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some good stuff by this weekend. How ’bout you come up to my country place and you can look it over. It’ll be nice and private.”
    “You got a country place?”
    “I don’t broadcast it. Fact is, well, Cathy doesn’t know. A friend and I go up there sometimes . . .”
    “A friend.”
    “Yeah. A friend. And she’s got a girlfriend or two she could invite up if you wanted to come.”
    “Or two?”
    Or three, Monroe thought but let it go.
    A long silence. Then Shapiro chuckled. “I think she oughta bring just one friend, Charlie. I’m not a young man anymore. Where is this place?”
    Monroe gave him directions. Then he said, “How ’bout dinner tonight? I’ll take you to Chez Antibes.”
    Another chuckle. “I could live with that.”
    “Good. About eightish.”
    Monroe was tempted to ask Shapiro to bring Jill, a young assistant account exec who worked at Shapiro’s agency—and who also happened to be the woman he’d spent the evening with at the Holiday Inn last night when Carmen had been trying to track him down. But he thought: Don’t push your luck. He and Shapiro hung up.
    Monroe closed his eyes and started to doze off, hoping to catch a few minutes’ sleep. But the train lurched sideway and he was jostled awake. He stared out thewindow. There were no houses to look at anymore. Only sooty, brick apartments. Monroe crossed his arms and rode the rest of the way to Grand Central Station in agitated silence.

    The day improved quickly.
    Carmen loved the earrings and she came close to forgiving him (though he knew full restitution would involve an expensive dinner and a night at the Sherry-Netherland).
    In the office, Foxworth was in a surprisingly cheerful mood. Monroe had worried that the old man was going to grill him about a recent, highly padded expense account. But not only did Foxworth approve it, he complimented Monroe for the fine job he’d done on the Brady Pharmaceutical pitch. He even offered him an afternoon of golf at Foxworth’s exclusive country club on Long Island next weekend. Monroe had contempt for golf and particular contempt for North Shore country clubs. But he liked the idea of taking Hank Shapiro golfing on Foxworth’s tab. He dismissed the idea as too risky though the thought amused him for much of the afternoon.
    At seven o’clock—nearly time to leave to meet Shapiro—he suddenly remembered Cathy. He called home. No answer. Then he dialed the school where she’d been volunteering recently and found that she hadn’t come in today. He called home once more. Still she didn’t pick up.
    He was troubled for a moment. Not that he was worried about the South Shore Killer; he just felt instinctively uneasy when his wife wasn’t home—afraid that she might find him with Carmen, or whoever. He was alsoreluctant for her to find out about his deal with Shapiro. The more money she knew he made the more she’d want. He called once more and got their machine.
    But then it was time to leave for dinner and, since Foxworth had left for the night, Monroe ordered a limo and put the expense down to general office charges. He cruised downtown, sipping wine, and had a good dinner with Hank Shapiro. At eleven p.m. he dropped Shapiro off at Penn Station then took the limo to Grand Central. He caught the 11:30 to Greenwich, made it to his car without being stabbed by any knife-wielding crazy men and drove home to peace and quiet. Cathy’d had two martinis and was fast asleep. Monroe watched a little TV, fell asleep on the couch and slept late the next morning; he made the 8:11 with thirty seconds to spare.

    At nine-thirty, Charlie Monroe strode into the office, thinking: Monday’s over with, it’s a new day. Let’s get life moving again. He decided to spend the morning getting into the new computer system and printing out prospective client lists for Shapiro. Then he’d have a romantic lunch with Carmen. He’d also give Jill a call and charm her into drinks tonight.
    Monroe’d just