“Jesus,” the lawyer said under his breath.

They stepped out on the thirtieth floor, into a paneled and hushed hallway. The receptionist’s desk was empty; a sign on the desk said,

‘

THIS FLOOR IS CLOSED UNTIL 3:00 P.M. FOR

ASSISTANCE, PLEASE GO TO THE MAIN RECEPTION

DESK ON THE TENTH FLOOR.

“Follow me,” Amanda said. She strode down the hall, her footsteps silenced by the thick carpeting, through a double door marked “Chairman,” across a reception room, and into the office of Richard M. Hickock, chairman of the board of Galaxy Media. Dick Hickock sat at his desk in his shirtsleeves, his necktie undone, the Wall Street Journal open before him, eating a huge sandwich.

“Hello, Dick, darling!” Amanda enthused, walking behind the desk and planting a kiss on his cheek, leaving a smear of cerise.

Hickock had just taken a large bite out of his sandwich, and he struggled to get it chewed and swallowed so that he could speak. By the time he had, Amanda and her lawyer were seated in a pair of chairs to his right.

“You know Bill Eggers, don’t you?” Amanda asked.

Hickock nodded and washed down food with a glass of beer.

“Amanda, what the hell…” he began.

“I do apologize for interrupting your lunch, Dick,” Amanda said contritely, “but I hope you will understand that this just won’t wait.”

“Amanda,” Hickock said, shaking h’{s headin disbelief, “there’s a thirty-eight in my desk drawer, and I would have used it on anybody who walked in here like that.” He smiled benevolently. “Anybody but you. Now what can I do for you?” He nodded at the sandwich. “My Milton Berle is waiting.”

“What’s in a Milton Berle, Dick?” Amanda asked, apparently fascinated.

“Corned beef and chopped liver with Russian dressing on pumpernickel, and this.” He held up a huge pickle. “The reference to Berle,” he said,

grinning.

Amanda blushed. “Oh, Dick! You are awful!”

“It’s true,” Hickock said to Eggers. “I am awful.”

“It’s about our contract proposal,” Amanda said without further ado.

“Amanda, your contract has another three months to run,” Hickock replied. “What’s your rush?”

“Oh, it’s not me, darling, it’ sSI Newhouse.” Hickock’s face instantly became expressionless. “SI who?” he asked disingenuously, his eyes narrowing.

“Dick, it’s been awful; I’ve spent the whole weekend fending him off. Somehow, he got my phone number, and he would not be put off.”

“Don’t listen to a word he says,” Hickock said. “Oh, I’ve tried not to but he such an awful flatterer—but I must admit, When he started throwing numbers around…”

“That absolute shit,” Hickock said,” almost to himself.