Keith was downstairs waiting for him, dressed in a tweed jacket a pair of dress slacks that looked like they were tailor made especially for him and a handmade shirt. Bobby could tell from the stitching around the cuffs and the quality of the buttons. He had on a pair of Dockers, an undershirt beneath a white oxford shirt his mom and dad gave him for Christmas and a thick red lamb’s wool pullover.
He remembered Keith’s statement at the funeral. Fifty million dollars, what the fuck is he doing with me? I’m just an architectural student. I can’t keep his interest.