Jerry Trotter looked at his Rolex again and then around the Starbucks. Harry Hooper had said ten minutes and that was almost a half-hour ago. Jerry had come straight down to the street from his skyscraper aerie and hurried across Columbus Circle, and he’d reached the place in four minutes flat. Max Higgins would be at the apartment at any moment too. Jerry had quickly called him and asked him to come up from the office with the car. Things seemed to be moving.

As usual, the Starbucks was jammed. There was a line of people snaking around the store, all waiting to order, and customers to their left waiting for their beverages to be delivered. Most of the two-tops were occupied by individuals with laptops and a lot of notebooks. Who were these people? Jerry wondered. Didn’t they have homes? Or offices? A homeless guy had wedged his shopping bags and himself into a corner. He had a cup of water and as long as he stayed awake, he could sit there for the rest of the year.

What sort of venue was this for a meeting? Jerry wondered. There was little chance of finding somewhere to sit and less chance of talking discreetly. Jerry took out the phone and was ready to call Hooper again when he felt a hand squeeze his elbow, and not lightly. He twisted around. Hooper.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said.

Hooper guided Jerry out of the store and across the street so they skirted the front of the Time Warner building. Hordes of people were coming in and out of the doors.

Hooper turned right on Fifty-eighth Street and walked toward Columbus, steering Jerry through traffic to the south side of the street. They entered a pair of light green glass doors and took an escalator up to the lobby of the boutique hotel on the corner. Hooper led Jerry to a quiet section of the expansive lobby and sat at a table where a drinks menu was resting.

“A little quieter in here,” Hooper said.

“What was all that about? We could have just met here.”

“You sounded very tense on the phone,” Hooper said. “I’d say nervous was more like it. And nervous people make me nervous. Just basic precautions.”

Jerry looked at Hooper. How old was the guy, fifty-five? He was smaller than Jerry remembered, no more than five-eight, with dark hair that might be dyed but which was all his. He had a pinched, smoker’s face and friendly eyes. Trotter trusted him not at all.

“Shall we have a drink?”

“Sure,” said Jerry, who was running on fumes. Hooper waved a hand and a waiter came over from a bar.

“Scotch, rocks, a little water,” Hooper said.

“Vodka martini with a twist,” Jerry said. “Thank you.”

“You look a bit rough there, boss.”