Harry looked around the hall; it was like he jumped into an issue of National Geographic. Swarthy tribesmen with exaggerated features glazed in sweat, clad in caftans and fezzes, dripping in gold, caked in garish make up, ululating like hyenas, wiggling like inch-worms to the twanging sound of the arabic music. A vat of body heat, a soup of celebration.
Gomez scouted the landscape, spotted his pretend-girlfriend and made a beeline towards her with Harry in tow.
So she wasn't bad looking, actually almost cute if not for that peaked hairline and simian brow. Tight little body, almost delicious if not for the hairy arms. Still, well put together. Certainly good enough for Gomez if they were a couple. Introductions.
"Regine, this is Harry, Harry - Regine," Gomez said.
Regine kissed Harry on both cheeks. Harry clumsily reciprocated, kissing the air near both of Regine's cheeks, but grateful that his lips were spared contact with the downy peach fuzz sprouting along the sides.
"Hi," Harry said while scoping the party in his tapered navy blue suit which made him stick out like a sore thumb. "I feel out of place here. Maybe I should've worn my silk bathrobe?"
Regine laughed while displaying her intricately gold embroidered royal blue caftan. "Definitely caftan country here."
"Where underwear is optional," Harry said.
Regine laughed.
"Please excuse my friend, Harry. He's a work in progress. Not a bad guy when you get to know him though," Gomez said while directing Harry towards the bar. "Think I'll start him off with a drink. Can I get you something, Regine?"
"No thanks, I think I see my cousin from Marrakech waving at me. She's a sorceress you know. Better say hello before she gives me the evil eye..."
Gomez led Harry to the bar, elbowing his way through the scrum of guests and ordered a couple of scotches. Harry noticed another fish-out-water hanging out next to the bar, an elegant Chinese man in a suit, who was chatting with a fez-hatted slickster, the father of the bride-to-be. Definitely a business guest. Harry sidestepped into optimal party eavesdropping position. The Chinese man, Winston Lu, was speaking.
"Prosper, you have to sell many sweaters to pay for this wedding. Hahaha."
That, or not pay the key Hong Kong supplier, Harry thought. Prosper had the mark of the devil written all over his face. The phony smile, the exaggerated laughter, the overly interested concern, the dipped left eyebrow advertising his smoldering look.
Prosper clutched Winston's shoulder and bragged, "Business is booming, my good friend. Just the Bloomingdales fall order will cover the whole affair!"
Yeah, right.
Meanwhile Prosper's fading sportswear line, Flirt-Flirt, is going down the tubes fast. Cut to three months later where Marco is four months late on a $600K payment to Winston.
"It's just a little cash flow thing," Prosper lies. "I'm getting paid any day from a big customer. I'll pay you in a few days, I swear."
Which of course never happens. If Winston doesn't get paid soon, he'll have to close his factory.
Winston calls up a friend in L.A. to check on Prosper. It doesn't look good:
Prosper is downsizing. He put his twelve million dollar Beverly Hills home up for sale, and is on the market for a more modest abode - in the six to seven million dollar range. But the Bentley stays.
Put a lien on his home, the friend advises, only to learn a day later that the home is held in trust by Flirt-Flirt Investments, a shell company that is incorporated in Antigua.
A week later, still no payment. It's the end of the work day in Hong Kong and Winston is sitting at his desk with a bottle of vodka, sobbing uncontrollably.
The next day he blows out his brains in the office.
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