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it?”
    “He had an accident.”
    “An automobile accident?”
    “No.”
    “Well what then?”
    Murphy shook his head. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this. The police found his body late last night in a parking lot. He’d been murdered. Shot to death.”
    I stared at him in what I hoped would pass for shock. My mouth was open, but I held my breath for a second or two, then let it out in a whoosh. I closed my mouth, opened it again, and began breathing in short, shallow breaths. In a small, shaky voice I said, “I think I’ll have that drink now.”
    I was afraid I was overdoing it, but Murphy immediately jumped up and poured me a brandy. I took a big swallow, coughed, choked, and came close to spitting it out. I swallowed, exhaled, shook my head, and took another smaller sip, hoping like hell my wife wouldn’t catch it on my breath when I got home.
    Murphy watched me solicitously. “Are you all right?” he asked.
    “Yeah, yeah, sure,” I said. I forced a small, nervous chuckle. “Then I guess our meeting is off,” I said in the manner of one making a feeble attempt at a joke to try to cover the embarrassment of an awkward situation.
    Murphy picked right up on it, good salesman he. “That is probably a shrewd deduction,” he said with a grin.
    We shook our heads and chuckled for a bit.
    “Well,” I said, “what the hell am I going to do now?”
    “Don’t worry,” Murphy assured me. “This is, of course, a bit of a shock, but we’ve already begun transferring all of Marty’s accounts to other executives.”
    Ah! Marty. Score one for the Post.
    “Now,” Murphy continued, “seeing as how you’ve come all the way from Miami, this will be given a top priority. In fact, I shall insist on handling it myself.”
    He made the pronouncement in the manner of one bestowing a great favor, and I couldn’t help wondering, what with there being so many executive vice presidents and all, just what Murphy’s place on the hierarchical ladder actually was—had he outranked Albrect, or had Albrect’s demise kicked him up a rung?
    “I’m not sure you can,” I told him. “Albrect and I had a special understanding.”
    “Our customers always have a special understanding, Mr. Armstrong. Now, if you’ll just tell me what your understanding was, I’m sure I’ll be able to help you.”
    I looked at him skeptically “You’re familiar with our account?”
    “The Whitney Corporation? Yes, of course. I’ve never handled it personally—it was Marty’s account—but I’m certainly familiar with it.”
    I still looked skeptical. “All right, then,” I said. “You say you’re familiar with the account? Then tell me, what is our usual order?”
    Murphy went to his desk and pressed the intercom. “Mildred,” he said, “please bring me the Whitney account.”
    She was fast, I’ll give her that. Either the account was cross-filed in his office, or he’d sent her for it the moment he learned I was in the building, but, in any case, Mildred delivered the file in ten seconds flat. After she’d scooted out again, Murphy crossed his legs, opened the file and said, “Now then, you asked what is your standard order?”
    “That’s right.”
    “That would be 25 thousand units.”
    “How often?”
    “Once a month.”
    “At what terms?”
    “For 25 thousand units we allow you the 50 thousand bracket price less 2 percent discount for net cash.”
    Among the numerous jobs I have had throughout my less than distinguished writing career, was teaching algebra for one term at a private boarding school. I was 28 at the time, and the only algebra I knew was what I remembered vaguely from my junior year at high school. To make matters worse, I was pressed into service because the real algebra teacher died halfway through the school year, so the class was a whole term ahead of me when I began. Not having the faintest idea what I was doing, and not wanting to let it show, I soon developed my own method of teaching.