Since noon, women had arrived in waves, parking their sedans and SUVs
at intervals along the nondescript cul-de-sac. First were the
stay-at-home moms, then the working-class wives, then the single girls.
At the front door, they were met by a fortyish blonde with
machine-tanned skin, dyed hair and suspiciously perky breasts pressing
against a tight blue sweater. We’ll call her Debbie. She ushered the
women inside.
Ben writes about designer goods and the gray market in knock-offs in this week’s Pitch.
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