Men in Slacks

He was there when I flicked on the light switch. Sitting silently at my kitchen table in a neat black suit. Two-button Nehru. Matching fedora. Very distinctive. I slipped into the chair opposite. He pushed sliding rimless sunglasses back unto his nose. He had no ears.

“We’ve been watching you, Mr. Shapiro,” he smiled, a lipless smile to match the featureless face.

“Oh?” I reach to rub his cuff between two fingers, “First, I gotta ask: where did you get this suit? Italian?”

“You’ve been making certain inquiries...”

“...is that seersucker...?”

“...into things you ought not...”

“I’ve gotta see the inside label. Do you mind...?”

“Ugh. Forget it.”

He frowns and opens the breast and I look in. There’s a flash.

I find myself hours later, sprawled across the linoleum, alone.

And now, I am out looking for answers, every night in the garment district.

The suit is out there.