Jack closed the top drawer of Cordova's receptionist's desk. He now had the fat man's phone numbers-home and cell. Next stop, the filing cabinets.

He leafed through the folders in the top drawer, checking out age and s.e.x of the clients. Some contained photos. Jack pulled out males in their thirties until he had a stack of six. Then he started dialing, pretending to be calling from the electric company.

All of the first batch were home. So he went back to the cabinet. One in the second batch didn't answer. Lee Dobbins. Jack studied his picture and vital statistics. Lee lived and worked in Queens. He'd suspected his business partner in their real estate firm of dealing with the compet.i.tion. The wad of photos in the file-taken by Cordova, no doubt-had confirmed his suspicions. Jack memorized the salient points, then filed Dobbins back with all the others.

He then turned on the computer. He typed a note and printed it out under the Cordova Investigations Ltd. letterhead. He tri-folded it and stuck it in a pocket.

Hey, Lee Dobbins, Jack thought as he exited the office. You just got yourself a new best buddy. Me.

Jack knew he'd have to tread carefully here. Had to a.s.sume that Sister Maggie had told Cordova everything she knew-which wasn't much beyond Julio's and how Jack looked. He'd have to alter his appearance some.

The other possible hitch was Cordova calling to check Jack's story and finding Dobbins home. Jack could finesse that by calling Dobbins just before he met Cordova. If still no answer, he was golden. If he picked up... well... forget finesse then.

6.

Richie Cordova jumped when his cell phone started ringing. Who'd be calling him on a Sunday afternoon? Sure as h.e.l.l wouldn't be Neva. Eddy?

He'd been chilling-in the physical as well as the slang sense-outside Julio's for a couple of hours. The place wasn't real busy but had a steady trickle in and out. Richie had taken a couple of peeks in the front window. From what he could see through all the dead hanging plants-what was up with that?-it looked like a typical neighborhood bar. Reminded him of Hurley's, and how he wished he was nursing a shot and a beer there instead of hanging out here on a street far from home. He'd promised himself to stay around until three or so, then head back to do just that. The Giants had the four o'clock game against Dallas and he didn't want to miss it.

Hours of watching and still n.o.body sitting at one of the rear tables. Everyone cl.u.s.tered around the bar where the TV was.

And now someone was calling him. He pulled out the phone, flipped it open, and thumbed the SEND b.u.t.ton.

"Yeah?"

"Mr. Cordova?" said a funny-sounding voice he didn't recognize.

"Who's this?"

"My name's Louis Gorcey and-"

"How'd you get this number?"

"I was just about to tell you that. I'm friends with Lee Dobbins and he gave it to me. He recommends you very highly."

Dobbins... Dobbins... Oh yeah. The real estate guy. But he didn't have Richie's cell number. Or did he? Richie sometimes gave it out to clients when he needed to stay real close to a situation.

"That's nice of him, but-what did you say your name was?"

"It's Gorcey. Louis Gorcey."

Something about the way he said his s's... he sounded like a f.a.g.

"Well, Mr. Gorcey, I'm glad Lee recommended me, but this is Sunday. My office is closed. If you want to call back first thing tomorrow morning-"

"It can't wait till then. The window of opportunity is tonight. It has has to be tonight." to be tonight."

"Sorry, I-"

"Please hear me out. This is very important to me and I'll make it well worth your while."

Well worth your while... he liked the sound of that. But it was was Sunday... and the Giants were playing Dallas... Sunday... and the Giants were playing Dallas...

"I'll pay you a thousand dollars cash just to meet with me and listen to my problem. If you aren't interested, then the money's yours to keep."

"This must be one h.e.l.l of a problem."

"It's not so much a matter of magnitude as timing. We have to meet this afternoon because the window opens tonight."

A thousand bucks... that would be the best hourly rate he'd ever earned. And an hour was all it would be. Richie had already decided to get the money up front, listen, and say no thanks. Then he'd head for Hurley's and the game. Worst-case scenario was he'd miss part of the first quarter.

"Okay. You've got a deal. You know where my office is?"

He didn't, so Richie gave him the address. They'd meet there in half an hour.

A nasty suspicion crawled up his back as he thumbed the END b.u.t.ton. What if this was the nun's Jack? What if he'd heard about Sister Maggie and decided to give Richie a dose of the same medicine?

He shook it off. Crazy. The nun had hired the guy to do a job and he did it. End of story. If something happened to the client afterward, so what? Not his business, not his worry.

Besides, not only did this Gorcey sound like a f.a.g, but he knew Dobbins and had Richie's cell number.

Still, maybe he should do a little checking up before the meet.

7.

Jack finally found Preston Loeb's number in an old notebook. They'd met in a martial arts cla.s.s back in their twenties. Preston had been involved in one of Jack's early fix-its.

The second ring was answered by a soft, "h.e.l.lo, Preston speaking."

"Preston? This is Jack." When silence followed he added, "From Ichi-san's cla.s.s, remember?"

"Jack! How've you been, dearie? You never call, you never write-"

"I need a favor, Pres. A little sartorial guidance."

"You? Oh, don't tell me you're finally going to get with it! At your age? Well, better late than never, I guess. And you want me to do the Queer Eye Queer Eye thing for you? I'm flattered." thing for you? I'm flattered."

Even if he had the time-which he didn't-Jack was not in the mood for banter. But he tried to keep it light.

"I need help looking like someone who might be a friend of yours."

A pause, and then, "Now that's that's interesting. When would you want to-?" interesting. When would you want to-?"

"Now. As in right away. You free?"

"Just working on some sketches, and you know I don't like football, so, why not? Meet me at... let's see... how about Praetoria on Green Street?"

Way downtown in SoHo. He'd have to hurry.

"I'm leaving now."

8.

"And now tell me, dearie, just why why you of all people would want to look queer? You haven't crossed the street, have you?" you of all people would want to look queer? You haven't crossed the street, have you?"

Preston Loeb stood six-one with a slim build; long, curly black hair-in the old days it had been straight-framed his handsome face. He wore a snug, vaguely fuzzy, short-sleeve, baby-blue sweater. His cream-colored slacks were tight down to the knees where they flared into outlandish bell-bottoms. A black alligator shoulder bag completed the picture.

They stood just inside the entrance to Praetoria, a men's store with a twenty-foot ceiling and front windows nearly as tall. The wan afternoon light filtering through them was swallowed in the glare of the bare flourescents high above. Everything was white except the contents of the clothing-filled racks and shelves that stretched ahead of them.

Jack shook his head. "Nope. Still hetero. And I don't want to look like a flaming queen. More like someone who's, say, just a couple of inches outside the closet."

"Well, as I'm sure you know, a couple of inches can make a world of difference."

Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. "Preston..."

"I know what you're thinking, Jack. That I'm more outrageous than I ever used to be, that I'm such such a cliche. Well, you're right. I am. Deliberately. And do you know why? Because I love it. I... a cliche. Well, you're right. I am. Deliberately. And do you know why? Because I love it. I... love love... it. It's my way of thumbing my nose at all the uptight straights wandering this earth. But you know what? My clients, straight or gay, they love it too. They think a guy this flaming has to be a great great interior designer. So allow me my fun, okay? Life should be fun. Although looking at you I can see you're not having much." interior designer. So allow me my fun, okay? Life should be fun. Although looking at you I can see you're not having much."

Jack sighed. He was right.

"You might say that. And soon I'm going to have even less. I've got to meet with a slimeball who might be expecting trouble from a stranger. I want to-How shall I say it?-put him at ease."

Pres put a hand on a hip. "And you you think that if think that if he he thinks you're queer, thinks you're queer, he'll he'll figure he's got nothing to fear." figure he's got nothing to fear."

"That rhymes, you know, and yes, that's the way his kind of mind works."

"But you know better, don't you."

"Oh, yeah."

Pres might be an interior designer and might look like a featherweight pushover, but Jack had trained with him; the guy had lightning reflexes and was a nunchuck wizard.

"Okay, then." Pres clapped his hands and looked around. "Let's get started, shall we." He pointed to the right. "There. Shirts. Always a good place to start."

Jack followed him to a rack and watched him fan through a rainbow of shirts. He stopped and pulled out something Jack could only describe as turquoise.

"Look at this. Isn't it scrumptious?"

"What's that stuff up and down the front? Looks like someone spilled spaghetti on it."

"It's embroidery, dearie. Embroidery is always fun."

"Never thought of clothes as fun."

"Oh, you'll never change: functional, functional, functional. Clothing should be an expression of the inner you."

Jack spread his arms. "And what do my clothes say about the inner me?"

"You really want to know, Jack? I mean, I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything."

"Don't worry. You can't."

"All right, then: The way you dress, it's like... it's like there is is no inner you." no inner you."

Jack allowed himself a smile. "Cool."

"How can you say 'cool'? That was not not a compliment. I offered it with only the best intentions, but some-myself included-might consider it an insult." a compliment. I offered it with only the best intentions, but some-myself included-might consider it an insult."

"Don't worry about it. Empty is exactly how I like to look."

"Jack, dearest, you do do know that you're a very odd man, don't you. I mean very, know that you're a very odd man, don't you. I mean very, very very odd." odd."

"So I've been told."

He handed Jack the shirt. "Okay. We'll keep this as a possibility. I'll pick out some others and..."

He was staring at Jack's hair.

"What's wrong?"

"With the way you look? Everything. But especially that hair." He pulled a phone from his bag and hit a b.u.t.ton. "Christophe? I need you, baby... No, not for me. It's for a friend... I know know you're busy"-he looked at Jack and rolled his eyes as he made a chitterchatter sign with his free hand-"but you've just you're busy"-he looked at Jack and rolled his eyes as he made a chitterchatter sign with his free hand-"but you've just got got to squeeze him in. It's an emergency... I to squeeze him in. It's an emergency... I never never exaggerate!" A quick glance at Jack's hair. "You'll understand when you see him... Okay, we'll be over in half an hour." exaggerate!" A quick glance at Jack's hair. "You'll understand when you see him... Okay, we'll be over in half an hour."

"Who's Christophe?"