“I just don’t want to have to start looking for a new boss at my age.”

“Stop it. Goodbye.” He hung up. Immediately, the phone rang again. “Hello?”

“It’s Dino. Your makeup person is here. Where the hell are you?”

“Up on the roof.”

“Well, get down here.”

Stone walked back downstairs and saw Jim and Dino wrapping pistols in cloths and packing them into the snare drum.

The makeup artist, whose name was Marge, was unpacking some things and laying them out on a table. “Come over here and sit down,” she said.

Stone walked over and took a seat.

“Okay,” Marge said, “let me show you how to put your nose on.”

“On, so that it won’t come off?”

“Not unless someone rips it off. Avoid that.”

She held up a tiny plastic bottle. “This,” she said, “is, for want of a better word, glue. It’s what insecure men use to stick on their hairpieces.” She held up some latex. “This is your nose. Let’s try it on, first without glue.” She set up a little three-way mirror and then came at Stone with the latex, smoothing the edges. “Just a minute.” She got some scissors and did some trimming around the edges. “There, that’s good.” She applied it to Stone’s face and pointed him toward the mirror. “What do you think?”

“Good God!” Stone said, staring at himself. “It looks real.”

“Well, of course it looks real, I’m in the business of real. If I get it wrong, people can die.”

“Like me?”

“Yeah, like you.”

“Well, I don’t know who the guy in the mirror is, but his nose looks real to me.”

“Good. Now for the glue: watch this, in case you have to make repairs.” She applied the glue to the edges of the latex, then came at him again, pressing and stroking the edges. “Now look again.”

Stone looked in the mirror. “I can’t see the edges.”

“That’s because I tapered them until they’re very thin, so that they sort of disappear into your skin.” She picked up something that looked like a poorly made brush. “Now for your mustache: it uses the same glue, and what’s more, it conceals the edges of the nose under your nostrils, where they are most likely to be noticed, because your upper lip moves.” She put glue onto the back of the mustache and pressed it into place.

Stone looked in the mirror. “It looks awful,” he said.

“Of course it does, because I haven’t trimmed it.” Marge picked up some barber scissors and a fine-toothed comb and made snipping noises for a few minutes. “Now,” she said, pointing him at the mirror.

“Ah, much better,” Stone said. “I’ve always wondered what I would look like with a mustache. Now I know. I’ll never wear one again after today.”