Apologize, Apologize! - By Elizabeth Kelly Page 0,33

so generous, not once, but twice.

“Too bad about Bing—oh, he’s cute enough, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? Unfortunately, your brother is too diminutive to make much of an impression. That mop of hair and all those freckles are damned undignified for a man.” He patted me on the arm before stepping back to take a better look.

Appearing satisfied, he summoned the salesman with an all but invisible gesture—as if he were carrying around a silent dog whistle that only the pathologically subservient could hear. Despite daily exposure to high-profile types, the salesman was so intimidated by the Falcon that he performed an involuntary half-bow on approach.

“We’ll take the lot, and I want him measured for a couple of suits,” the Falcon said, his demeanor communicating a sort of generalized impatience, as if he had places to be and people to see.

“Thanks, Granddad, I appreciate it, but when am I going to wear this stuff? I’m going to be living in Rhode Island, not eighteenth-century Glasgow. I look like somebody shoved a skeet-shooting rifle up my ass, as if I should be hunting pheasants on the Scottish moors or something.”

The salesman gasped and erupted into a hiccuping fit of pedestrian conversational tics; visibly panic-stricken at this mild insurrection, he measured my inseam as my grandfather stared out the window and onto the street below. From his jacket pocket, the Falcon retrieved a silver cigarette case, which he slid methodically between his fingers before turning his full attention to the man on his knees in front of him. Terrified, the salesman started blithering.

“Young people today have their own ideas about how they want to dress. Blue jeans, T-shirts, and baseball caps seem to be the order of the day. Oh well, youth will out, I suppose. I can remember wearing some pretty offbeat stuff myself, all part of the rebellious age,” he said cheerfully, his lips trembling.

“If I was interested in your theory concerning the apotheosis of adolescence, I would ask for it,” the Falcon said to the salesman, who appeared to be shrinking before my eyes. “Do you always insinuate yourself in the private conversations of clients?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the salesman responded, laughing uncomfortably, clicking into instantaneous robo-servant mode. I felt my liver shut down, my insides shuddering in response to what seemed like an obnoxious historical extract—it was like being present the moment before the start of the French Revolution.

“Yes, well, enough of your fumbling exegesis. Just do your job. Does my grandson look like some teenage street riffraff? Don’t waste his time with your silly chatter.” The Falcon strode past me, pausing just long enough to tell me he was going down to the first floor to speak to Michael, his driver.

“Hurry up. I don’t want Collie waiting any longer than is necessary,” he ordered the salesman as he left.

“Sorry about that,” I said to the salesman, who politely dismissed my concerns.

“Some of this stuff isn’t that bad,” I said, trying to make amends. “I like the pea coat, and you can throw in a couple of pairs of cords, too, with all the other stuff, while you’re at it.”

Although I’m not one of those rich guys who assume that everyone I meet is after my fortune, I learned early that when you’re loaded, money is the only form of apology that matters to most people.

“Certainly, whatever you’d like,” he said. “Thank you.”

After that, we both relaxed a little and wound up talking about baseball, until the Falcon reappeared and the salesman began to struggle with his train of thought and we both lapsed into an uncomfortable quiet.

The silence persisted most of the way home in the car, until the Falcon finally spoke:

“I’m going to make a prediction about your future, Collie, and you won’t like it. I regret to say that you’re not going to amount to a hill of beans. Do you want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you suffer fools gladly.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to people,” I murmured into a cupped hand.

“What did you say?” the Falcon said, leaning forward in his seat, his hand on my knee.

“Forget it,” I said, unwilling to elaborate.

“No, I won’t forget it. You made an accusation, now you must defend it.”

“Well, I don’t think that money and power entitle you to treat other people badly, especially people who lack privilege. I don’t notice you being unpleasant to the people who attend your parties. It’s obvious what you think. Someone has to have a lot of money