The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 84
“Well, hello there. Ryan, was it?”
Rye turned and saw the old salesman who had helped him. He was putting his hat on as he came out of the shop.
“Sorry,” Rye said, “I was just looking.” He started to move along.
“It’s all right,” the salesman said. “How are those gloves holding up?”
Rye looked down at his bare hands. He’d left the gloves at home. “Fine.”
“What are you looking for now?”
“Nothing,” Rye said, then added quickly, “I wanted a new shirt, but then I started looking at suits.”
“A suit! Well, yes!” He looked Rye up and down. “Every young man should own a suit.” He gestured to his store. “But honestly, you shouldn’t go here for that. Enough I sold you those gloves. We can get you a nice suit for much less.”
The man’s name was Chester, and he talked the whole time as they walked down Sprague. “Normally, I’d suggest having a bespoke coat made, something distinctive yet classic, and build the components around it. But you’re a young man, thin and active, your body’s still growing. I think we can find something on the rack for much less. I’m thinking high neck, shorter lapels, to display your height. I’d go narrower than a morning coat. Single-breasted vest. A tailor will try to talk you into better wool, but it’s a working suit, for God’s sake, we don’t need to strangle a merino lamb for you to look swell on the streetcar!”
They went to a midlevel men’s clothier called Burks and Feyn where Chester knew the salesman. “Kid’s had a rough go, Dale,” he said. “Give him your discount.”
“Give him your discount!” Dale said.
“Come on! I’ll owe you. I know you have something good back there.”
Finally, the salesman sighed, measured Rye’s arms and chest, and emerged with five coats. The salesman and Chester talked about them, Rye trying to follow. Even the words sounded rich to Rye—the Regent, the Winston? Worsted? Tweed? Herringbone or houndstooth? Berrycorn or birdseye? Rye found it dizzying, embarrassed by how much he liked all of it. He nodded. He blushed. He listened.
“Okay.” Chester was in Rye’s ear. “Last question: pockets.” He showed Rye the first jacket. “Patch pocket. Simple. So called because it’s sewn on the coat just like a patch. Opens at the top. Eyeglasses, house key. Versatile, smart.” He switched coats. “This is a flap pocket, same thing but with a flap on top of the patch. And this—” He gestured to the third coat. “This is style. The jetted pocket, sewn inside the coat so that all you see from the outside is this slit opening. Add a third pocket below it, here, a theater ticket pocket, a key pocket, and this says, ‘I am a gentleman, a morning-to-night, go-anywhere, do-anything gentleman.’ ”
Rye could see it. The clean line. The slant to the pocket. He whispered to Chester, “How much do you think—”
“Eighteen,” said the salesman, glancing at Chester, “but sixteen this week and . . .” He lowered his voice: “I could do twelve as long as—”
Chester cleared his throat.
“Fine. I could do ten,” the salesman conceded. “You’re a bastard, Chester.”
Chester smiled, swept around, and lowered the coat onto Rye. It settled on his shoulders like the first snow on a hillside.
“Of course, you can’t wear those boots,” the salesman said.
“No, you’ll need shoes,” said Chester. “And that old hat will likely have to go.”
Rye turned back to the mirror. He felt a rush, and then some shame, at just how badly he wanted to be the gentleman in the glass.
33
Rye sat on the streetcar, a long cloth bag draped over his lap, in it, his new suit and tie, white shirt, and calfskin dress shoes. The bag was, itself, nicer than most of his clothes. He ended up keeping the bowler, out of fondness, the salesman agreeing to spiff it up for him, running a de-linter over it, shining it with oil, and buffing out the grease stain. Rye bought the clothes on credit, five dollars down, the rest due over six months, though he wasn’t entirely sure how much the rest entailed.
He got off the streetcar and walked the four blocks toward Mrs. Ricci’s house, the clothing bag slung over his shoulder like a sailor returning from duty. It was a cool, snowless afternoon, the street full of welcoming smoke from neighbors’ fireplaces.
He was approaching Mrs. Ricci’s when Rye saw a figure through the window of the sleeping porch—Gig! Sitting on his bed in the dark. Rye ran around the side to the back door, and the silhouetted figure turned.
But when he opened the back door, it was Early Reston sitting on his brother’s cot. “Hey, Little Brother.”
Rye stared dumbly. Early looked different. He’d grown a close beard, streaked with gray, and was wearing a suit of his own, rough tweed, Rye thinking of the photo of the Pinkerton agent, Ennis Cooper, and all of those names he used.
“What’ve you got there?” Early stood and took the clothing bag from Rye.
“A suit,” Rye said.
“A suit! Well.” Early unbuttoned the bag and felt the fabric. “Fancy! Look at Rye Dolan. You switching sides, Rye? Like a snake shedding his skin?”
“I needed something to wear to court Monday. For Gurley’s verdict.”
“Ah, right. Mrs. Jones’s verdict. You do recall that she’s married, right, Rye? And with child? And about to go to prison. Fancy a challenge, don’t you?”
Rye blushed and took back the clothing bag.
“Sorry,” Early said. “Was that mean?”
“I’m supposed to give you something,” Rye said. “From Lem Brand.”
“How is our old friend?” Early asked.
“I don’t know,” Rye said. “I told him weeks ago I’d give you this message, and after that, I didn’t want anything to do with him.”
“Did you grow unhappy with your position?”
Rye flushed. “I didn’t have a position. It was a mistake. I didn’t know—”
“You didn’t know, Rye?”
Rye said nothing.
“Come on—what didn’t you know?”
Rye just shook his head.
“You knew,” Early said. “We always know. Whatever happens, we know.”
Rye hated that we, as if