The Tailor of Panama

Panama.

Panama?

Best I could do, Andrew in the circumstances, given your sins.

They were baying for blood.

I argued your case.

"For his long service, his fine brain in the balance

against the gambling debts,

the blown cover and the wives."

The wives.

So, a last chance.

Panama.

Keep the head down? Serve out my time?

Not quite, Andrew. We do have interests:

The canal, vital artery. There is work to be done.

Hmm.

But for God's sake, be careful out there, man.

There's a nasty web of money-laundering, drug trafficking and corruption.

Really?

There are only 200 resident Brits in Panama.

But you can surely ferret out one or two

who can gain you access to the corridors of power.

Look, look! The Bridge of the Americas.

You know, ever since the canal cut them in half

this bridge is now the only link between North and South America.

Think about it!

The way I see it, we all have a dream of ourselves

that we could be more than we are.

Well, Pendel and Braithwaite are here to help you realize that dream

in the Savile Row tradition.

Let's try this one now.

Oh, yeah, I guess this is kind of...

I thought you'd like that one, sir. Mr. Connery's choice.

Matter of fact, as soon as you came in, I thought, "Who does he remind me of?"

And that's it. In the build too. Golfer's shoulders.

How about that, Uncle Benny?

You've got the fluence, Harry. I've always said it, and you have.

You're the outright best tailor in the world. Bar none.

Steady on, Uncle Benny, steady on.

Harry, come on.

I'm coming. - All right.

All right, you get in first, Sarah. Don't forget your belt.

- Sarah. - I'm trying!

Mark.

Okay. Bye-bye.

George, George, I saw you yesterday.

All right, here you go, then. How's your old lady?

Sarah, Sarah!

Hi, Bella.

Dad, give me a quarter.

Have you learnt your poem, Sarah?

Tyger, tyger, burning bright In the forest of the night

- See you, Dad. - Shalom.

Shalom.

Look at your hair!

Oh, what immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful cemetery

No, "symmetry." Symmetry.

I still don't know what it means.

- Did you see the news last night? - Yes, I did.

Your people want their canal back.

Not my people, Ernesto. They're rabid, right-wing senators.

- Do you know what they are? - Say it.

Assholes.

You see?

Turn around.

It's only a tad, Ramon.

If you want to look good in my suit, lose weight and grow a foot.

Come to the shop. We can ease it a little.

Okay.

So, what are we gonna do about the overdraft, Harry?

You tell me, Ramon.

You have to think about selling the farm, Harry.

Sell it?

It's a gold mine, Ramon.

Angelo's turning it around. He's a very good man, Ramon. Dedicated.

I hear you got a water problem.

Did have, Ramon, did have. I put that right.

Now, it flows like...

Water.

Exactly, Ramon.

Maybe you shouldn't have bought it, eh?

On your advice, Ramon. Fair's fair.

The bank wishes to see a substantial reduction

on the outstanding sum by the end of next month.

Otherwise,

we have to call it in.

What?

The whole lot?

But of course the whole lot.

You are my friend. I hate to do this, but my hands are tied.

What can I say?

What am I going to tell Louisa? I bought it with her inheritance.

Well, you're the storyteller, Harry.

You're an angel.

Someone to see you.

Oh, yes? Who?

New customer, he say.

Hi. Name's Osnard.

I phoned.

Mr. Osnard. Harry Pendel.

Very happy to meet you, sir.

No offense, but I was hoping to see Mr. Braithwaite.

No chance of that, I'm sorry to say, sir.

My late partner has been dead and gone these many years.

Though his exacting standards are very much alive and well.

Glad to hear that.

He dressed my father, you know.

Back in his Savile Row days.

Well, I never! Now that's a first, I don't mind admitting.

Father to son, Savile Row to Panama City.

- Did you hear that? - I thought you'd be surprised.

Surprised, sir, and delighted.

Marta, put Mr. Osnard down as an old customer.

Arthur Braithwaite made for his father.

Now, if you'd care to come this way, Mr. Osnard.

- What in hell happened to her? - Shh.

In the bad old days, would that be? Noriega's time?

Rough justice meted out?

- If you'd care to take a seat, sir. - Thank you.

We call this The Club Room. Many of our gentlemen spend time here

in the lunch hour and at the day's end.

And why not?

What did you have in mind, sir, exactly?

I thought I'd start with a few lounge suits. See how they go.

After that, well, the "full monty," as old Braithwaite used to say.

I see. Very good, sir.

Pity the expression's been hijacked. Means quite the other thing now.

- So they tell me, sir. - Bollock naked, in fact.

- Quite so, sir. - Money's no problem.

Take a look at these, sir. See what takes your fancy.

Mm-hm.

They're all the right weight for this diabolical climate.

Mm-hm.

Seven ounces of nicely breathing, finest worsted.

About all a man could or should put up with.

How about this one? Alpaca, am I right?

Very good, sir. Perfect.

And exactly what I should've picked.

Given that money's no object?

- So, what's next? - The sun!

Vital statistics. Please step this way.

Certainly.

If I could ask you to slip off your jacket.

- Thank you, sir. - Of course.

You were Noriega's tailor, weren't you, in his time?

I'm sorry, sir, is that a problem?

Not necessarily. Smelly little bugger, was he?

If I may, sir.

Forty.

And the waist...

What's the damage?

A very creditable 34-plus.

Plus what?

Plus lunch, put it that way, sir.

Very good.

Do you ever miss it? The old country? Savile Row?

Ah, the Row. Well, now...

I do and I don't.

Nothing beats it, but when I was there,

I always felt very much in old Arthur Braithwaite's shadow.

Though it was Arthur Braithwaite who encouraged me to spread my wings.

- Good old boy, Arthur, was he? - One of the old school, sir.

Now, if I might...

Very good, sir.

Do we dress right or left?

Most gentlemen favor left these days. Don't think it's political.

Never know where the bloody thing is. Bobs about like a windsock.

- You were saying? - Saying, sir?

Braithwaite. Telling you to spread your wings.

Yes, of course. I remember it like yesterday.

I was cutting a nice muted check hacking jacket for Lord Braeburn.

Finest mohair, dash of cashmere.

I looked up and he was looking at me from the doorway.

Arthur Braithwaite, that is.

He was a big man, imposing.

He had a presence. It's hard to put it into words.

- It was the mustache. - Mustache?

Bloody great bushy job, soup all over it.

- There was no mustache in my day. - I can see it now. Bright brown.

I think we're being rumbled, Harry. Admit nothing. Deny all.

I think your memory's playing tricks.

You're thinking of a different man and awarding his mustache to Braithwaite.

Go on.

"Harry," he says to me, "I think you've earned your spurs.

How would you feel about taking my name

and tradition to the New World?

I'm talking about a full partnership."

I don't mind telling you, there were tears in my eyes.

You've practically got tears in mine.

Thank you, sir.

I've never heard such a load of bullshit in my life.

Come and sit down, Harry.

It's all right.

I'm your fairy godmother.

The thing is, Harry, I know who you are.

More accurately, I know who you aren't.