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the frame cracked, and I watched her virtually launch herself across the desk at his throat. They both crashed to the floor.
    The invective was impressive—an unlikely, but effective, assemblage of dockhand language in English and Spanish.
    “Should I call security, sir?” I asked. By then he had Tina on her knees, her arm wrapped up behind her back and was on the verge of breaking her wrist. He had a quartet of mean-looking gashes on his cheek from her fingernails.
    “No. Just close the door.”
    Moments later, she evidently broke out of his hold, because for quite a while, the sounds of screaming and things breaking reverberated throughout the executive office reception area. We were used to it. None of the executives even bothered to stick their heads out of their offices. I heard the set of ceremonial Wedgwood plates, made to celebrate and record King Edward’s coronation, whistle across the room like Frisbees until they met up, head-on, with the antique burled walnut paneling.
    Then, the sobbing started. Then, silence. Then caterwauling exclamations of ecstasy that went on until we were all exhausted, nervous wrecks. Finally, the door opened and Tina emerged. Her face was splotchy from crying. “I’m sorry I cut your face. I promise I’ll never do it again. Just don’t do this to me. I’ll do anything if you’ll keep me. Please. Anything.”
    Owen stood in the door, a handkerchief pressed to his cheek. He had his suit coat off. His fitted white shirt was as crisp as a cracker, and he had on a red-and-navy regimental tie, something I imagine he’d often made fun of in the past as the sort of tie only a fuddy-duddy would wear. He certainly didn’t look like he’d been making wild passionate love. “Believe me, Tina. I’m only doing this for you. For your sake. You can’t have your career always living under my shadow.”
    She began to cry again. “But what will I do without you? You’re my whole world.”
    I admit I felt sorry for her as she passed my desk. She was just a child, a dejected and rejected and totally misguided child. “Is there anything I can get you, Miss Romero?” I asked.
    She shook her downcast head. I told her I was sorry.
    “To hell with you,” she said. “This is all your fault. Owen was never snooty until you showed up.”
    I reached out to touch her arm, but by then she’d put on her dark glasses and started down the stairs. Each step seemed to straighten her spine and by the time she reached the front door, her famous red-lipped Latina smile was back in place, and she was ready for her permanent entourage of bodyguards and paparazzi.
    I went into Owen’s office. “Oh, dear,” I said.
    Two lamps were smashed to bits, as was a glass tabletop.
    “Goddamn crazy fucking bitch,” he swore.
    “Are you all right, sir? Would you like me to look at that?”
    He pulled the linen square away and examined it. “No, thanks. I think it’s stopped bleeding. Well,” he said as he crossed back to his desk and righted his computer screen, “that’s over.”
    “Do you think she’ll be all right?” I asked. “I mean, she won’t do anything crazy will she?”
    “What are you talking about? All she does are crazy things. Who cares what she does. She’s no longer my problem.”
    “She sure can scream,” I said. “We’re talking Academy Award winners.”
    “Actresses,” he said. “All sizzle, no steak. They’re all complete idiots. If you don’t write out their scripts, they’re totally lost. What time is the Carstairs meeting?”
    “Eleven o’clock.”
    “What time is it now?”
    “Nine-fifty-five.”
    “Is Bertram ready?”
    “I think so, but I’ll double-check.”
    “I want him in the car by the time I get there. We’ll leave in five minutes. Did you look at the figures from Panther?” He studied the latest sales projections on the monitor.
    “I did.”
    “Talk about another goddamn mess—I’m up to my nuts in them today. Did you know this corporation’s