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him the eye. She didn’t look old enough to be out of school, but Brig suspected she was probably twenty. They all looked so young to him any more. He could remember when girls of twenty looked old. A sign of age, he thought wryly, and his lips twitched in amusement beneath the dark broom of his thick mustache.
    “Are you from Texas?” the girl asked with a look that was certainly not sizing up his home state. She was as short as Trudie, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder.
    “Idaho.”
    “Idaho?” The girl repeated. Brig could tell by her puzzled expression that she had no idea where it was. A surge of disgust swept through him. Didn’t anybody in New York realize there were forty-nine other states out there? The dumb broad probably thought Idaho was a potato.
    The elevator hummed to a stop and the doors slid silently open. “Excuse me. This is my floor.” He pushed his way past the girl, who was startled by his abrupt behavior.
    Habit returned the hat to his head once he was out of the elevator. Glass doors were emblazoned with gold and black letters that spelled out “Sanger Discount Stores,” below that “Corporate Headquarters.” Brig felt the tightening in his gut, a sensation he hadn’t been conscious of feeling since his guerrilla days. His jaw hardened, flexing a muscle in his sun-browned cheek. A deadly calm settled over him.
    With long, unhurried strides, he walked to the glass doors of the main reception area and pushed them open. A very attractive black woman sat behind a large desk. Her appearance was one of efficiency, embellished with smooth sophistication. Her eyes were softly brown, and sharply intelligent. The smile she gave him was polite and nothing more.
    “May I help you?” Her voice had a husky, soothing quality that was very easy on the ear.
    The hat came off again as he towered in front of her desk. “Max Sanger, please.” Brig clipped out the request.
    Her eyes made a quick assessing sweep of him, an eyebrow arching briefly in hesitation. “The President of the company?”
    “The very same.” The dryness of humor was in his look. Obviously, he didn’t fit the required standard of people who asked to see the President of the firm.
    “Do you have an appointment?”
    “No.”
    “I’m sorry. Mr. Sanger is a very busy man. He doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. I’ll connect you with his secretary if you like, and she can acquaint you with his schedule and when he might be available to see you.”
    He was very politely receiving the brush-off. Brig smiled, but it was a cold expression. He tapped thebrim of his hat on her desk phone. “You call Max and tell him Brig McCord is here. He’ll see me.”
    Without waiting for a response, Brig turned away from the desk and walked across the width of the reception area with its potted plants, ultra-modern furniture of glass and chrome, and lush pile carpeting. He stopped at the window overlooking midtown Manhattan and the glimpse of green to the north that was Central Park. His stance was a slightly wide-legged one of command, a hand negligently thrust in the pocket of his pants. Holding his hat by the crease in the crown, he tapped it against his thigh in vague impatience.
    Behind him, he heard the receptionist pick up the receiver. A few seconds later, she was speaking softly to someone, her low murmur making the words unintelligible.
    “Mr. McCord?” At her questioning voice, Brig made a half-turn to give her a sidelong look. She held the receiver in her hand, the mouthpiece covered. “His secretary informs me that Mr. Sanger is in a meeting. He left word to hold all calls. Would you like to speak to her?”
    After a negative movement of his head, Brig said calmly, “Tell her to take him my message.”
    “I’ll tell her.” She looked skeptical, but complied. As the minutes ticked by, Brig returned his attention to the haze and dust hanging around the tops of the skyscrapers. At the click of the