Run for Your Life (Michael Bennett 2)

“You and me both, Mr. M. Have a good one.”

Inside the Pierre, the concierge, Michael, echoed Vinny’s greeting. “Mr. Meyer. Welcome back, sir.” The Teacher liked the concierge almost as much as he liked Vinny. Michael was a small, blond, circumspect man with a soft, discreet voice, who managed to be incredibly helpful without kissing your ass—a true quality person.

Without any fuss, Michael went into the mailroom behind the check-in desk and retrieved the Teacher’s mail.

“Oh, before I forget, sir. Barneys called an hour ago and said that your final fitting is ready whenever you are.”

The Teacher literally felt a sudden cold shiver race like an icy snake down his spine. His suit was ready.

The one he would die in.

That was what he would call a true final fitting.

“Excellent. Thank you, Michael,” he said, flipping through his mail.

He stopped when he got to the oversized envelope with the embossed invitation. “Mr. and Mrs. Blanchette,” the return address read. He nodded with satisfaction. Someone he knew from his former life had gotten him on the guest list. The Blanchettes had no idea who Mr. Meyer was.

“Michael?” he said, tapping the envelope against his chin as he walked toward the elevator.

“Yes, sir?”

“I need an emergency appointment at the in-house salon.”

“Done, Mr. Meyer,” Michael said.

“And would you please send up a bottle of champagne? I think a rosé should do it.”

“Dom Pérignon? Veuve Clicquot?” Michael said, immediately remembering his favorites.

“How about both?” the Teacher said with his winningest smile, what he called his Tom Cruise special. “You only live once, Michael. You only live just once.”

Chapter 73

AN HOUR AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, the Teacher stood in front of a floor-length triple mirror in Barneys.

“Does the gentleman like what he sees?” the salesman asked.

The navy cashmere suit the Teacher now wore was a Gianluca Isaia, the bootlicker had told him in the loving, reverent tones of a saint uttering the name of God. The silk shirt was a Battistoni, the cap-toed lace-ups from Bettanin and Venturi.

He had to admit, he looked pretty darn good. James Bond–suave. Like the latest actor, including new blond hair, thanks to the cut and dye job.

“The gentlemen loves what he sees,” the Teacher finally said with a grin. “What’s the bill again?”

The fitter toted up numbers on a cash register. “-Eighty-eight twenty-six,” he said after a minute. “That includes the socks.”

Oh, including the three-hundred-dollar socks. What a bargain.

“If the accessories are too pricey, I could show you something else,” the salesman said, with a clear trace of condescension in his voice.

Out of his peripheral vision, the Teacher could see that the immaculately dressed little suckass actually had the nerve to roll his eyes.

These luxury store salespeople just didn’t learn, did they? Exactly when was the last time you dropped four figures on a suit? he wanted to ask the jaded piece of crap. Like so many other people, this guy was practically begging for a bullet in the empty space between his ears.

The Teacher took a steadying breath. Gear it down, he told himself. That’s it. Good boy. This was no time for a silly temper blowup. This close to the goal line, this close to making things right.

“I’ll take it,” the Teacher said, reaching into his Vuitton beside the mirror. His fingers played across the checkered steel grip of one of the two 50-round Intratec Tec-9 machine pistols waiting there under the butter-soft napa leather like loyal friends.

He reluctantly passed them by, instead retrieving his billfold and his American Express Black card.