After a certain point, Mo got to worrying about Teddy.
Teddy was the type of guy that at first you thought, hey, this
criminal's got his head screwed on straight. He was a guy who
could listen, a guy who didn't go popping off over nothing, a guy
who'd stand up if he had to. There'd been an incident with a punk once that cleared that
issue up, if there'd been any doubt about it.
But the thing was, after a certain point, you started to
realize Teddy had a way of trying to build himself up to be more
than he really was.
Take the suit, for example. He must have talked about
that fucking custom made suit somewhere in the neighborhood of a
million times. How he'd chosen the fabric out of a hundred
different bolts of cloth. How it had a certain thread count and
there was mohair in it -- this, that and the other. How it was
some Chinese tailor with an English accent, flew over from Hong
Kong a couple times a year to take orders from special customers,
have it made in hotel rooms by these seamstresses he'd fly over
from Thailand. Yadda yadda.
Only the story changed all the time.
Once it was in New York that he bought the suit, had it
fitted in a room of the Ritz Carlton where this tailor stayed.
Another time Teddy bought the suit in Chicago, hooked up with the
tailor in the back of a check cashing store owned by a genuine
old-fashioned made man from the Italian mob. Then another time
he'd bought the suit in Atlanta where his lawyer in a receiving
beef had given him a referral to the tailor.
One story after another, things changing all the time?
Problem was, shit like that starts to add up.
It adds up to where you can't trust a
guy but so far.
After they got out of the joint, Teddy wore the fucking
suit all the time. Mo had to admit, it was a good looking suit,
though. Mo had family in the menswear business, so he knew a
good suit when he saw one.
