“That gives me just enough time,” said Dave. He waved a good-bye at Charlie and said: “Stay by the phone.”

Charlie looked bemused. He was not used to being pushed around. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

In the outer office, Miss Pritchard said: “His wife is Susan and his children are Caroline and Edward.”

“Thank you.” Dave closed Charlie’s door. “Miss Pritchard, if you ever get fed up with working for Charlie, I need a secretary.”

“I’m fed up now,” she said. “When do I start?”

“Monday.”

“Should I come to the Beverly Hills Hotel at nine?”

“Make it ten.”

The hotel limousine took Dave to LAX. Miss Pritchard had called the airline, and there was a stewardess waiting to take him through the VIP channel, to avoid mob scenes in the departure lounge.

He had had nothing but aspirins for breakfast, so he was glad of the in-flight lunch. As the plane came down toward the flat city by Lake Erie, he ruminated over what he was going to say to Mr. Wharton. This was going to be difficult. But if he handled it well perhaps he could turn Wharton around. That would make up for his earlier cowardice. He longed to tell his sister that he had redeemed himself.

Miss Pritchard’s arrangements worked well, and a car was waiting for him at Hopkins International Airport. It took him to a leafy suburb not far away. A few minutes after seven the limousine pulled into the driveway of a large but unostentatious ranch-style house. Dave walked up to the entrance and rang the bell.

He felt nervous.

Wharton himself came to the door in a gray V-neck sweater and slacks. “Dave Williams?” he said. “What the hey . . . ?”

“Good evening, Mr. Wharton,” Dave said. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I’d really like to speak to you.”

When he got over his surprise, Wharton seemed pleased. “Come on in,” he said. “Meet the family.”

Wharton ushered Dave into the dining room. The family appeared to be finishing dinner. Wharton had a pretty wife in her thirties, a daughter of about sixteen, and a spotty son a couple of years younger. “We have a surprise visitor,” Wharton said. “This is Mr. Dave Williams, of Plum Nellie.”

Mrs. Wharton put a small white hand to her mouth and said: “Oh my golly gosh.”

Dave shook hands with her, then turned to the youngsters. “You must be Caroline and Edward.”

Wharton looked pleased that Dave had remembered his children’s names.

The kids were awestruck to get a surprise visit from a real pop star they had seen on TV. Edward could hardly speak. Caroline pulled back her shoulders, making her breasts stick out, and gave Dave a look that he had seen before in a thousand teenage girls. It said: You can do anything you like to me.

Dave pretended not to notice.

Mr. Wharton said: “Sit down, Dave, please. Join us.”

Mrs. Wharton said: “Would you like some dessert? We’re having strawberry shortcake.”