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from a chain of cheap chop shops to a reasonably well-respected group of salons with a sprinkling of star stylists.
    It was Josephine who also changed the name from Chez Max to Stylettos, designed the Stylettos smocks, got rid of substandard stylists, and created training programs. Radford raised the prices, taking them out of the bottom of the shampoo bowl.
    Like his uncle Max, Radford started out as a stylist. And although he hired many gay hairstylists, he was one of the straight men who become stylists because that was where the women were. He liked to have them at his mercy with dripping wet hair.
    Ratboy’s hobby was sleeping with the female stylists, and sometimes the customers too, according to Stella, whose number-one hobby was talking. Sexual harassment was not a well-understood concept at Stylettos, and the stylists were not on the cutting edge of political awareness. Some may have realized they could sue his pants off, but unemployed hairstylists can’t afford legal counsel. And many found that sleeping with Ratboy enhanced their careers, if not their self-esteem. Most of his conquests wound up hating him, but oddly, Boyd was sentimental. He liked to keep them around. That’s how Stella herself had become manager at the Dupont Circle salon.
    “I can’t believe you slept with him,” Lacey whispered. She knew far too much about Stella from their salon chair sessions, and she suspected Stella knew too much about her as well. In self-defense, they had forged a friendship.
    “It was five years ago,” Stella whispered back.
    “He’s repulsive.”
    “I closed my eyes.”
    “It gives me hives just to look at him.”
    “You! He gave me a rash.”
    “Stella, please!”
    “Nothing serious. I was younger. You know, lately the worm was trying to get into Angie’s drawers.”
    “But he’s way too old for her.”
    “Tell him that. He liked it that she was getting so hot in the newspapers. She wouldn’t do it with him, though. Said he made her skin crawl.”
    Stella looked back at Ratboy and gave him the evil eye. He looked away.
    A well-preserved woman on Ratboy’s right side smacked his arm and glared first at Boyd and then at Lacey and at Stella, who smiled and waved in response.
    “The bitch is Ratboy’s ex-wife, Josephine,” Stella whispered. “Mean as a snake and twice as deadly. Makes his life miserable. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
    “I thought you said they were divorced,” Lacey said.
    “A couple of years ago. She got half the business, but it’s still not all settled. She likes to keep an eye on him. Partners till death do they part.”
    Lacey fished out a mirrored compact from her purse, opened it, and angled it just so to take a better look.
    Josephine Radford was French and lived up to all the implied stereotypes. She was thin, stylish, and had a temper that could launch missiles, Stella said. She was great at small talk and fun to be around, if you didn’t get too close. Josephine was not conventionally pretty, but she was dark and exotic. She was clad in a killer designer suit, royal purple trimmed with black grosgrain ribbon. Her glossy black hair was caught back in a chic chignon with a black bow at the nape. Entirely too refined for Stylettos, Lacey thought. And how did she wind up with that crude animal Boyd?
    “How did she get along with Angie?” Lacey whispered.
    “Actually, they had a fight a couple of weeks ago.”
    “What about?”
    “I’m not sure, but Angie was crying, something about Marcia Robinson or maybe it was Ratboy. I tried to stay out of it.”
    It was common knowledge, Stella said, that Josephine hated all the women Boyd slept with. Although they hadn’t lived together in years, neither could let go. In some weird way, they were still passionate about each other. Boyd enjoyed taunting Josephine about his other women, so she was able to keep an accurate running tally. He did the same with her conquests. Because they were divorced and civilized,