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receptionist to attempt an introduction, which was probably wise under the circumstances.
    “Hi, I’m Michael Murphy, executive vice president.”
    He extended his hand and I shook it, wondering how many executive vice presidents a company of this kind had.
    “Nathan Armstrong, Whitney Corporation,” I told him.
    There was no reason for him to doubt it. I always wear a suit and tie in the practice of my profession. Richard insists on it. That’s because his TV ad promises a free consultation with a lawyer right in your own home. That, of course, is bullshit. No self-respecting lawyer is going to go running around to people’s homes trying to sign up accident cases when he can hire some schmuck like me to do it. So I have to wear a suit and tie and pass myself off as a lawyer. I never actually say I’m a lawyer, and if anybody specifically asks, I’ll admit that I’m not. I just walk in wearing a suit and say I’m Mr. Hastings from the lawyer’s office, and the clients just assume I’m a lawyer and that’s all there is to it. So I figured if the suit could make me a lawyer, it could damn well make me a businessman.
    Murphy seemed to buy it. “Won’t you come in,” he said, ushering me around the reception desk and through huge oak double doors.
    We passed through a short hallway and into an immense room teeming with stenographers. We zigzagged through them unobserved. Deafened by headsets, none of the typists so much as glanced up.
    I found the typing pool somewhat reassuring. To tell the truth, I was a little apprehensive, or perhaps scared shitless would be more accurate, about whether I could pull off my little impersonation, seeing as how I had never done anything even remotely like it before. After the intimidating opulence of the waiting room, which had all but convinced me that I hadn’t a prayer, it was nice to discover that the grand and glorious Fabri-Tec, Inc., was a company run by mortal men, capable of designing their work space so that executive vice presidents and the buyers they were attempting to impress had to pass through the typing pool in order to get to their offices.
    I followed Murphy out of the typing pool and down a long hallway to a door marked “MICHAEL J. MURPHY, EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT.” I counted three other executive vice presidents on the way, and we weren’t even halfway down the corridor.
    Murphy opened the door and ushered me into what proved to be his outer office, manned by a grim and efficient-looking secretary behind a desk.
    “Hold my calls, Mildred,” Murphy said, and led me into his inner office and closed the door.
    While Murphy’s outer office had been furnished for business, with files, typewriters, and supply cabinets, his inner office was furnished to impress and entertain. Aside from the desk, on which there was not a single scrap of paper, only a phone and an intercom, the office boasted a couch, coffee table, three comfortable chairs, a bar, a stereo, and a TV complete with VCR.
    “Sit down,” Murphy said, gesturing to the couch. “Would you care for a drink.”
    “Little early for me,” I said, sitting on the couch. “But you go right ahead.”
    “I don’t want one either,” Murphy said. He sat in one of the chairs. “Now, you say you have an appointment with Mr. Albrect?”
    “That’s right.” I looked at my watch. “In five minutes, in fact.”
    “And you came up here from Miami to meet with him?”
    “That’s right.”
    Murphy took a deep breath. “I’m afraid Mr. Albrect is not going to be able to see you.”
    “Oh? Why not?”
    “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Mr. Albrect is dead.”
    “What!” I exclaimed. “You’re kidding! I just spoke to him a couple of days ago. From Miami. Are you sure?”
    “Yes. I’m afraid so.”
    “Oh, that’s terrible. I can’t believe it. He didn’t have any health problems, so far as I know. Maybe a little overweight. What was it, his heart?”
    “No.”
    “Well, what was