portend.
She worked at her art board finishing up the sketches for the next round of windows, and then, since Bloomingdale's was paying for it, she grabbed a cab down to the East Village and from there to SoHo to see what trends were breaking ground. After checking out various hip places to see if the gays were styling anything new, she called her office to say that she was on her way to pick up Sam at school.
She was heading for the subway when she passed a tiny jewelry shop. The window was draped from top to bottom with tiers of wildly bizarre costume pieces. She stood and studied the display for a time, and then she went inside.
It was no more than a cubbyhole—and with Peggy inside, there was hardly room for the fat man, too. He sat on a stool in the middle of the floor and made no effort to move. He was glaring at Peggy, and she glared right back, taking in the shaved head, the iron choker with the black plastic swastika hanging from it, the buttonless vest that did nothing much toward covering the milky, shirtless chest, the black tights, the tiny silver earrings, both pinned through the same spongy earlobe.
"I like your stuff," Peggy said, motioning with her head toward the window.
The man said nothing. He plucked a cigarette from behind his ear, tapped it on the back of his hairless wrist, and made a sort of wet, kissing sound in the air.
"You design it yourself?"
The man did not answer until he had lighted the cigarette and taken a series of quick, small puffs, which he then expelled in a long needle of smoke. When he talked, it seemed to Peggy that the voice came from somewhere behind his head.
"Listen, dumpling, you here to shoot the shit or buy?"
Peggy was used to this sort of thing. She'd been getting hunches out of the artsy-craftsy districts of the city long enough not to be thrown by the fuck-you manners that went with the fuck-you styles of the S & M and punk-rock designers.
"I'm with a department store," she said matter-of-factly.
"Baby," the fat man said, "like we're all with a department store, you dig? I mean, it's the American thing, right?"
Peggy gave him the knowing smile he wanted, and then she pressed her point.
"Really," she said, "if you're the designer, I'm interested. I'm with Bloomingdale's."
The fat man's manner changed abruptly.
"You buy for Bloomie's? You do their glitter?"
"Their windows. But sometimes I suggest things I like. Are you the designer?"
The fat man's face flattened into a look of excruciating boredom.
"Some Spic kid does the junk."
"Could I have his telephone number?"
The fat man took another swift succession of shallow puffs, then blew out the same remarkable needle of smoke.
"Lady, I don't have the faggot's telephone number. Some kid; what difference does it make? He goes to Pratt, is all I know. Infante, Richie Infante or some shit like that. I just sell the crap."
He eyed her peevishly, as if she was the cause of all his troubles.
"Now if you're interested in some good stuff . . ."
She could see him waiting for her to bite.
"Jewelry?" Peggy said.
"Yeah, jewelry," the fat man said. "You think I'm dealing pills? Like, dig, I used to do the counter bit at a real swank outfit uptown, and, you know, I've still got some friends in the business. Strictly legit, you understand—but like I can arrange certain things. You interested?"
Peggy was about to say no, that she didn't wear much in the way of jewelry and that, moreover, she didn't make it a practice to buy stolen goods—but then she remembered something and decided it wouldn't hurt to ask.
"There is an item I might be interested in," she said. "What would a decent string of pearls run me, considering?"
"We're talking wholesale," the fat man said, and winked.
"Right," Peggy said. "Just a ballpark figure."
"Something good? Two grand. Cash."
She was astonished she'd let it go this far. She stood there looking at him, amazed she'd ever asked.
"I could have it for you in a week," the fat man said,
She worked at her art board finishing up the sketches for the next round of windows, and then, since Bloomingdale's was paying for it, she grabbed a cab down to the East Village and from there to SoHo to see what trends were breaking ground. After checking out various hip places to see if the gays were styling anything new, she called her office to say that she was on her way to pick up Sam at school.
She was heading for the subway when she passed a tiny jewelry shop. The window was draped from top to bottom with tiers of wildly bizarre costume pieces. She stood and studied the display for a time, and then she went inside.
It was no more than a cubbyhole—and with Peggy inside, there was hardly room for the fat man, too. He sat on a stool in the middle of the floor and made no effort to move. He was glaring at Peggy, and she glared right back, taking in the shaved head, the iron choker with the black plastic swastika hanging from it, the buttonless vest that did nothing much toward covering the milky, shirtless chest, the black tights, the tiny silver earrings, both pinned through the same spongy earlobe.
"I like your stuff," Peggy said, motioning with her head toward the window.
The man said nothing. He plucked a cigarette from behind his ear, tapped it on the back of his hairless wrist, and made a sort of wet, kissing sound in the air.
"You design it yourself?"
The man did not answer until he had lighted the cigarette and taken a series of quick, small puffs, which he then expelled in a long needle of smoke. When he talked, it seemed to Peggy that the voice came from somewhere behind his head.
"Listen, dumpling, you here to shoot the shit or buy?"
Peggy was used to this sort of thing. She'd been getting hunches out of the artsy-craftsy districts of the city long enough not to be thrown by the fuck-you manners that went with the fuck-you styles of the S & M and punk-rock designers.
"I'm with a department store," she said matter-of-factly.
"Baby," the fat man said, "like we're all with a department store, you dig? I mean, it's the American thing, right?"
Peggy gave him the knowing smile he wanted, and then she pressed her point.
"Really," she said, "if you're the designer, I'm interested. I'm with Bloomingdale's."
The fat man's manner changed abruptly.
"You buy for Bloomie's? You do their glitter?"
"Their windows. But sometimes I suggest things I like. Are you the designer?"
The fat man's face flattened into a look of excruciating boredom.
"Some Spic kid does the junk."
"Could I have his telephone number?"
The fat man took another swift succession of shallow puffs, then blew out the same remarkable needle of smoke.
"Lady, I don't have the faggot's telephone number. Some kid; what difference does it make? He goes to Pratt, is all I know. Infante, Richie Infante or some shit like that. I just sell the crap."
He eyed her peevishly, as if she was the cause of all his troubles.
"Now if you're interested in some good stuff . . ."
She could see him waiting for her to bite.
"Jewelry?" Peggy said.
"Yeah, jewelry," the fat man said. "You think I'm dealing pills? Like, dig, I used to do the counter bit at a real swank outfit uptown, and, you know, I've still got some friends in the business. Strictly legit, you understand—but like I can arrange certain things. You interested?"
Peggy was about to say no, that she didn't wear much in the way of jewelry and that, moreover, she didn't make it a practice to buy stolen goods—but then she remembered something and decided it wouldn't hurt to ask.
"There is an item I might be interested in," she said. "What would a decent string of pearls run me, considering?"
"We're talking wholesale," the fat man said, and winked.
"Right," Peggy said. "Just a ballpark figure."
"Something good? Two grand. Cash."
She was astonished she'd let it go this far. She stood there looking at him, amazed she'd ever asked.
"I could have it for you in a week," the fat man said,
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