Mr. Wolfe

by Llewellyn, A. J.

  Moving faster now, he took out the large, gilt-edged mirror he took everywhere with him and put it on the desk recently vacated by Linda.

  He'd already remotely examined the files on the desktop computer and had transferred them to his laptop. He powered down the computer she'd been using and pushed it aside.

  Mr. Wolfe had polished the mirror already but he was a perfectionist. Giving it another rub, he painstakingly unpacked the pixie dolls that had become a whimsical addition to his traveling work assignments. He arranged them on the mirror and popped the little hand-written sign in front of them that said,

  Please do not touch or play with the pixies. They are hard to handle.

  He smiled. People always asked about the sign. He always laughed, but the truth was, pixies were hard to handle.

  Mr. Wolfe heard a vehicle approaching. Had he not recognized the low rumble of Ambrosio's Mustang, his tugging heart and groin would have told him the man he found so attractive was here.

  Not that anyone in the world would have guessed Mr. Wolfe's feelings for the best wardrobe supervisor he'd ever met.

  Ambrosio and his trio of workers arrived. They all wore the same outfits as Mr. Wolfe. He'd insisted on it. He paid them very well, so that even their newest apprentice, Miguel, had gladly given up his ghastly baggy pants that sagged to his hips, revealing an unseemly expanse of underpants.

  Miguel had initially balked when Mr. Wolfe told the young man that his attire was unacceptable. A recent graduate of the LA Unified School District's Perkins Program, Ambrosio had handpicked the kid. Miguel was keen to learn, and at the ripe old age of eighteen, already had two kids to support.

  Miguel was a pocho. This was Miguel's term for himself and it was Mr. Wolfe's dream that he could help Miguel think better of himself. Hard work, money, respect and a blossoming education would do that for the young man.

  Mr. Wolfe had seen many Miguels come and go in his business. He'd trained and released many to wonderful careers. Being a pocho was difficult for this proud young man. Like so many others in LA, his family was Mexican, but he'd been born in California. He couldn't speak Spanish and would flounder in Mexico, but he was not legally allowed to work in the US.

  After Ambrosio had chosen Miguel as their newest co-worker, Mr. Wolfe assured the young man that he would sponsor his green card. Both Miguel and Mr. Wolfe knew Miguel needed the job. Being the apprentice to the mysterious yet highly regarded Mr. Wolfe would propel him into the professional stratosphere, except that he hadn't wanted to give up his ill-fitting clothing.

  "Do you know how the trend for those loose pants and shirts began?" Mr. Wolfe had asked Miguel on their first meeting.

  The kid had shrugged.

  "Snoop Dog?" he ventured. "Some other rapper?"

  "No." Mr. Wolfe's lip curled. "It began in prison because clothes rarely fit the prisoner. You, Miguel, are a free man. Unfettered by the bounds of a cell. So why dress like one who isn't?"

  Miguel had resisted, and perhaps it was this that actually impressed Mr. Wolfe. Miguel wanted to be his own man, and rightfully so. He could wear whatever the hell crazy outfits he wanted on his weekends. But not on Mr. Wolfe's dime.

  Besides, when he had lived as long as Mr. Wolfe had, he could call his own shots regarding what was fashionable and what was garbage.

  Miguel had seen sense, perhaps urged by Ambrosio, and had already proven to be a model employee...reliable, honest, keen and swift to learn. He stood beside Ambrosio now, expressing horror at the cheap, inappropriate shelving Linda had installed.

  "What's a bustya?" Miguel asked. He was attending art college part-time, thanks to Mr. Wolfe's financial and legal sponsorship of him. The dark-haired, thin-faced young man had a passion for carpentry, and a sharp eye for fine fabrics.

  "Oh, I think she meant bustier," Vez, Ambrosio's right-hand man said.

  Vez was Croatian. A large man with massive fingers, he nonetheless moved fast, joked all day long and was as tough with a hammer as he was gentle with an antique pearl button. He moonlighted as a carpet layer on weekends because his manly, macho buddies would tease him if they knew he fooled around with "women's things."

  The last man in the group was Trevor, a fortyish, pudgy, former English pop singer who'd found a passion for twinkies--both the edible kind and the other kind--effectively killing his coveted teen heart-throb status. He'd found a new direction and true talent as a costume builder and archivist.

  Mr. Wolfe smiled at his staff, covering the white gown in the metal tray with muslin. He counted the minutes the dress continued to soak as Ambrosio strutted toward him. By God, he was a gorgeous man. His dark hair hung long to his shoulders, his brown eyes gleaming as he removed his sunglasses and locked gazes with Mr. Wolfe.

  Ambrosio had a model's sinewy, fat-free-body and a poet's heart. Mr. Wolfe nodded a greeting, his gaze sweeping over his assistant. He approved of the pale band of skin on Ambrosio's left hand where he'd removed his wedding ring. None of the men wore jewelry and Ambrosio's long hair was pulled back into a braid.

  "Where would you like us to start, Mr. Wolfe?" Ambrosio asked.

  Mr. Wolfe pointed to the shelving by the entrance. "Start there, please."

  He began to make lists of the clothing he'd observed that needed urgent cleaning, but took a swift, appreciative glance at Ambrosio's retreating ass. Oh, he was a gorgeous hunk of man.

  Mr. Wolfe found it difficult to focus his attention for that brief, tiny moment, but forced himself.

  They should pay me extra for that. I so long to just watch and devour him with my eyes...

  All of the costumes needed work, as a matter of fact, some pieces more than others. He quickly realized the reason for the fumes of body odor wafting from them. Miss Finley's gowns were so heavy and richly detailed that she simply couldn't breathe in them. Her quick changes had more to do with the cumbersome pieces weighing on her body and voice, more than wowing her audiences.

  He'd noticed heavy sweat stains in the armpit areas and knew some of these stains had previously been ignored. With a pang of anxiety, he realized some had been treated incorrectly and had now set. Perhaps permanently.

  Mr. Wolfe already knew which trunks had been opened and the clothing moved around, so that the trunk that had been shipped to Italy, for example, had clothing mixed into it from the tour in Germany, two years later.

  Linda was so inept. I want to smack her.

  To the lay person this may not have appeared to be a problem, but it was. To an exacting man like Mr. Wolfe.

  The costumes shipped to and from Germany had been dry-cleaned by a man in Hohenschwangau, a tiny principality in Bavaria. He knew the man had done the cleaning quickly, after Miss Finley performed for an obscenely large sum of money at a private celebrity wedding at the town's historic castle. Mr. Wolfe knew this, because Klaus, the cleaner was a close friend of his and he had contacted Mr. Wolfe, letting him know that Miss Finley's touring wardrobe was in disarray. The elderly man had been so hysterical, he'd asked him for advice and Mr. Wolfe had given it.

  Mr. Wolfe was surprised to learn that Linda, who'd been the wardrobe manager for the tour, didn't let Klaus finish the work. She took the cases on to England, shipping the half-cleaned items back to Germany. In England, she had taken the remaining garments to a commercial drycleaner, hence the disaster of the white, bugle-beaded dress.

  He removed the most heavily stained garment. He examined the seams of the gossamer-like pale lilac, floor-length gown made of tissue lamé. He noticed seam and yardage slippage, but he would need to clean the unsightly underarm stains before he could repair the damage to the fine fabric.

  Mr. Wolfe prepared a container of barely warm water and began the painstaking process of dampening the first armpit and blotting. He repeated this process with towels and a very fine sponge. After twenty minutes, he detected the first hint of the stain loosening its grip on the fabric, and then began the second phase. He mixed a solution of a couple of drops of ammonia with fresh
, lukewarm water and repeated the wet-and-blot procedure.

  It worked like a charm.

  After doing this with both arms, he spotted a few more stains and removed these as well. He set the garment aside to tackle the bugle-beaded white dress.

  Still not satisfied with its less than snowy appearance, he emptied the metal container and started again, adding more soap flakes, a little vinegar and a pinch of baking soda. The dress began to brighten. He swished by hand, listening to his workers laughing and talking.

  Apparently even the screws and nails Linda's crew had used were the wrong types and lengths.

  He rinsed out the solution in the metal container once more and refilled it. He could still smell dry-cleaning fluid on the dress. It would have to be drawn out. He pondered his choices and decided on a touch of hydrogen peroxide and another pinch of baking soda to the white soap solution.

  Mr. Wolfe would allow it to soak a good hour before tackling the bugles by hand. He set the container to the side and gently cleaned the lilac dress. Using several towels after rinsing the garment clean, he blotted it and with a swift glance at the others awaiting his touch, he uncapped his super-secret blend of cold water and several different soaps. With a flourish, he gently put the lilac dress into an ordinary household colander and dipped it into the creamy mix.

  "Wow, I always love watching you do this." Miguel's voice was a soft breath at Mr. Wolfe's ear. Even Mr. Wolfe was astonished at the crud that rose off the fabric. Insect residue, a faint yellow stain, a whiff of perfume and, of course, dry-cleaning fumes.

  "I smell cum," Miguel said, sniffing loudly.

  The cloth was now at its most vulnerable. Letting the colander drain out, Mr. Wolfe gently emptied the dress onto some fresh towels and began blotting. One more clean rinse and the garment would be ready to dry.

  One down, hundreds to go.

  He allowed the gloved Miguel to rinse and lay the dress out.

  "This fabric is gorgeous," the young man breathed. "It shimmers. I didn't notice it before when it was dry."

  Mr. Wolfe allowed himself a smile.

  "You will now because it's clean." He bent his head back to the bugle-beaded dress. He'd apprenticed under the great Hollywood costume designer, Paul Zastupnevich, who'd taught him the very secretive and detailed work of costume restoration and archival. Mr. Z. would be proud to know that Mr. Wolfe had taken to heart every lesson he'd ever learned.

  What Mr. Z. hadn't known by the time he died was that Mr. Wolfe had apprenticed under several great masters.

  For five hundred and seventy five years.

  Chapter 2

  Mr. Wolfe felt every second of his age by the end of most days when he worked. He gave everything to his craft and, yes, he was inclined to be exacting, but he knew the perils of doing things half-assed.

  He put in a vigorous day working hard on cleaning the most urgent cases of neglect and almost howled with relief when the air conditioning kicked into gear, just as the sun began to fade.

  "It's almost six o'clock," Ambrosio said, coming to stand beside him.

  Mr. Wolfe almost barked a sharp "So what?" at him, then remembered that Zara Finley had sent him a text message asking him to call her at six on the dot.

  "What in the world would I do without you?" Mr. Wolfe asked his right-hand man.

  "Let's hope you never have to find out." Ambrosio hoisted the massive hammer in his hand to his shoulder, gave Mr. Wolfe a sly wink, turned on his heel and returned to work.

  Mr. Wolfe allowed his gaze to linger on Ambrosio's shapely ass a moment longer, then called Zara, who answered in a breathless tone he already knew was phony. "Have you been following my tweets?" she asked as soon as she heard his voice.

  "Your tweets? No." He almost added, "Who has time for tweets? I'm too busy working!" Instead, he fought his rising rage to keep his tone calm. He even faked a note of interest in the topic. "Why? Is something interesting going on?"

  "Why, yes!" Her voice grew even more breathless if that were possible. She only ever used this gimmick when talking to a man. He assumed it was supposed to make her sound like Marilyn Monroe but made him think of a serial killer.

  "You have to read my tweets!" she burbled. "I'm so excited, I could faint!"

  He wished she would. He might be able to get back to his work then. He stifled an aggrieved sigh. "I'll get my laptop."

  "Hurry," she purred.

  He took his time.

  When he found her Twitter page he was dismayed to see that she had been tweeting relentlessly over her bidding war on the costumes of recently murdered pop singer, Bobby Beckett.

  "You've got no idea, Mr. Wolfe! I only found out an hour ago that Sotheby's was auctioning his collection and I sent Virginia there. The bids are up to four million dollars now. She's about to have a heart attack bidding so high."

  He could hear her talking on the other line to her assistant. "Do it!" she yelled. "Do it, Virginia. Don't wimp out on me!" A pause. "Come on, woman, it's my money you're spending. This is your chance to blow my fortune." She posted one final tweet as she screamed in Mr. Wolfe's ear; "Oh, my God! I won! I won!"

  She posted Just won the bid. I have Bobby Beckett's entire costume collection. Bought for $4.2 million. Will put into the hands of my archivist!

  Mr. Wolfe stared at the screen. No, you won't!

  "I need your help," she said to him. "I need you to assess the costumes I just bought."

  "When?" he asked.

  "Right now."

  "I can't do that! I have my hands full here." He never let his temper get the better of him, but it had been a long, hot day and he hadn't allowed himself even a bite of food for lunch. He surveyed the huge pile of clothes he'd intended to spot clean before leaving.

  "Please," she wheedled.

  She kept going on in this whiny way and the truth was, it fascinated him to no end to be the one going through Beckett's collection.

  "I want to bring Ambrosio with me," he said.

  "Who?" she sounded distracted.

  "My right-hand man."

  "The cute one with the swagger?" The purr returned to her tone. "By all means bring him with. I'll meet you at Sotheby's loading dock in the alley behind Sunset. I'll text you the exact location as soon as I hang up."

  She was as good as her word.

  Mr. Wolfe got to his feet, covered all the garments in white sheets, packed up his trunk and called out to the others to head home.

  They all seemed surprised, but pleased. They'd done an outstanding job and almost all the shelves and drawers had been constructed. He looked up at the space on the wall where the missing clock should have been, then gestured to Ambrosio.

  "We have an assignment in Hollywood. You want to ride with me?"

  "Sure, boss."

  They packed their gear and everyone left.

  "I'll drive," Ambrosio told him. "You haven't stopped all day."

  "Thank you." Mr. Wolfe liked the way Ambrosio looked out for him without overdoing it. He waited until the others had driven away and Ambrosio was in his shiny, black SUV waiting for him.

  Mr. Wolfe moved swiftly to the work desk once occupied by Linda East and now under the command of his pixies. He uncapped the large bottle of maple syrup he'd brought with him this morning and poured it into a glass dish he extracted from his messenger bag.

  "There you are, my lovelies," he whispered, turning off the lights.

  * * * *

  Ambrosio became excited as he drove toward the West Hollywood location of Sotheby's auction house.

  "She paid four point two million?" he asked. "Man, she must have money to burn."

  Mr. Wolfe smiled. "Apparently."

  "She's going to want you to archive them." Ambrosio sounded apprehensive. "Do you have time for such a huge project?"

  Mr. Wolfe no longer wished to discuss the subject. He wanted to inhale Ambrosio's manly scent, the faint whiff of his aftershave. Burberry, he thought. He also wanted to quietly study the man's sexy profile
and the faint six o'clock shadow across his jaw line.

  His gaze flickered over to Ambrosio's hands on the wheel and the white patch on his wedding ring finger.

  He closed his eyes, luxuriating in the cool confines of the SUV and Ambrosio's smooth driving.

  His whole body felt hot. He should have eaten. He'd have to find a way in the next few days to make sure he consumed something.

  "Right after we see the clothes, how about we have some dinner? Would you like some shabu-shabu maybe? It wouldn't take us long to zip down to Little Tokyo."

  "That sounds perfect," Mr. Wolfe said and began, finally, to relax.

  He almost drifted to sleep but enjoyed the comforting state in which he remained for the rest of the journey. His thoughts were good ones. All of work. And Ambrosio's sexy tush.

  Mr. Wolfe almost laughed aloud.

  Virginia called him as Ambrosio turned off Sunset and told him to park in the loading dock beside her Prius. Mr. Wolfe repeated all of this to Ambrosio. They saw her waving as they inched down the tiny laneway and parked as she had suggested.

  As soon as he hopped out of the SUV, the sweltering temperatures hit him. There was no breeze at all, unusual for this time of year in Los Angeles. Normally they had June Gloom; cool, cloudy days followed by searing heat from July until the end of October.

  He smiled at Virginia, who came racing toward him. Mr. Wolfe liked the woman but was not the kind of man to dispense hugs willy-nilly, so it shocked him when she rushed forward and squeezed him in an affectionate embrace. He caught Ambrosio's swift, amused glance, then the three of them stood in the encroaching darkness awaiting their superstar.

  "Did you see any of the costumes?" Ambrosio asked.

  A very good question.

  Mr. Wolfe gazed at her now as she said, "Only a few of the new ones but the entire place was in an uproar when they brought out all his stuff from his time as a child in the Beckett Brood."

  "That was in the seventies," Ambrosio said. "How did they look?"

  She shrugged. "Tacky. A lot of glitter and stiff collars, but man it took me back to my childhood."