two quilts. His mother was setting the table.
“You should see the co-ops they’ve got fifteen minutes from my house,” he went on. “They’re beautiful. New appliances, terraces, everything.”
“I seen ’em,” his mother said, on her way into the kitchen to check on the soup. “They’re full of old people.”
“Ma, you’re eighty-seven. You’d qualify.”
“Florida? Hah,” his father said, putting aside his newspaper. “It’s a hot New Jersey. You go from one damned mall to another. Gas stations, hamburger places—”
“Sun, swimming pools, more sun, golf courses, even more sun.”
“Go find a decent bookstore.”
“You should take a look at yourselves. You look like ghosts. When was the last time you were down there? Three years ago?”
“It’s so boring. All those people could talk about was how much better the weather there is than it is in New York.”
“Pop, there’s so much to do. You can join clubs, attend lectures, take bus tours—”
“Yeah, kill time.”
Meanwhile, the freezing rain had turned to snow. By the following morning there were fourteen inches of it on the ground. The airports were closed and Jack had a high fever. He lay on the couch, watching his mother in the kitchen. Outside the window, which looked out onto the wall of an adjacent building, snowflakes the size of postage stamps fluttered by.
His father, sitting beside him in an armchair, wouldn’t allow him to turn on the television except for the news. He refused to play pinochle. He had to finish reading the paper. There was more trouble in Albania.
“Albania? Albania? Do me a favor. Look at the weather. What’s the temperature in Florida?”
It snowed the remainder of the day. The weather bureau was predicting the heaviest snowfall in twenty years. At about four o’clock one of their neighbors, a young woman, came by with groceries. “I knew you wouldn’t be going to the
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