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buttons were pushed, homicidal.”
    “I assure you, Mr. Peplum, I’m stable. My hands may be shaking now, but it’s because all I want is a blue suit—not an environment. Just something that suggests accomplishment yet is understated.”
    “And here I have exactly the item. A fine Scotch wool. But loomed with our own secret cocktail of mood elevators to provide you with a constant sense of well-being.”
    “Unmotivated well-being,” I snapped with emerging sarcasm in my voice.
    “Well, it’s motivated by the suit. Let’s say you lost your wallet with all your credit cards and you get home and the little kumquat’s totaled the Lamborghini plus you find a ransom note demanding eight times your net worth if you ever want to lay eyes on your kids again. With this garment on your back you never lose your good humor or affable manner. The truth is, you actually enjoy your plight.”
    “And the children?” I asked, terrified. “Where are they? Bound and gagged in some basement?”
    “It won’t be as it appears now—not while you’re caressed by one of our antidepressant textiles.”
    “Right,” I parried, “but when I take off the suit, won’t I experience withdrawal symptoms?”
    “Er, well, there are some weak sisters who tend to become more introverted once the jacket’s been removed. Why? Would you ever contemplate ending it all?”
    “Yes, well,” I said, backing toward the fire exit, “speaking of ending it all, I must go. I have a pet raccoon home that needs milking.” As the fingers in my pocket closed around my pepper spray should any attempt to hamper egress be made, my attention was caught by a stunning navy swatch that Peplum had not yet presented.
    “Oh, this,” Peplum described when I queried him on it. “The threads are interwoven with thousands of conductive wires. The garment not only drapes beautifully but will recharge your cellular phone when you rub the instrument on your sleeve before placing a call.”
    “Now, that’s more like it,” I said, envisioning the finished product to be at once stylish yet practical while announcing indirectly to my peers that I was indeed a member of the avant-garde. Peplum, seeing that he had hit pay dirt, pulled out a purchase order and moved in on me to close the deal with the lethal economy of Philidor’s mate. As I pulled out a check and accepted his Mont Blanc, my heart racing with the promise of this sartorial coup, it was none other than Ramsbottom, his face drained of all color, who came bolting in from the other room.
    “Problems, Binky,” he whispered.
    “You’re ashen,” Peplum said.
    “Our cellular recharging suit,” Ramsbottom bleated, “the one we sold yesterday—remember?—cashmere with microscopic conductive wires. You know, the kind you can just rub your cell phone on to get it juiced.”
    “Not now,” Peplum said, coughing. “I’ve a, you know,” he said, rolling his eyes toward me.
    “Huh?” Ramsbottom murmured.
    “You know, there’s one born every minute,” Peplum shot back.
    “Oh, yes, sure,” the nervous cohort chattered. “It’s just that the bloke who put on the cell-phone-charging suit stepped out of our showroom, touched the handle of his car, and ricocheted off Buckingham Palace. He’s in intensive care.”
    “Hmm,” Peplum mused, rapidly computing every possible liability. “Probably didn’t realize it’s fatal to make contact with metal while you’re thusly clad. Oh, well, you notify his family, I’ll give a heads-up to legal. That’s the fourth time this month a conductive-suit customer has had to go on life support. Now, where was I? Oh yes, Ducksauce? Duckbill? Where’d he go?”
    Let him try and find me. High voltage in a pair of pants is exactly the kind of thing that sends me ricocheting directly to Barneys, where I bought a marked-down three-button job off the peg, and it doesn’t do anything postmodern unless you count picking up lint.

T HIS N IB FOR H IRE

    IT IS SAID