Nodding to signify that we’re on the same wave length, Blessing tugs at his lapels.

“If the store is going to make seven hundred dollars off a suit,” he says agreeably, “the customer should get something. It’s only right.”

Hell, yes, I think. At the very least he should be congratulated on his choice of store. Maybe even a lint brush thrown in for free. I think I’ll wait awhile before I go shopping again. What is this guy’s problem? Did his tape measure break when he was measuring an inseam, or what? Ah, capitalism. No wonder the Commies have such cold feet.

“I’m not exactly sure how all this ties in,” I say, wondering if I’m missing something.

Any injury must be purely internal. With blue eyes the color of the inside of a flame and a diamond-hard chin, the guy could be a male model.

“Here’s the deal,” he says, his eyes suddenly out of focus.

“My boss was taking me to a late lunch because of the great month I’d had in January, which is usually one of the toughest in the business, and he wants to try this new Indian place a couple blocks from the store. In February it’s like being in a wind tunnel down there, and all of a sudden in front of my boss and about twenty other people my rug blows off into the gutter. I had to chase the damn thing. The way the wind was blowing, my boss said it looked like a little animal running down the street!” He jerks off his toupee and reveals a scalp as wide and barren as Death Valley.

Though I am trying desperately, there is no way to keep a straight face. I pretend I have to sneeze and reach for a tissue from the box on my desk to cover my face. I begin to laugh into it and nearly suck it down my throat as I try to draw a breath.

“It’s not funny, damn it!” Blessing cries, throwing the hairpiece on the corner of my desk where it catches on a two-hole punch I use to make files. The toupee, a rich brown color, looks like some eyeless mutant creature dreamed up by a special effects person for a science fiction movie. I wait for it to begin to move toward me.