"Does cashmere have some kind of magical property that makes it cost the equivalent of a small country's GDP, or are fancy sheep just really good negotiators?" Jim asked, watching the tailor make final adjustments to his midnight blue suit—custom-fitted and priced with the kind of number that once would have sent him into an existential crisis but now barely registered on his recalibrated wealth radar.
"It's a conspiracy between the sheep and the fashion industry," the tailor replied without missing a beat, pins clutched between his lips like tiny metal cigarettes. "We're sworn to secrecy at our annual conference."
Two weeks after the Viper Room show had catapulted Seamus Kelly back into public consciousness with the subtlety of a neon billboard, Jim found himself in the peculiar positio
