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or housing projects, areas in which I was liable to be the only white man for blocks. I’m not prejudiced, but I’m not crazy either.
    Seven-one-eight meant Queens or Brooklyn, and though there are bad neighborhoods there too, the odds of getting a good one are a little better. And somehow, they just seem safer, probably unrealistically so, but they do. So 718 was the announcement that always came as a relief. It was kind of like not getting hit over the head.
    Susan went on to confirm that the client lived in Brooklyn. A Mrs. Rabinowitz on Ocean Parkway, out by Coney Island. Better and better. An elderly Jewish woman living in a tenth-floor apartment in what was bound to be a perfectly respectable building. This was a dream assignment. Safe, secure, and way the hell out in Brooklyn. I could put it in for four hours and forty miles, easy.
    I told Susan I’d take it and hung up the phone. I leaned back in my chair, took a deep breath, and blew it out again. I knew I had to pick up the phone and call Mrs. Rabinowitz, but not just yet. First I had to get my head clear. This is a godsend, I told myself. This is exactly what I needed—a nice, cushy, routine assignment, a nice bit of busywork to immerse myself in. Business as usual.
    The only thing stopping me from picking up the phone was the nagging thought of the late Mr. Albrect. The late Martin Albrect—I’d been right to doubt the Morris—unless the Post was wrong, which was quite possible.
    Put it out of your mind, I told myself. Fuck Albrect. He was a fool, and he got what was coming to him. Get your mind on Mrs. Rabinowitz. That’s your business. This other business, it’s got nothing to do with you.
    “Yeah,” I said aloud. “It’s got nothing to do with me.”

5.
    T HE R ECEPTION A REA AT F ABRI -T EC I NC . was large and lavish. The walls were lined with plush couches, where the clientele could wait comfortably to be ushered into the presence of the powers that be. Current, rather than backdate, magazines filled the coffee tables, just in case the wait should prove to be long. A coffee maker and cups were also set up for that purpose. From the decor, Fabri-Tec seemed to be doing well.
    They had economized, however, on the personnel. A lone, gum-chewing girl appeared to be it. She was manning the reception desk, the company switchboard, which was a permanent fixture on the left hand corner of the desk, and an electric typewriter on a portable typing table not dissimilar to mine. A half-typed letter was in the machine, which hummed faintly. Several lines on the switchboard were lit up and several others were flashing. The receptionist, a blonde in her mid-twenties, was pushing buttons on the switchboard, saying, “Fabri-Tec,” listening for a few seconds, and then saying, “please hold.” The corner of a movie magazine protruded from beneath the blotter, doubtless stashed there for a happier and less busy time.
    I was obviously an added aggravation to the receptionist, but in between phone calls she managed to force an artificial smile. “May I help you?”
    I smiled back at her. “Yes,” I said. “I’m Nathan Armstrong from the Whitney Corporation. I have an appointment with Mr. Albrect.”
    The receptionist paled and her smile froze. “Oh,” she said. After a pause she added, “Oh.”
    The receptionist seemed to have several functions at Fabri-Tec, but apparently informing prospective buyers that company sales executives had been found dead with their dicks in their mouths was not one of them. She rose to her feet, murmured, “Excuse me a moment,” and vanished into the inner recesses of Fabri-Tec Inc., leaving countless impatient callers stranded on hold.
    The phone rang three more times while she was gone. I didn’t answer it. After all, I had my own problems.
    The receptionist returned with a smartly dressed young man of about thirty-five, an aggressive go-getter with the word “salesman” written all over him. He didn’t wait for the