We don't, I said. Because the first thing I thought when I saw that neat-as-a-pin, well-decorated apartment with the dead woman on the carpet was, the body would have fit in Jack Benchely's apartment better. Why ever not? Jean-Claude asked. I'll try to order him around later and let you know.
She was speaking, but he couldn't hear her anymore, only watch her lipsticked mouth move, noiseless. He was wearing only the tiniest of black thongs, with his pale, pale body exposed everywhere else. Three hundred dollars, or more, for a very orange formal that I'd burn before I'd wear again, or less than a hundred dollars to rent a tux that I could return. But every minute we wait cuts her chances of survival.
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