A Matter of Will

by Adam Mitzner

  Will didn’t own a tuxedo. Still, he thought his suits were just fine.

  “And that’s a problem because . . . ?”

  “Because, my friend, you can’t do an eight-figure deal wearing a suit you bought at Men’s Wearhouse for $399.”

  Two of the suits in Will’s rotation had indeed been purchased from Men’s Wearhouse—a fact Will kept to himself.

  “Mario will set you up with a tux and the accoutrements. That’s all my gift to you. I realize I’ve invited you to the party at the last minute, and I want you to make a good impression as much for my sake as yours. But I’m going to strongly encourage that, since Mario’s going to the trouble of taking your measurements, you purchase some additional suits, shirts, and ties. Between the commissions you already pocketed on the initial investment and the money that’s soon to follow, you can afford it. Am I right about that?”

  Mario Gazzola worked out of a third-floor walk-up in an area of the Bronx that Will would have been frightened to venture into at night. The man himself was almost exactly the way Will had imagined him, which was to say a cross between Geppetto and the head waiter at an upscale restaurant. Reading glasses perched on his nose, he had a shock of white hair and wore a blue flannel suit, sans jacket, but with a double-breasted, lapelled vest. A measuring tape dangled around his neck to complete the look.

  Will was hardly surprised when Mario kissed Sam on both cheeks and addressed him by the honorific and his first name. By this point, it would have been a shock to Will to see Sam meet anyone by shaking hands.

  Sam introduced Will and said, “Mario, I want you to use all of your powers and all of your skills . . . I don’t want anyone to see him this way.”

  Will got the reference. It was the phrasing Don Vito Corleone used in The Godfather when asking the undertaker to make Sonny’s corpse suitable for his mother to see.

  “Of course, Mr. Sam. What would you like?”

  “The first order of business is formal wear. The same Loro Piana material that you used for my tux last year. After that, set him up with some suits. I leave it to the two of you to select patterns. The only thing is that the tux is needed for Saturday. My apologies for the short notice.”

  “Oh, Saturday . . .” Mario said with a note of despair. But then a smile came back to his face. “For anybody else, I would say no. But for you, Mr. Sam, I say, I’ll do my best.”

  The entire process took two hours, which was an hour and a half longer than Will would have predicted. In addition to measuring every facet of Will’s body—including his wrist circumference—Mario peppered Will with questions about his style preferences.

  Sam answered most for him. Notch or peak lapel? “Peak on the tux,” Sam offered immediately. “On the suits, it’s dealer’s choice.”

  Number of buttons? “Two,” Will said, knowing it was the safe bet.

  Vent? “Middle,” from Sam this time, after waiting sufficiently long enough to realize that Will didn’t have an opinion. Besom or flaps? “Flaps on the suit,” Sam offered again, which was a relief because Will didn’t know what besom meant. Belt or tabs on the suit? Sam selected tabs, based on his belief it created a cleaner look. Pleated or flat-front pants? “Flat-front.” Pant break? “Full,” Sam said, thankfully, because Will would have said, “Okay,” in response.

  Grosgrain or satin? “Satin,” Will said, because he actually knew what that meant.

  “No cuff on the tuxedo, obviously, but what about on the suit pants?” Mario asked.

  “Yes,” Sam answered. “Two-inch.”

  “You don’t cuff tuxedo pants?” Will asked.

  “No, you do not,” Sam said. “The rules for a tux are as follows: vest or cummerbund, not both. Black socks—no exception, no pattern. You tie the bow tie. I don’t care what Brad Pitt wears at the Oscars, you don’t wear a long tie with a tuxedo. The bow tie texture matches the lapels and the stripe on the pant leg, so they’re all satin or grosgrain, but you don’t mix and match. No pleats, no belt, obviously, because the pants never have loops. Braces—they’re not called ‘suspenders’ when they affix by button—in a solid black or white, no design. Studs also should be simple. Nothing that’s a conversation piece. So no Bat-Signal or Monopoly pieces. Onyx, mother-of-pearl, or diamond. You’re too young to pull off a silk scarf, so don’t try. A crisply folded white pocket square that actually can be used as a handkerchief. And pocket squares are always solids—for suits and formal wear. Am I missing anything, Mario?”

  “Lace-up, patent-leather shoes. No slippers. I only do besom on the tux,” the tailor said.

  In addition to the tux, Will selected three suits: a blue chalk-striped flannel, a solid blue wool, and a solid gray of the same material. At Sam’s urging, he chose linings that made a statement. He also ordered six shirts—four white, two blue—each with spread collars and French cuffs. Will’s initials would be monogrammed on the cuffs with silver thread.

  “Thank you, Mario,” Sam said when the order was complete. Sam did not take out a credit card to pay but said, “Send the bill to me. I’ll settle up with Young Will separately. Please be sure to add a premium for the rush delivery.”

  In the car on the way back to Manhattan, Sam said, “I took the liberty of texting my guy over at Berluti, and he’s going to send you tuxedo shoes and a cap-toe oxford lace-up. Same address as you gave to Mario. My treat on both.”

  “Thank you again, Sam. Really.” Then another thought occurred to him. “I’m a ten shoe.”

  “I know,” Sam said. “You’re not actually that difficult to size up, Will.”

  14.

  The story Will had just imparted over the phone—about being whisked away from work by a rich man for a new wardrobe—sounded to Gwen like a scene from a movie. As she imagined it unfolding, she realized it was a scene from a movie: Pretty Woman.

  “The reason I’m calling, however, isn’t to tell you about my new clothes. It’s because I’d like you to come with me to the party on Saturday night.”

  The invitation to a work function surprised Gwen. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. You said you wanted to go out on a non-school night, remember?”

  “Yes. I’m not rejecting a Saturday night date. But are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to go alone? It’ll let you mingle and talk business.”

  “Positive. At the risk of overselling it, I can safely predict that the food, alcohol, and probably the real estate are all going to be truly something. And, just to seal the deal, I will further guarantee you a great time.”

  “And what if it’s not?” she said, hoping she sounded flirtatiously coy. “If I don’t have a great time, what are my damages?”

  “Lawyers,” he said. “Is there a Latin phrase for not a chance?”

  She liked his confidence. “Okay. It’s a date. Text me the particulars, and I’ll be there.”

  “All you need to know is that I’ll come to your apartment at eight. Oh, and it’s black tie.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I wish I was, but sadly I’m not. If it makes you feel any better, that’s why I had the emergency visit to my guy’s tailor. He was betting I didn’t own a decent tux. I don’t, but still.”

  “No, it doesn’t make me feel any better. And it is something you might have mentioned before I accepted. I consider formal attire to be a material term of this contract between us. Believe me, Will Matthews, you’re going to owe me big-time after this.”

  “I hope so,” he said before saying goodbye.

  That evening, Gwen opened her hallway closet—the one that held her “special” clothes—to evaluate her choices for the party. Much to her abject horror, she realized she’d collected a baker’s dozen of bridesmaid dresses. Viewing them on the rack, she knew that almost every one was hideous and never could be worn again. Worse still, the very sight of them was depressing as hell.

  She considered it among her worst character flaws, but happiness had a way of frightening her. When things were going well, sh
e became fixated on how quickly they could turn. Which meant that her budding romance with Will was not cause for celebration. It was reason to be wary of storm clouds she could not yet see but was certain were lurking just beyond the horizon.

  She heard Will’s voice in her head, going on about how she should be more like the dog. There was no reason she couldn’t succeed at work and be with a man she loved when she came home. And simply because things were going well for her now, that didn’t mean danger lay ahead. Perhaps she was still reaching new heights—at work and with Will. Maybe this was just the beginning.

  Gwen brushed away her existential thoughts to address the more immediate issue at hand: what she was going to wear to Will’s fancy business soiree.

  The choice was narrowed down to her go-to little black dress or a statement piece in silver. Gwen had worn the black one to the firm formal last year; it was the kind of dress you’d wear to a work event that everyone was pretending was not a work event. That would have made it seemingly ideal for this event too, but Gwen nonetheless slipped the silver one over her head. The price tag was still attached, attesting to the fact that Gwen had never worn it before. She had purchased it for the same work formal, but during a last-minute fashion show like the one she was currently engaged in, she chickened out and chose the black dress as the safer choice.

  Looking at her reflection in the mirror, Gwen remembered why she’d made that call six months earlier. The silver dress featured a V-neck that went down to there and didn’t permit her to wear a bra.

  For all her anxieties, she didn’t have any about her looks. Like everyone, she would change things about her body if she could, but even with the reduced gym time required by her work schedule, she was tall enough that an extra five pounds would not make or break her. All of which meant that the dress hugged her exactly as it was meant to do.

  Staring at her reflection, she imagined Will beside her, looking handsome in his tuxedo. It was their third date. She couldn’t deny she had already decided how she wanted it to end.

  15.

  The last time Will had worn a tux was for his high school prom. The garment he was donning now bore virtually no resemblance to that one. The tux Mario had constructed felt like a second skin. It moved effortlessly with Will. The satin lapel and leg stripe glistened.

  Will had allotted himself forty-five minutes to tie the bow tie—and spent nearly all of it. Although Mario had shown him how in the shop, Will had to resort to a YouTube tutorial because he’d forgotten the steps. After four tries, he was satisfied that both sides were symmetrical and the knot firm, but not too tight.

  When Will exited his room, he caught his reflection in the window. This caused him to adjust the bow tie a bit, even though it was already perfect, and to smooth his hair, which also was not in need of any more coiffing.

  It was a tragedy that he had to cover the masterpiece of a tuxedo with his sorry excuse for an overcoat, but it was freezing outside. If he were getting right into a cab to go to the party, he might have braved the cold without it, but he had to walk over to Gwen’s building first, so he threw it on.

  Will had been hoping to be invited up to Gwen’s apartment, as perhaps a preview of what might occur later, but the doorman told him, “Ms. Lipton will be right down.” Will’s disappointment vanished the moment he caught first sight of his plus-one. Gwen was holding her coat over one arm, either because it was too warm in the elevator to wear it or, as Will hoped was the real reason, because it allowed him a full view of her.

  “You look . . . beautiful, Gwen.”

  “Thank you,” she said with an appreciative smile. “It’s the only dress like it I own. I bought it for the firm’s formal last year, but then I decided it was too much for a work event.” She laughed, realizing the faux pas. “I’m sorry. I know this is a work thing for you. Is the dress okay? I can change into something more conservative if you’d like.”

  “No,” he said, exhaling the breath that had caught in his chest. “It’s perfect.”

  Sam’s home was in a glass-sheathed cylinder that rose into the sky from Midtown. Gwen and Will stepped off the elevator on the thirty-seventh floor and were greeted by a man the size of a refrigerator. He was outfitted in formal attire and held a clipboard. Will noticed a bud in one ear, which further reinforced that he was tonight’s security.

  Mr. Sub-Zero took their coats, which he handed to a model-beautiful woman who stood beside him. Will assumed that Sam’s apartment had some high-tech facial-recognition software, like the type they used to confirm guests at the royal wedding, because although Will was quite certain they’d never met, the security man said, “Mr. Matthews, so good of you to come. Please make yourself at home. There is a bar area on the north side of the apartment, and there are heat lamps on the terrace, which makes the temperature outside very comfortable.”

  The man opened one of the pair of large wooden double doors, then stretched out his arm, inviting Gwen and Will to enter.

  The space inside was a 10,000-square-foot glass box illuminated by a crystal chandelier the size of a compact car. The apartment was open-plan, affording guests a view of the living room, a dining area, and a kitchen. A setback terrace appeared to wrap around the building.

  The most impressive feature, however, was not actually in the apartment. It was the Manhattan skyline, captured through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “Looks just like my place,” Gwen said with a straight face.

  “Yeah, mine too. Except this is smaller and mine has a better view.”

  After taking in the real estate, Will turned his attention to the guests. He estimated that fifty people were in attendance; Gwen and he were clearly the youngest among them.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

  “Yes, please. In fact, let me come with. I’m worried that if we’re separated, given the size of this place, I’ll never see you again.”

  At the bar, Will asked for a scotch on the rocks, because he thought that sounded like what a grown-up would order. Gwen opted for a dirty martini.

  Drink in hand, Gwen commented that she was reasonably sure the large painting on the wall beside them was a Rothko. Will decided it was better to share his ignorance with his date than his host, and so he asked what that meant.

  “Mark Rothko. He was one of the premier abstract expressionists of the midcentury. To put that in terms Wall Streeters will understand, it probably cost twenty million, at least.” Gwen looked at Will with some focus. “What business is your client in?”

  “I honestly don’t know. He’s been a bit cryptic about that.”

  “Don’t you have to know? As in SEC Know Your Customer obligations?”

  “You thinking of turning me in?”

  “Maybe . . . if you upset me in any way.”

  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

  “You should. And you also should find out what your client does for a living.”

  Will felt put on the spot, but he knew Gwen was right. It was strange that he still didn’t know the source of Sam’s obviously considerable wealth.

  “It’s not like I have no idea,” he said, hearing the defensiveness in his voice with each word. “He’s in finance of some sort. And art. And I think a little real estate.”

  “A jack-of-all-trades, then,” Gwen said with a smile that made clear she was unimpressed with Will’s explanation.

  “No, more like your run-of-the-mill super-rich guy with his fingers in a lot of pies,” Will replied.

  Gwen looked as if she had a response at the ready, but then Will turned toward the direction of a female voice calling his name. It was Eve, looking as if she were a work of art herself. She wore a skintight red dress. Her hair was loose, and her emerald necklace made her eyes shimmer that much more.

  “Eve, allow me to introduce you to my friend Gwen. Gwen, this is Eve. Eve is . . . a friend of Sam’s.”

  He watched Gwen’s eyes roll over Eve. He took an odd pleasure from Gwen’s obvious displea
sure that such a beautiful woman was on a first-name basis with Will. A bit of jealousy meant that Gwen was marking her territory.

  “Friend covers a multitude of sins,” Eve said. “Come, let’s go outside. The view makes you feel as if you’re in heaven.”

  Will put his hand protectively on Gwen’s back as they walked onto the terrace. They stood up against the stone railing, and Gwen and he instinctively looked down. He wasn’t sure if it felt like heaven, but certainly it made you think of yourself as some type of deity—Zeus on Olympus, perhaps—much more important than the mere mortals below.

  Sam appeared from behind and placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Young Will Matthews has graced us with his presence, I see.”

  “Quite a party, Sam,” Will replied. “Thank you so much for inviting me. This is my friend, Gwen Lipton. Gwen, our host, Sam Abaddon.”

  Sam smiled at Gwen, then shook her hand. Apparently only restaurateurs and tailors merited the kiss on both cheeks.

  “Thank you so much for coming. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to steal Will for a bit and introduce him to some people he will be very glad to have met. Evelyn, my dear, can you make sure that Gwen isn’t too lonely? We won’t be terribly long.”

  Without waiting for Eve’s or Gwen’s consent, Sam veered Will away.

  The first introduction Sam made was to a man named Lloyd Fieldstone. He was an older gentleman, probably more than seventy. He wore a white silk scarf of the kind that Sam said Will could not yet pull off.

  “Lloyd here owns the equivalent of Rockefeller Center in downtown Moscow,” Sam said. “Lloyd, Will is the finest securities man at Maeve Grant. He’s going to be handling my investments, and I thought you might need someone of his caliber too. Am I right about that?”

  Will was tempted to feign modesty, but the moment didn’t present itself, because Fieldstone quickly said, “You have never steered me wrong when the matter involved money, Sam. If Will’s your guy, that’s all the due diligence I need to perform.” He turned to Will. “Do you have a card?”