CHAPTER FOUR
HAMPTON
THE SUPPOSEDLY AWESOME TAILOR SHOP on Spruce Street looks closed when we arrive. The door isn’t propped open; there’s no sign indicating its status, and there are so many garments crowding the front window that you can’t see inside. It looks like a hoarder’s showcase. Only a small hanger above the door — The Perfect Fit, Grace Custom Alterations — gives any sign of life.
Carlo opens the door. A bell jingles.
“Stacy?” Carlo calls as Mateo and I trade a glance. “You in here, hon?”
I stand back, watching Carlo vanish through a drape of racked clothes like a magician’s trick.
“I’ll hang out here,” Mateo says, “but you have fun.”
I follow Carlo, emerging into a claustrophobic little place. It looks like something out of the previous century. The side-wall windows look like antique glass, not entirely clear. The shop isn’t as cluttered as it appeared from the outside, but the ceiling is too low, and the neat racks of clothes are too numerous for the space. The only activity is a hum and shuffle from a brightly lit back room.
A chair rakes the floor. The humming stops. A woman emerges.
Carlo hugs her then says, “Stacy, this is Mr. Hampton Brooks. He has a little wardrobe emergency.”
I’m already agitated, but the shopkeeper’s sympathetic expression cranks it up another notch. I don’t want to be in her shop, and I don’t like Carlo’s suggestion that she gets to save me.
“Oh no!” she says, like I’ve run over a puppy. Then her hands are on my blazer where Carlo’s indicated the rip.
“What happened?” she asks, looking up at me. Anyone who reacts to a tailor’s job with genuine emotion is clearly unstable.
Carlo jumps in to answer. “Ripped it on a hunk of junk. Metal was sticking out and here we are.”
“Here you are,” the girl repeats, looking down. She’s holding my blazer’s frayed sleeve. She spreads her fingers and rolls the fabric over them as if to study the nuance.
“I’ll wait outside with Mr. Saint.” Carlo smiles at the girl and puts a hand on her shoulder. Then he turns to me. “Meet you when you’re through, Mr. Brooks.”
When Carlo is gone, the girl takes her gaze from the fabric and finally meets my eyes. “It’s ripped at the seam. That’s good news.”
“Okay,” I say. “Can you repair it? Now?”
“Yes. No problem.”
“Here?”
“Yes,” she says. Smiling still. Which is good, because although I didn’t mean it, that last bit was an insult. I know she has a sewing machine in the back; I heard it humming when we walked in. I’ll bet it’s great at putting patches on overalls and mending matronly smocks. But this blazer is Italian.
Without asking permission, she reaches for my collar and peels the garment off. I move away and see that she’s turning the sleeve inside out, inspecting the damage from the other end.
“Yep. It just unraveled. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“It didn’t unravel. I ripped it on a machine.”
She gives me a down-home smile. “I’m sure you snagged it. But the fabric didn’t rip, see?” She shows me the sleeve. “It was probably fraying already. The machine just gave it a nudge.”
She shrugs, still pondering the fabric as if there’s more to see. Then she takes the blazer and crosses the shop, stopping under a lamp.
“What?” I say after another minute of quiet investigation.
“It’s just … where did you get this blazer?”
“Barcelona.”
“Is that in Atlanta?”
“No, it’s in Barcelona.”
She shakes her head.
“Spain,” I elaborate.
She looks like she’s about to say something, then stops and moves to a paper-littered desk. There’s a computer among the chaos, and she begins typing into it, as if preparing my order.
“What?” I ask.
“I can have this ready by Tuesday. Will that work?”
I don’t even hear the question. “Why did you ask where I got it? Why were you looking at it so funny?”
“It’s just strange.”
“Strange how?”
“Well, honestly, I figured you got it second-hand.”
“Second—”
“But then I look at the rest of what you’re wearing, and you don’t strike me as a thrift shop kind of guy.”
“I told you. I got it in Barcelona. I have a tailor there.”
She’s still typing into the computer, seemingly unwilling to continue this conversation. Holding back for my benefit.
“It’s custom,” I say.
“I know. I saw the maker label, and it’s pretty clear that it’s not an off-the-rack size, not an off-the-rack cut.”
“It’s not.” Now I’m defensive. The blazer she’s tossed onto the Everest of paperwork probably cost more than her first car.
“And it also doesn’t strike me as off-the-rack and then altered. Not made-to-measure, even. True custom. Bespoke. You stood for this blazer, didn’t you? Maybe a round or two of fittings?”
“Two. In Spain.”
She nods.
“What?”
“Look,” she says. “I can fix it. That’s all that matters.”
“But?”
She sighs, seems to reach a decision she was hoping to avoid. “Honestly, it’s not very well made.”
“It’s custom!”
“Your tailor didn’t leave much fabric behind for future alterations. I don’t see any notions sewn in, and look: see the buttonhole stitching?”
I look. I don’t see a problem, but she must think it was already obvious to me because she’s opening the garment and showing me inside. “Look at the lining. See where it’s puckered? And this seam here — see how the pattern is lined up sloppy? And here. Feel.”
I feel my jacket.
“It’s half-canvas. Which is usually fine. But what did you pay?”
I tell her. Her hand slaps her mouth as if she’s accidentally said fuck while sitting in a pew.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s none of my business.”
“What?”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Will you just —”
“Even half that price, a jacket should be full canvas. It’ll wear better, hold its shape better. And look, wow, that’s a raw fabric edge.” She bundles the jacket and sets it aside as if she can’t stand the sight any longer. She’s red-faced when she meets my eyes again. “So. Is Tuesday okay?”
I consider fighting for my jacket’s dignity, but I’m outmatched. I settle for being increasingly annoyed. She seems to be trying hard not to insult me, but I feel my temperature rising.
“I need it today.”
She dives for paper, finds something that might be a schedule, and says, “Okay, I can do that. After seven tonight. I’ll have to add a rush charge.”
I need to be in the air by then. Hell, I’ll be halfway to Colorado. It’s a private plane and I can delay all I want, but what am I supposed to do once I’m done looking at my future building? Play checkers with the locals?
“How long does a job like that take? The actual time spent working on it?”
“An hour, maybe, to do it right.”
“An hour? To fix a seam that’s just opened up?”
“To do it right,” she repeats. Her eyes tick toward the blazer, and I suddenly suspect she’s going to do more than fix the seam. She’ll over-repair that sleeve, to save me from myself.
I look at my watch. “I can come back in two hours.”
“I need more time than that.”
“You just said an hour.”
“I have customers ahead of you,” she says, flustered. “I can’t turn it around that quickly.”
“I don’t care what it costs. My pilot charges by the hour.”
It’s not true; it’s a company jet, and the crew is on salary. But I’m trying to make a point.
“You have a pilot?”
“Yes. He flies me everywhere. Including Barcelona.”
“You mean, a private jet?”
Now I’ve got her. She says my jacket isn’t quality construction? I can rub the finer things in her face all day long. Starting with my watch, which I’m already tapping.
“I’ll be back at—”
“Are you here on business?”
“Yes. And—”
“What business?”
The corner of my lip tips up. She’s wide-eyed, like a doe. I pull the trigger.
“Ever heard of Expendable Chic?”
The doe-like eyes turn hard. Her gaping mouth closes.
“Expendable Chic?” Wheels are turning. “Wait. You’re that Hampton Brooks?”
I want to ask her how many she knows. I nod instead.
I can’t read what crosses the shopgirl’s face. I only know that it’s unpleasant and conflicted. She seems to be holding her tongue in a new way. She doesn’t meet my eyes as she turns to the computer, punching keys like staccato gunfire.
“Well, I can have your blazer ready by 7 o’clock, Mr. Brooks.”
“I need it earlier.”
“I’m sorry. That’s the fastest I can go.”
“You could do it right now if you drop everything else.”
“I’m not going to do that, thanks.”
“Don’t even worry about doing it right. Just quick-stitch it. When I get back home, I can take it to my own tailor.”
“I don’t believe in halfway work, Mr. Brooks.”
“Your client is demanding halfway work if that’s the only way it gets done inside the two hours he has.”
“It’s not. It’ll be done at seven.”
“What’s happening here? Is there a problem?”
She looks up at me, glaring.
She’s one of those women who’s stunning when angry, and I feel a sudden, inexplicable, inappropriate blast of lust. Her full lips have made a straight line, her brown eyes narrowed. I can tell she didn’t think twice about her honey-brown hair; it’s pulled back into a loose ponytail that doesn’t give a damn. Her cheeks are flushed, pulse throbbing in her throat. Her sundress is totally inappropriate, too casual and sheer. Something inside me makes me glance down. Anger has hardened her nipples.
“Not at all,” she says.
“I’ll pay double your charge.”
“Of course you will.” But that’s too hard for what’s still ostensibly a merchant-customer exchange, so she softens her voice and forces a smile. She glances aside to look at the clock, and I sneak another look at her body. Why do I care? And why is what I see turning me on, even while I face her down? “I mean, the rush charge alone …”
I turn. Mateo is outside. I can see him through the windows, maybe overhearing, interpreting the change in body language. He’s grinning. I just want to get out of here.
“Two hours,” I say.
“Seven o’clock,” she says from behind me.
“I only want a halfway job. Get it done. Just pin the damn thing if you have to.”
Her jaw is working. “Fine.”
“It only has to be ‘good enough.’”
“Of course it does … Mr. Brooks.”
It’s only after I’m through the doors that I realize she wasn’t just saying my name as a codicil. It wasn’t just the end of her sentence. When that woman said, “Mr. Brooks,” she was implying cause and effect.
”Of course it only has to be “good enough” … because you are Hampton Brooks.
As if Hampton Brooks isn’t used to demanding and getting the best.
As if I couldn’t buy this whole backward little town a hundred times over, starting with the Billings & Pile building.
Mateo is laughing like a kid when I emerge on the sidewalk. He claps me on the back as if in support.
“I want to see the rest of the building,” I say.