“Hold the elevator!”

Giancarlo Palpeggio, the only person in the elevator at 10:30 in the morning lull, pressed the “open door” button and held it.

Jordi Madden was just returning from a run to the bank. He sprinted across the lobby and into the ornate elevator cab.

“Thanks!” he said, acknowledging the older gentleman.

Jordi had seen him before, had admired his beautifully tailored suits. They matched his luxurious waxed mustache and his air of mature authority.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, eying the young man, looking past the casual attire to size up his youthful frame.

“Thirty-four, please,” Jordi asked. He couldn’t reach the panel; it was blocked by his fellow occupant.

“Visiting someone?” Gianni asked engagingly, as he pressed number thirty-four. He was glad for the time these slow elevators provided. Well, sometimes. Like now.

“I work here,” Jordi replied, snapping a little. At nineteen, it irked him that people always assumed he was younger than his age. But he relented at the signs of genuine interest he saw in Gianni’s eyes.

“Summer job. I’m a sophomore at Syracuse.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. A foolish assumption,” the older man recovered suavely. “What kind of work do you do?” He liked the sound of the boy’s voice. Almost as much as he liked the shape of his ass and his clean jawline and dimpled chin.

“Oh, just odd jobs. For my grandfather. He’s the Giordini in Giordini and Ellefson.”

“Ah, yes, I know their work.” He smiled warmly. “I’m in design myself - clothing, not interiors. But he’s very good, your grandfather.”

“Yes, it’s been a long career. He wants me to come into the business, but I’m majoring in computer engineering.”

The elevator stopped. Thirty-fourth floor, Jordi’s floor.

“It’s been nice talking to you,” Jordi said sincerely, exiting the cab.

“Likewise,” said the older man. He extended his foot onto the track to stop the door. “Listen,” he added. “Do you get any breaks?”

“I get an hour at noon, for lunch.”

“I wonder,” he spoke quickly, “Could you come see me then? I have a little job for you.” Jordi looked doubtful. “Here’s my card,” he said earnestly, putting it in Jordi’s hand. “I’m two floors up, on thirty-six. Just show it to the receptionist.”

“I don’t know ... I’m...” Jordi began, but the doors closed. He looked at the card. It was wrapped in a twenty-dollar bill.

“Giancarlo Palpeggio import consultant” it read above the contact info.

A twenty? Well, maybe I will, he thought.

“Call me Gianni, everybody does,” he said, stepping from behind his wide modern desk and taking the young man’s hand in a warm handshake. “And you are?”

“Jordi Madden.”

“Oh, so not Giordini?”

“On my mother’s side. That’s actually my middle name. I’m named after my father, Joe, but they call me Jordi, short for Giordini, to avoid confusion.”

“So half Italian, half what, Irish?” Giancarlo gestured toward the chair in front of the desk and took his seat opposite.

“Yes, pretty much. There’s also some Dutch in there somewhere...” Jordi settled into his chair and glanced at the nearby platter.

“I took the liberty of ordering sandwiches to save time. You like prosciutto?”

“Sure.”

“Help yourself. I’ll explain why I asked you here.”

The sandwiches were small and very simple - just Italian ham sliced very thin and piled between the halves of little crusty rolls - but here was a stack of them. Jordi chose a crinkle-cut carrot from the bowl of assorted pickles and ate two of the rolls while Gianni spoke.

“As I mentioned before, I do some design myself, but I’m primarily an importer. I work with Italian design houses, Asian manufacturers, and US retailers. It’s a fascinating business. I do a lot of consulting too on several lines, especially high fashion and sportswear.”

He opened a low, flat box on his desk. “Now, this is one of my designs,” he said, holding up a small pair of blue and white swim briefs.

Jordi stopped chewing and stared at the tiny bit of cloth.

“This is a prototype. I just received it for review. I’d like you to try it on for me. I think you’re just the right size.” He smiled warmly at the youngster’s surprise. “And just the right body type,” he added and raised an eyebrow.

Jordi blushed under the older man’s obviously appreciative gaze. He was suddenly very self conscious. He swallowed the rest of his sandwich and washed it down with a gulp of his San Pellegrino.

“Me? You want me to...” Jordi’s immediate impulse to decline was softened by the charm of Gianni’s sincerity. He could feel it in his smile. “Don’t you have models for that?” he countered.