Devon put his head down. “That’s all anyone’s gonna fuckin’ talk about, isn’t it. Fuck.”

“You’ve got to admit that when a guy gets caught with an armful of women’s underwear it paints a picture that’s hard to forget.”

“It wasn’t just underwear,” Devon said. “It was dresses, too.”

“Right,” Finn said. “Dresses, too. Does that make it sound better?” He watched his client get up and pace in the tiny room like a tiger at the zoo. “The cops are calling you the G-String Bandit.”

“Fuck ’em. They ain’t got nothin’ better to do with their lives but fuck with me? I got enough to worry about, right?”

“It was apparently a toss-up between that and the Panty Raider. Personally, I like the Panty Raider, but that’s probably because I went to college at night, so I feel like I missed out.”

Devon stopped pacing and looked at Finn. “This is fuckin’ funny?”

“Maybe a little,” Finn replied. Then he turned serious. “Tell me what happened.”

Devon sat down, leaned back in the little chair, and took a deep breath. “It shoulda been the easiest night of my fuckin’ life. You know Gilberacci’s on Newberry Street? High-end fashion place?” Finn nodded. “They just got in the new shipments for summer. The place was stocked.”

“A little smash-and-grab?” Finn asked. “The notion of you getting pinched fondling a bunch of silk bras is a little hard to swallow.”

“You’re not listening,” Devon said. “This wasn’t no fuckin’ smash-and-grab. I had over fifty designer dresses, up to six thousand retail for each one. Plus some jewelry and-yeah-very expensive panties and bras and shit like that. All in all, close to half a million dollars in the store, low six figures on the street.”

Finn whistled. “That’s expensive underwear.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’. Plus, it shoulda been easy. Johnny Gilberacci’s one of the owners, and he’s got a serious fuckin’ gambling problem.”

“Johnny Gilberacci? He’s the guy who’s always in the society pages with his little dog with the pink collar, right?”