Fred opened the door. “Hi. Bring a suit?”
Not only was this not a welcome, it wasn’t a question. Fred himself was sporting quite a fancy suit, a double-breasted job that hung in an unmistakably not-off-the-rack fashion.
“A blue one,” I said.
He opened the door wide. “Blue’ll do.”
The Soffers’ apartment had been redecorated since my last visit two years earlier when Jane and I had come for a weekend. Dark maroon and whites, half a dozen good antiques, a new beige rug and camel-backed sofa. Fred was prospering.
Shapely, petite, energetic, Sylvie Soffer burst from the bedroom in a knockout of a cocktail dress and spike heels. “Hi there, sweetie. About time,” she said then turned her bare back on us. “One of you can hook me up.” Sylvie seemed to have lost some weight since I saw her last and her hair looked a shade lighter, but it may only have been the black dress. Hating myself, I looked hungrily at her ankles.
Fred took my bag into the spare room, which