"The island has terrible taste," Eliot informed him. "But don't worry, I'm just going to. . . ." He started through a complicated series of hand gestures, straightening the collar a smidge, deepening the color, adjusting those dreadfully outdated lapels, and with a final flourish, adjusting the cut to fill Jon our a touch and make him look a little less heroin chic.

". . . There. I'm sure there's a mirror around here somewhere if you'd care to take a look. It'll only last until morning, but I can work something more permanent later if you decide you like it."