She had long black hair and eyes that might have been hazel, but Cape couldn’t be sure since he was struggling to maintain eye contact. Her jeans-low on her hips, the lace-up crotch loose at the top-and the gold hoop in her belly button were all too distracting. He breathed a sigh of relief as she exited the room, aware that he had lusted in his heart but proud that he’d kept his pupils free of sin.
The office was bigger than Cape’s apartment. He sat facing a mammoth desk, behind which were bookcases lined with trophies, plaques, and assorted books. On the left wall, next to an oak door, were poster-sized photographs of models, male and female, wearing GASP jeans in seductive poses. The wall behind Cape was made entirely of glass and overlooked the Embarcadero and the San Francisco Bay. You could see the span of the Oakland Bay Bridge as it left San Francisco from where Cape was sitting, but the dominant view from the desk was a giant sculpture across the street. From this angle, it almost entirely blocked the view of the water.
Cape remembered the sculpture going up last year. He heard the head of the Gap had donated it to the city and funded the park on which it stood, built alongside the Embarcadero directly across from Gap headquarters. And right next door was GASP, occupying the top two floors of the neighboring building and sharing the same view.
The sculpture was a gigantic bow and arrow-the span of the bow one hundred thirty feet, the feathers on the end of the arrow at least ten feet in length. When he had first heard about it, Cape anticipated a massive bronze sculpture, the arrow pointing out to sea, the bow drawn and ready. Instead, the bow was sunk into the ground, the arrow pointing downward. Cape imagined the city council deciding a grounded bow was somehow less aggressive, not wanting to offend voters in this largely pacifist city.
To add to the effect, the bow was painted gold with red highlights, giving the first impression that a Godzilla-sized cupid had dropped his bow while running past on his chubby cherubic feet.
“I hate that fucking thing,” came a voice from behind the desk. Cape turned in his chair to see Michael Long entering the room from the side door.
As Cape stood to shake hands, he caught a glimpse of the jeans Long was wearing and was so shocked he couldn’t control his reaction.
He gasped.
The jeans Michael Long was wearing were so tight that Cape felt himself chafing just looking at them. The leg seams strained on their journey toward the lace-up crotch, which was held together by leather laces that looked like they might snap at any minute. And though Cape wasn’t in the habit of staring at other men’s packages, he found it hard to tear his eyes away. Something wasn’t quite right, or at least not exactly anatomically correct.
Long chuckled as Cape wrenched his eyes back to the man’s face. “Most people react that way at first,” he said proudly as he stepped forward. “But you get used to it.”
The effect of the jeans was exaggerated, Cape realized, because Long was not exactly someone you’d call in shape. The paunch of his stomach protruded over the waist of the jeans, unimpeded by a wide leather belt.
Cape had stopped wearing Levi’s 501s several years back because they were too damned tight in the thighs. It was a tough decision. It meant admitting he’d hit middle age, since those jeans were cut for men in their twenties. Michael Long looked like he wanted to recapture both his lost youth and the body lost along with it, but that was obviously a long, long time ago. He was balding, with close-cropped black hair ringing his head and a wide handlebar mustache flecked with gray. He smiled as he stepped closer, stopping just three feet in front of Cape.
“Here,” he said, reaching toward his crotch. “Check this out.” Cape stood, speechless, as Long quickly undid his belt and untied the laces. Spreading the front panels of the fly apart, he reached into his pants.
Cape unconsciously took a step backward and shot a glance toward the door, but by the time he turned back, Long had already completed the motion and held something cupped in the palm of his hand.
Cape blinked in disbelief, but before he could react, Long jerked his hand upward, sending something flying into the air.
Cape caught it by reflex. Turning it over in his hand, he saw that it was a polished wooden rod, roughly the size and shape of a small cucumber.
Or a big cock.
“Lace-up jeans are one thing,” said Long, his face beaming with pride. “Diesel’s got ’em, so does Levi’s. And chicks love ’em-they say sexy without saying it too loudly, you know what I’m sayin’? But for guys, well…” He let his voice trail off before continuing. “A lot of guys lack the confidence to wear jeans like this, ’cause they might not have the inventory in the sausage department. That’s why I invented the crotch pocket. A hidden pocket to add some heft to your package.”
Cape stared at Long, not sure if he wanted to laugh or run from the room. “That’s really something,” he said politely, reaching forward to hand Long his wooden dowel.
“Ain’t it, though?” nodded Long, replacing the dowel and walking back around his desk. “Some people thought I was nuts, but men want to look sexy, too, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” said Cape amiably as he sat down, forcing a smile but suppressing a laugh.
“Some even said I was obsessed with the male anatomy,” said Long, a disgusted look on his face. “Like I was gay or something. Do I look like a pole smoker to you?”
“Sorry?” said Cape, baffled by the expression.
“A pillow biter?” demanded Long testily.
Cape shook his head, more in bewilderment than agreement.
“An ass bandit?” said Long defensively.
Cape held up his hands, the international symbol for calm. Lecturing Long on his lack of sensitivity, political incorrectness, or his conflicted feelings about his own sexuality wasn’t going to help the case one iota, so Cape took the high road and lied through his teeth.
“A visionary,” he said. “I’d say you’re a visionary.”
Long, suddenly appeased, sank back into his chair. “Fuckin-A,” he said.
“No wonder your jeans were so popular,” added Cape.
“What do you mean, were?” snapped Long, coming forward in his chair again.
Uh-oh, thought Cape. Wrong tense.
Cape sighed, letting his eyes wander past the madman while he tried to collect his thoughts. He scanned the shelves behind Long, looking at the trophies again. What he had assumed were fashion industry awards were actually bowling trophies, set back on the shelf so the details of the figures were lost in shadow. The plaques all seemed to come from rotary clubs from towns across the Midwest.
Cape shook his head in amazement. He’d met some corporate blowhards over the years, but this guy made used-car salesmen look respectable. He looked back at Long, studying his florid expression for a while before making a decision.
The friendly reporter act was a waste of time. This guy was certifiable, and if he had anything to do with what Cape had seen in his warehouse, he was also a major-league scumbag.
“I said were,” said Cape deliberately, “because you had some success initially with your women’s line, before the real players like Diesel and Levi’s got into the category. But your men’s line was a joke from day one, only sold as novelty gifts for bachelor parties.”
Long’s face reddened as he came out of his chair and around the desk, as if Cape had just insulted his manhood. And, in a way, that’s exactly what Cape was doing.
Cape remained seated, egging him on. “Your stock price is in the toilet,” he said, “and you’re carrying inventory that’s almost a year old, because none of your distributors will take it off your hands.”
“How did you-” Long almost choked on his rage. He thrust his right arm forward, his hand pointing as if he were going to poke Cape in the chest and demand that he leave or threaten to sue him or maybe challenge him to a duel.