“The Executive,” he said. “Takes me back. Listen, I can’t move up seeing you earlier than half past one, you want a late breakfast by yourself, go for it.”

“Would’ve brought my Jell-O and oatmeal on the plane but security thought they might ignite.”

“Got a sense of humor, huh? You’ll need it. Okay, meet me at this place, Le Petit Grenouille, at half past. Seventy-ninth between Lex and Third, French, but friendly.”

By noon, I was out on the street. The air was crisp and illogically fresh and the grumble had transformed to something rich and melodic. Ninety minutes remained until my lunch date; I used a third of it walking to Paul and Dorothy Safran’s last known residence.

Commercial neighborhood, more trucks than cars. The three-story brick structure housing Lieber Braid and Trim was lined with rows of stingy, square windows. Wire-glass panes were crusted with grime.

Wondering what had prompted Roland Korvutz to abandon his plans to condo-convert, I turned around, picked up my pace, and headed for Fifth Avenue.

Being alone in a big alien city sometimes tweaks my brain in a strange way, setting off jolts of euphoria followed by a substrate of melancholy. Usually, it takes time to develop. This time, it was instantaneous and as I race-walked New York’s bustling streets, I felt weightless and anonymous.

At Fifth and Forty-second, I got sucked up into the crowd near the public library, forged north dodging NASCAR pedestrians, handbill hawkers, window-gawkers, lithe pickpockets. Crossing Fifty-ninth took me past the construction project that had once been the Plaza Hotel. Hansom drivers waited for fares. The air was ripe with horseshit. I walked parallel with Central Park. The trees wore their fall colors with appropriate arrogance.

By one twenty-eight, I was sitting in a stiff wooden booth at Le Petit Grenouille, drinking water and red wine and eating acrid, oil-cured olives.

The place was set up with starched white linens, vintage tobacco posters, and rust-colored walls under a black tin ceiling. Half the booths were occupied by stylish people. A gilt-lettered window faced the energy of the street. Getting here had taken me past the mayor’s graystone town house on Seventy-ninth. No different from any other billionaire’s digs except for flint-eyed plainclothes cops guarding the front steps and fighting introspection.

A smiling waitress with chopped red hair and a sliver of torso brought a basket of rolls and a butter dish. I worked on my blood sugar and looked at my watch.

At one forty-seven, a blocky, blue-jawed man in his sixties entered the restaurant, said something to the host, flatfooted over.

“Sam Polito.”

“Alex Delaware.”