He had once known a guy who hid things inside a gutted TV
set. The guy’s quarters had been searched eight times before
anybody thought to check that everything was exactly as it
seemed.
There was nothing in the hallway. Nothing taped under the
drawers in the little chest. Nothing in the bathrooms. Nothing
of significance in the bedrooms except a shoe box under
Froelich’s bed. It was full of letters addressed in Joe’s handwriting.
He put them back without reading them. Went back
downstairs and carried his garbage bag up to the guest room.
Decided to wait an hour and then eat alone if she wasn’t back.
He would send for the hot and sour and the General Tso’s
again. It had been pretty good. He put his bathroom items next
to the sink. Hung his Atlantic City clothes in the closet next to
Joe’s abandoned suits. He looked at them and stood still for a
long moment and then selected one at random and pulled it off
the rail.
The plastic wrap tore as he stripped it away. It was stiff and
brittle. The label inside the suit coat had a single Italian word
embroidered in fancy script. Not a brand he recognized. The
material was some kind of fine wool. It was very dark grey and
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had a faint sheen to it. The lining was acetate made to look like
dark red silk. Maybe it was silk. It had a watermark. There was
no vent in the back. He laid it on the bed and put the pants next
to it. They were very plain. No pleats, no cuffs.
He went back to the closet and took out a shirt. Lifted the
plastic off it. It was pure white broadcloth. No buttons on
the collar. A small label inside the neckband with two names in
copperplate script, too obscure to read. Somebody & Somebody. Either an exclusive London shirtmaker, or some sweatshop
faking it. The fabric was hefty. Not thick like fatigues, but there
was some weight to it.
He unlaced his shoes. Took off his jacket and jeans and
folded them over a chair. Followed them with his T-shirt and his
underwear. Stepped into the bathroom and set the shower
running. Stepped into the stall. There was soap and shampoo in
there. The soap was dried rock-hard and the shampoo bottle
was stuck shut with old suds. Clearly Froelich didn’t have
frequent house guests. He soaked the bottle under the stream
of hot water and forced it open. Washed his hair and soaped his
body. Leaned out and grabbed his razor and shaved carefully.
Rinsed all over and got out and dripped on the floor and
searched for a towel. He found one in a cupboard. It was thick
and new. Too new to be any good at drying. It just slid the water
around on his skin. He did his best with it and then wrapped it
round his waist and combed his hair with his fingers.
He stepped back into the bedroom and picked up Joe’s shirt.
Hesitated a second, and then put it on. Flipped the collar up and
buttoned it at the neck. Buttoned it down the front. Opened the
closet door and checked the fit in the mirror. It was perfect,
more or less. Could have been tailored for him. He buttoned the
cuffs. Sleeve length was excellent. He twisted left and right.
Caught sight of a shelf behind the rail. The space where the suit
and the shirt had been let him see it. There were neckties
neatly rolled and placed side by side. Tissue-paper packages
from a laundry, sealed with sticky labels. He opened one and
found a pile of clean white boxers.. Opened another and found
black socks folded together in pairs.
He moved back to the bed and dressed in his brother’s
clothes. Selected a dark maroon tie with a discreet pattern.
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British, like it represented a regimental association or one of
those expensive high schools. He put it on and cracked the
shirt collar down over it. Put on a pair of boxers and a pair of
socks. Stepped into the suit pants. Shrugged into the jacket. He