Mr. Wolfe

wardrobe supervisor he'd ever met.
Ambrosio and his trio of workers arrived. They all wore the same outfits as Mr. Wolfe. He'd insisted on it. He paid them very well, so that even their newest apprentice, Miguel, had gladly given up his ghastly baggy pants that sagged to his hips, revealing an unseemly expanse of underpants.
Miguel had initially balked when Mr. Wolfe told the young man that his attire was unacceptable. A recent graduate of the LA Unified School District's Perkins Program, Ambrosio had handpicked the kid. Miguel was keen to learn, and at the ripe old age of eighteen, already had two kids to support.
Miguel was a pocho. This was Miguel's term for himself and it was Mr. Wolfe's dream that he could help Miguel think better of himself. Hard work, money, respect and a blossoming education would do that for the young man.
Mr. Wolfe had seen many Miguels come and go in his business. He'd trained and released many to wonderful careers. Being a pocho was difficult for this proud young man. Like so many others in LA, his family was Mexican, but he'd been born in California. He couldn't speak Spanish and would flounder in Mexico, but he was not legally allowed to work in the US.
After Ambrosio had chosen Miguel as their newest co-worker, Mr. Wolfe assured the young man that he would sponsor his green card. Both Miguel and Mr. Wolfe knew Miguel needed the job. Being the apprentice to the mysterious yet highly regarded Mr. Wolfe would propel him into the professional stratosphere, except that he hadn't wanted to give up his ill-fitting clothing.
"Do you know how the trend for those loose pants and shirts began?" Mr. Wolfe had asked Miguel on their first meeting.
The kid had shrugged.
"Snoop Dog?" he ventured. "Some other rapper?"
"No." Mr. Wolfe's lip curled. "It began in prison because clothes rarely fit the prisoner. You, Miguel, are a free man. Unfettered by the bounds of a cell. So why dress like one who isn't?"
Miguel had resisted, and perhaps it was this that actually impressed Mr. Wolfe. Miguel wanted to be his own man, and rightfully so. He could wear whatever the hell crazy outfits he wanted on his weekends. But not on Mr. Wolfe's dime.
Besides, when he had lived as long as Mr. Wolfe had, he could call his own shots regarding what was fashionable and what was garbage.
Miguel had seen sense, perhaps urged by Ambrosio, and had already proven to be a model employee...reliable, honest, keen and swift to learn. He stood beside Ambrosio now, expressing horror at the cheap, inappropriate shelving Linda had installed.
"What's a bustya?" Miguel asked. He was attending art college part-time, thanks to Mr. Wolfe's financial and legal sponsorship of him. The dark-haired, thin-faced young man had a passion for carpentry, and a sharp eye for fine fabrics.
"Oh, I think she meant bustier," Vez, Ambrosio's right-hand man said.
Vez was Croatian. A large man with massive fingers, he nonetheless moved fast, joked all day long and was as tough with a hammer as he was gentle with an antique pearl button. He moonlighted as a carpet layer on weekends because his manly, macho buddies would tease him if they knew he fooled around with "women's things."
The last man in the group was Trevor, a fortyish, pudgy, former English pop singer who'd found a passion for twinkies--both the edible kind and the other kind--effectively killing his coveted teen heart-throb status. He'd found a new direction and true talent as a costume builder and archivist.
Mr. Wolfe smiled at his staff, covering the white gown in the metal tray with muslin. He counted the minutes the dress continued to soak as Ambrosio strutted toward him. By God, he was a gorgeous man. His dark hair hung long to his shoulders, his brown eyes gleaming as he removed his sunglasses and locked gazes with Mr. Wolfe.
Ambrosio had a model's sinewy, fat-free-body and a poet's heart. Mr. Wolfe nodded a greeting, his gaze sweeping over his assistant. He approved of the pale band of skin on Ambrosio's left hand where he'd removed his wedding ring. None of the men wore jewelry and Ambrosio's long hair was pulled back into a braid.
"Where would you like us to start, Mr. Wolfe?" Ambrosio asked.
Mr. Wolfe pointed to the shelving by the entrance. "Start there, please."
He began to make lists of the clothing he'd observed that needed urgent cleaning, but took a swift, appreciative glance at Ambrosio's retreating ass. Oh, he was a gorgeous hunk of man.
Mr. Wolfe found it difficult to focus his attention for that brief, tiny moment, but forced himself.
They should pay me extra for that. I so long to just watch and devour him with my eyes...
All of the costumes needed work, as a matter of fact, some pieces more than others. He quickly realized the reason for the fumes of body odor wafting from them. Miss Finley's gowns were so heavy and richly detailed that she simply couldn't breathe in them. Her quick changes had more to do with the cumbersome pieces weighing on her body and voice, more than wowing her audiences.
He'd noticed heavy sweat stains in the armpit areas and knew some of these stains had previously been ignored. With a pang of anxiety, he realized some had been treated incorrectly and had now set. Perhaps permanently.
Mr. Wolfe already knew which trunks had been opened and the clothing moved around, so that the trunk that had been shipped to Italy, for example, had clothing mixed into it from the tour in Germany, two years later.
Linda was so inept. I want to smack her.
To the lay person this may not have appeared to be a problem, but it was. To an exacting man like Mr. Wolfe.
The costumes shipped to and from Germany had been dry-cleaned by a man in Hohenschwangau, a tiny principality in Bavaria. He knew the man had done the cleaning quickly, after Miss Finley performed for an obscenely large sum of money at a private celebrity wedding