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and I saw the exit for Marshfield coming up. I took it, the ramp dumping me eastbound on a two-lane highway with a third, middle, lane meant as a temporary sanctuary for left-hand turns. It was almost twelve, and rather than gamble on when the Hend rix folks took lunch, I pulled into their parking lot before looking for food myself.
    The building was beige brick and two stories tall, the Renter section of an otherwise one-story strip mall with bakery, florist, dog groomer, two dentists, and eight or ten others. The sugary scent from the bakery’s ovens made my stomach growl but probably made the dentists happy. The signs over the doors were all done in curlicue lettering on wooden plaques, rendering them hard to read. Maybe that explained why the lot was only a third full, at least half of those vehicles probably belonging to people working for the businesses themselves.
    I left my car in one of the slots outside the dog groomer and went up to a plaque with the Hendrix name on it. Opening the door, I came into a small reception area with two leatherette sling chairs flanking a coffee table, the magazines on it a bit tattered. The indoor-outdoor carpeting was institutional green, the paneling that stuff you can buy in three-foot sheets and glue to the studs if a hammer isn’t your favorite tool. The desk to the right of the door was unoccupied, a bodice-ripper romance opened face down at the halfway point of the paperback book. Other than a phone, pink message pad, and some pencils, there wasn’t much to see.
    Then an inner door opened, and a short woman with thick calves came through it. About fifty, she wore a simple wool dress that clung unflatteringly around the thighs. Her hair was graying, probably naturally, since I didn’t think anyone would use salt-and-pepper dye on theirs. The face was alert but pleasant, like a career bureaucrat who knows her way around the agency.
    “May I help you?”
    “Ms. Hendrix?”
    “Me...? Oh, no.” The pleasant face treated me to a pleasant smile. “No, I’m Mrs. Jelks. Did you want to see Mr. Hendrix?”
    “Please. My name’s John Cuddy.”
    “Will he know what this is in regard to?”
    Awkward, if polite. “I’m here about a condominium that’s seeking new management.”
    The smile seemed to waver. “Certainly. Please have a seat, and I’ll see if he’s available.”
    I thought, “Like you hadn’t just left him alone in there,” but kept it to myself.
    She disappeared through the same door, coming back twenty seconds later. “Mr. Hendrix will see you now.”
    I moved past her and through the doorway.
    The inner office was bigger than the reception area, but that was the most you could say about it, the only window giving a panoramic view of the strip mail’s Dempster Dumpster. There was another door to the left, and a desk with relatively little on it tucked into the right corner. A credenza matched the desk, sort of, holding an IBM clone, fax machine, and multi-buttoned phone.
    A man of about forty with sandy hair and tortoiseshell, round-lensed glasses rose from a swivel desk chair to greet me. “Boyce Hendrix, Mr. Cuddy.” A mellow voice.
    Apparently Hendrix believed in “Dress-down Every -day .” From the soles up, he wore old Adidas tennis shoes with no socks, stone-washed blue jeans, and a buff-colored safari shirt with flap pockets. His handshake was firm and decisive, though.
    He gestured toward another black leatherette sling chair that seemed to be pining for its twins outside. I took it.
    Easing himself back down, Hendrix said, “Mrs. Jelks tells me you’re interested in our help?”
    Only slightly confused. “Perhaps. I’m representing a condominium complex that’s considering a change in its management company.”
    “Representing?” A judicious look. “You’re an attorney, then?”
    “No.” I handed him a business card.
    After reading it, Hendrix snapped it down on his desktop as though he were dealing blackjack. “Private