An Excerpt From The Boy Who Never Grew Up By David Handler

He looked me over top to bottom. I wore the glen plaid double-breasted cashmere suit I’d had made for me in London by Stricklands. There was a fresh white carnation in my lapel. The white cotton broadcloth shirt and burgundy-and-yellow silk bow tie were from Turnbull and Asser, the silver cuff links from my Grandfather, the cordovan brogans from Maxwell’s. My trench coat was over my arm. My Borsalino, freshly blocked from the fall, was on my head. I did not look like any of the others. This he couldn’t deny. Grudgingly, he gave my name to the doorman, who gave it to the desk.