Carl Hollywood was approaching, striding across the middle of the banquet 
hall like he owned the place, resplendent in hand-tooled cowboy boots made of 
many supple and exotic bird and reptile skins, wearing a vast raiment, sort of 
a cross between a cape and a Western duster, that nearly brushed the floor, and 
that made him look seven feet tall rather than a mere six and a half. His long 
blond hair was brushed back away from his forehead, his King Tut beard was 
sharp and straight as a hoe. He was gorgeous and he knew it, and his blue eyes 
were piercing right through Miranda, holding her there in front of the open 
elevator doors, through which she'd almost escaped.