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Cohn reached for another cigarette. “The clinic. It’s a little out of the way, outside a town called Mirage Springs.”

Henry choked on the first sip of his second glass of wine.


“Are you sure you want to measure that?”

The tailor, who had been sitting and waiting for Henry in the anteroom of Henry’s suite when he woke up in the middle of the afternoon, now looked up from the tape measure spread across the breadth of Henry’s right foot. “Mister Cohn instructed that I make several measurements of the symmetry of your physical features,” he replied with a French accent.

Henry looked down at the small notebook with two columns of figures that the tailor added to with a pencil. “What do the width of my feet have to do with a tuxedo?"

“Ask Mister Cohn, Mister Bacon. Mister Cohn is my customer, and the customer is king,” the tailor replied without looking up.

Where is Cohn, anyway?”

“Back in his office, I imagine.” The tailor looked up and smiled. “You may do whatever you wish now. I’ll have your tuxedo ready before dinner.”

“Dinner? Who’s going to be at dinner?”

The tailor became stern once more. “I suggest you ask Mister Cohn.”


“Oh yes, Henry, come in and meet Calvin Gonzalez.” Cohn stood up from a leather chair situated between a mahogany desk and a window that looked out upon a fountain burbling in the late afternoon sunshine. “Calvin’s a computer science major at UNLV, but he’ll be our Webmaster over the summer.” Cohn flashed Calvin a smile. “And maybe through the fall and beyond, if we can convince him to stay.”

A standing Calvin reached out his hand to shake Henry’s. “Glad you could make it.”

“Thanks. Nice to meet you.” Henry looked back at Cohn. “What’s the deal with the body measurements? And what’s so important about tonight’s dinner?”

Cohn looked at Calvin, who looked back at him and not at Henry. “Add in what you and I went over.”

“Sure thing, Larry.” Calvin clapped Henry’s arm on his way out. “Pleasure.”

“Yeah, pleasure,” Henry replied. Then, to Cohn, “What’s the deal? Investors coming in tonight?”

“You could say that. Have a seat, Henry.”

s.t.u.d. by W.R. Hammons:

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