“Twenty-one days, Jim,” Gerald whined. “Twenty-one days I’ve had to listen to alcoholics talk about getting clean, getting sober. And for what?” Jim didn’t see him pull out the cigarette or light it. But there he was, the former President and CEO, smoking a cheap cigarette. “All so I can prove to everyone that I’m not an alcoholic and be sober enough to take control of my company.” The end of the smoke glowed a dark crimson red, a few sparks floating to the ground. When he exhaled, the cloud over his head hung there. “It’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.”

Jim sat facing Gerald in the back of the limo, preferring to ride backward. The car’s interior was dark, even with the noon sun beating down the black vehicle. The interior was a balmy seventy degrees, cool enough to be comfortable, not cold. The side window was cracked open enough to pull the smoke from the limousine. Jim picked him up. James Penrose refused. James was the reason for Gerald being in rehabilitation and detoxification from the alcohol Gerald consumed on the streets of Portland. Before he lost the position at RDF Plastics, Gerald didn’t smoke. After detox and twenty-one days of rehab, Gerald was tired of listening to the same cycle of addiction over and over again. His thirty days sober helped him see what he already knew; he wasn’t an alcoholic, nor did he have addictive tendencies. The smoke calmed his nerves and helped him be a little angry. Gerald still resented the board of directors for making a rash decision by summarily dismissing him without so much as an ‘I’m sorry it came to this.’ “You didn’t smoke before you went in.” Jim’s offhanded comment caught Gerald by surprise.

“Oh, this?” Gerald waved the lit cigarette under Jim’s nose. “Nope. Started during detox. Do you know how boring detox is?”

“I haven’t personally had the pleasure. But my sister-in-law is in and out of recovery. I think she’d detoxed like five separate times. I forgot after the second time, but Annie insists we support her every step of the way.”

“Is that why you are picking me up instead of James?”

Jim shifted in his seat, picking at the seat. “No. James had to meet with the board before reinstating you.” Jim hated being caught between Gerald and James’ powerplay for Emulsion Plastics. At this point, Jim wasn’t sure if he liked either James or Gerald. Gerald followed through on everything he told Jim, even while he was in rehab. Gerald helped Jim’s homeless shelter renovation, or rebuild as Gerald termed it, take one more step to opening day with two phone calls, one to a general contractor and the other to a real estate developer, one Jim couldn’t get a meeting with. But James? He gave Jim the right words to use in meetings, funding support, and motivational speeches. James knew what fired up an audience, specifically the audiences Jim addressed in the three weeks Gerald was in rehab. So a successful real estate mogul with his eyes on moving up into politics was making strategic moves with both men, using them the way they were using him. But picking up Gerald? That was James’ idea. He didn’t want to smell him again, especially after allowing him to ride in his Lexus. James finally had the car back after six days of extreme detailing. His guy, Juan, was a hard worker, attentive to the smallest detail, especially when detailing luxury vehicles like the Lexus. But even he admitted to James that the stench might stick around indefinitely.

“Mhmm. Right.” Gerald threw the smoke out of the limo. “Here. Get rid of these. I’m done,” he handed Jim an almost full pack of Marlboro Reds. Three were missing from the pack.

“You sure about that?” Jim asked, trying to hand the pack back to him.

“Yes. I’m sure. I don’t need anything holding me back from leading Emulsion into the future. And I’m going to need you and James to do it. I can’t do it alone.”

“Me? I don’t have any experience in chemicals or plastics. What good would I be?”

“You are a negotiator. You said it yourself; you are the ‘common folk’ real estate agent. I need someone like that who can negotiate with the EPA and a few environmental lobbyists. Who better than a real estate mogul such as yourself?

Gerald flipped down one of the four mirrors in the limousine, checking his hair and straightening his tie. Jim brought the Armani suit to him. It was tailored for him, and his presence was not required because his personal tailor, Ignacio, remembered how he liked it to fit based on Gerald’s current measurements. Even though he was born in Spain, Ignacio grew up in Italy, working in the finest clothing establishments. His passion, however, was for Armani. Ignacio knew how to cut and sew the right pieces to fit each man and woman specifically for their body. And Ignacio knew Gerald, having fit him in his Manhattan boutique for years. Ignacio knew Gerald’s style so well that all he required was his newest measurements. Sleeping on Portland streets caused a bit of muscle and weight loss. The drinking didn’t help Gerald either, but his suits? Ignacio knew Gerald would insist on perfection.

Anything less, and Ignacio wouldn’t collect on his commission, a healthy forty percent. Not bad for a tailor. Ignacio met Giorgio Armani once after he tailored a suit for a wealthy businessman from New York. The New Yorker mentioned it to Giorgio, who decided to pay Ignacio, the Spanish tailor, a visit. Armani let Igancio fit him for one of his own suits. After getting Mr. Armani’s measurements, Ignacio took two days to cut, fold, iron, and sew the material to a picture-perfect fit. Giorgio was so impressed with Ignacio’s work that he agreed to pay him a forty percent commission on any suit he personally fit and cut to specs. Ever so grateful, the Spanish man sold Armani suits, eventually selling one to Gerald Moloski. Then two. Then Mr. Moloski bought twenty at a time, and Ignacio kept forty percent with each sale.

So, Ignacio was more than pleased to hear Mr. Moloski was coming back to order a suit.

“Fits like a glove, as always, Ignacio, my friend,” Gerald said to the mirror, “you are a genius!”

“Ignacio?” Jim asked. “Who’s Ignacio?” Gerald never told Jim the name of his tailor, only the number to call, Gerald’s measurements, and the cost. Jim never met the tailor, just a young woman working the counter.

“Don’t worry about it,” Gerald said, closing the mirror. “We need to worry about how James is presenting Gerald Moloski’s comeback to the board of Emulsion Plastics. Speaking of which,” Gerald held out his hand. Jim pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to him. “Thank you, Jim.” He saluted Jim with the phone. “Now. Let’s enjoy the ride, shall we?” Gerald laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back as far as the limo would allow.