“Well, I guess you’re welcome to do that,” Barry said, “but I’m told the rooms here are terribly nice. I’ll wait here while you check in and then I’ll take you to your meeting.”

Todd gave Barry two dollars—he had no idea if that was too little or too much—and checked in. His room was large, beige and had the kind of bed you could swim in. There was a minibar and a room service menu. The TV had a cord coming out of it with a remote control device on the end. There was a robe in the bathroom and a lot of tiny things wrapped up in perfumed paper.

The phone rang. Todd took a moment to work out that he was standing next to it.

“Hello, Milstead res—Todd Milstead,” he said.

“Mr. Milstead,” said Nora. “I just wanted to welcome you to New York and ask if your room is okay.”

“I’d have preferred a suite,” said Todd. “I’m joking,” he added, and heard Nora breathe out. “It’s magnificent,” he said.

“Wonderful,” said Nora. “We’ll see you very soon.”

*  *  *

Barry was waiting outside, massive on the sidewalk.

“Where are we going?” said Todd.

“The Schirmer Building,” Barry said. “It’s only a couple of blocks.”

Twenty minutes later, after completing a journey slow enough to impress a funeral director, they were outside a tall gray-faced building with its own doorman. The handover of Todd from Barry to the doorman was smooth and efficient, and Todd found himself inside a moderately opulent lobby.

“Hi, I’m Carrie,” said a woman, appearing from nowhere. She was tall, thin and nervous-looking with strong teeth, like a racehorse owner who’d spent too much time with her thoroughbreds. She was wearing, Todd noticed, a skinny tie and an Elvis Costello pin in her lapel.

“Todd,” said Todd, and followed Carrie into the elevator.

“I read All My Colors,” said Carrie. For a moment, Todd thought she meant the other All My Colors, the one he tried not to think about.

“You’re a brilliant writer,” Carrie continued. She went red. Todd smiled graciously.

“Thank you,” he said. “My first compliment.”

“Second,” said Carrie. “After Nora.”

They exited the lift into yet another reception. Todd was beginning to feel that New York was nothing more than a mass of reception areas and lobbies, each leading to even more reception areas and lobbies. But in this one stood a middle-aged woman, dressed elegantly but not, as Todd thought of it, wealthily.

“Todd Milstead,” she said, extending her hand like a man. “Nora Franklyn.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Todd, wondering if there was anyone writing down these amazing bon mots of his.

“How was your flight?” said Nora.

“Fine,” said Todd, Illinois’ own Oscar Wilde.

“Excellent,” said Nora. She turned to Carrie.