Fifteen minutes later, as he drove past rows of old two-story apartment buildings in Costa Mesa that had been there since the forties, he wasn’t quite as convinced. He pulled the truck into the last building on the right, maneuvered past the kid’s toys and battered cars parked in front of the apartments, and finally got to his unit at the back. Hell, it looked like a bad motel. Funny how he never really noticed that.
Waving out the truck window toward an empty space, he kept driving until he found another parking spot, pulled in, and slid out fast. Jesus, he wanted to ask Jimothy to wait in his beautiful car while Rick ran in and picked up the underwear from the bedroom floor—or maybe the living room floor—but that’d probably come off like a teenage girl.
Jimothy was standing on the sidewalk outside the apartment he didn’t know was Rick’s. The unit beside him still had Christmas decorations in the window, and there was a Big Wheels truck turned over in front of the door. Jimothy was smiling, but his eyes looked a little big.
Rick said, “I, uh, don’t spend a lot of time at home. I kind of work all the time.”
Jimothy nodded and smiled.
Trying not to make his sigh too loud, Rick used his key, opened the door, and barged in first to take a quick look. At least no underwear, but that was the only good thing he could say. The damned place was brown. A brown rug over brown hardwood floors, beige curtains, a rickety beige-and-brown chair, and a couch he’d bought at some cheap furniture store that was—surprise!—brown. Aside from the grizzly bear color, all the eye could see was a TV that took up most of one wall with the wires hanging from it to the floor where he kept his cable box.
Rick glanced at Jimothy who stood staring around with a neutral expression that made Rick antsier than if he’d screamed and run out the door. Rick cleared his throat. “I, uh, like to watch sports sometimes.”
“Yes.” He waved his arms. “Shall we do something about this too?”
“Do something?”
“Umm. Yes. What if your sister wants to bring her intended to visit you?”
“She won’t.” He didn’t add because she knew better.
“Still, maybe we should spend a little time sprucing?”
“Uh, okay. Uh, maybe.”
Jimothy waved that arm again. “So, show me your closet.”
“Okay, uh, can you sit for a minute while I, uh, straighten up a little?”
“Nonsense. Think of me as having doctor/patient privilege.” With that, he barged down the only hall to the only bedroom with Rick gasping at his heels.
Sure enough, the morning chaos still reigned—unmade bed, clothes scattered around, and the bifold closet door standing open with useless crap shoved into it—but then unless some damned elves had shown up during the day, nobody else would have cleaned it for him.
Jimothy pretended he hadn’t landed in a third-world country and walked straight to the closet, opened the creaky door farther, and looked in. For a moment, he regarded it with an expression that might have explained what the word pensive meant, then pulled out Rick’s one suit that he occasionally wore on a date or if they were giving a presentation to a larger client. Jimothy held up the hanger, stared at it, looked at Rick, and then back at the suit. He frowned.
“This doesn’t fit you.” It wasn’t a question.
“It doesn’t?”
“It’s much too big. Whoever tailored it, didn’t know what he was doing.”
That’s because the extent of Rick’s tailoring was having the pants hemmed at the dry cleaner, but he didn’t say that. “I, uh, don’t like my clothes tight.”
“I’m quite sure this jacket doesn’t touch your body.”
“I’ve got big shoulders.”
“Yes, and a small waist and hips.”
He noticed. Damn. Rick suppressed a smile.
Jimothy glanced at his watch. “Okay, I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at nine thirty, and we’ll go to my favorite tailor, who happens to be in Costa Mesa.”
“But I work tomorrow. Hell, you work tomorrow, right? It’s Friday. Don’t you have a million clients?”
“Mr. Ronconi, sir.” Jimothy planted his hands on his hips. “May I remind you that good tailoring takes time, and you have one week? We can’t wait until Saturday.”
“But I never meant for you to give up your customers for me. This is like a spare-time thing.”
His eyebrows rose, and he swept a hand toward Rick’s closet. “This wasteland can’t be repaired in my spare time!”
Rick nodded dumbly. “Pick me up in Laguna Beach. I’ll work from six until you get there.”
“Done.”
Chapter Seven
Jimothy piloted the car down the highway, the ocean gleaming with moonlight on his right. Rick’s place was a pit, and his wardrobe was a shamble. It’d be easy to chalk it up to careless alpha-maleness, but something Rick said rang in Jimothy’s memory. Alice is out of school, and once her wedding’s over, I won’t have anything to spend my money on. Jimothy had a pretty good idea what Rick had been spending his money on, and probably had every day of his adult life. Isn’t his father alive? Why is Rick responsible for his sister?
He shrugged. Rick wanted to make a nice showing at his sister’s wedding and damn if Jimothy wasn’t going to see to it that he succeeded.
Theodore tried one more time to master the knot on his tie. Man, he hated wearing them, but he had an administrative meeting that morning and needed to look over twenty. The hammering on the door continued. He stuck his head out and looked toward the windows where Snake was talking on the phone with a finger in his other ear to drown out the noise. Okay, he got a pass.
Theodore hurried to the double doors and flung them open.
Andy gave him a look. “Jeez, about time. Dad, Jimothy’s upstairs. I figured you’d want to know since he’s your friend and all.” Total attitude.
“Jimothy?”
“That’s what he said. Good grief, Dad.” He turned and marched back up the stairs.
Jimothy’s upstairs? Maybe he’s come to yell at me for sending my asshole contractor to him. Theodore looked back at Snake, who was still talking on the phone, then turned and trotted up the stairs toward the voices coming from the direction of the kitchen.
Andy was drinking a glass of milk and looked up at a tall reed-thin man with lavender hair. That was Jimothy, all right.
“Hey, Jimothy.” The tall figure turned, and Theodore remembered what a pretty guy he was.
“Theodore.” He clapped his hands together in the gesture Theodore totally associated with Jimothy. He stepped forward, still clapping. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You too. Uh, what can I do for you? I’d love to visit, but I’m on my way to work.”
He smiled. “Oh, I’m here to pick up Rick. Pure luck that you were here at all.”
“Rick?”
“Yes. We’re styling him today.”
“Styling him?” He heard his voice rise and modulated it. “I mean, uh, I thought he left and didn’t get his hair cut. I saw him yesterday and—”