"Well, what do you think?"
Baxter crinkled his leering smile at the fitting-room mirror where a hundred, a thousand Baxters crinkled back. They all wore dark-blue pin-striped suits.
Sandy, vastly pregnant, looked up from her knitting.
"Why, honey, you look exactly like a bank president. It's perfect!"
The tailor ... wrinkled, bewizened and bespectacled, his measuring tape wrapped around his scrawny neck like an anemic boa constrictor crushing a twig ... continued his circling waltz around Baxter, chalking the suit where it would have to taken in here, let out there.
"You want it should be ready by Thursday?" the tailor asked.
Small as he was, he was still a full head-and-a-half taller than Baxter.
"Yes, that'll be fine."