As he opened the door and stepped aside so I’d enter first, one of the kids glanced at him. The kid was about seventeen, with a light freckling of acne across his cheeks. He was bowlegged and so thin I was sure the next strong gust of winter would cast him into the street. His glance at Manny lasted about a quarter of a second, but it was telling enough.

This kid had seen Manny before, no question, and he was afraid of him.

6

“Hello!”

“Hello!”

“Hello!”

“Good to see you!”

Four people were coining out as Manny and I entered. And God, were they happy people. Three women and a man, their faces glazed with joy, their eyes bright and clear, their bodies damn near rippling with vigor.

“Staffers?” I said.

“Hmm?” Manny said.

“Those four,” I said. “Staffers?”

“And clients,” Manny said.

“You mean some were staffers, some were clients?”

“Yes,” Manny said. Obtuse bastard, our Manny.

“They don’t seem terribly grief-stricken.”

“We aim to cure, Mr. Doohan. I’d say your assessment is a selling point of our operation, wouldn’t you?”

We passed through the foyer and climbed the right side of a butterfly staircase that seemed to take up most of the first floor. The steps were carpeted and a chandelier the size of a Cadillac hung down between the wings of the staircase.

Must be a lot of grief going around to pay for this place. No wonder everyone seemed so happy. Grief, it seemed, was definitely a growth industry.

At the top of the stairs, Manny pulled back two great oaken doors and we stepped onto a parquet floor that seemed to run for a mile or so. The room had probably been a ballroom once. The ceiling was two stories up, painted a bright blue with gold etchings of angels and creatures of myth floating side by side. Several more Cadillac chandeliers shared space with the angels. The walls bore heavy burgundy brocades and Roman tapes tries. Couches and settees and the odd desk or two occupied the floor where once Boston’s staunchest Victorians, I was sure, had danced and gossiped.

“Some building,” I said.

“It sure is,” Manny said as several brightly grief-stricken people looked up from their couches at us.

I had to assume some were clients and some were counselors, but I couldn’t tell which, and I had a feeling ol’ Manny wouldn’t do much to help me differentiate.

“Everyone,” Manny said as we passed through the maze of couches, “this is Deforest.”

“Hello, Deforest!” twenty voices cried in unison.

“Hi,” I managed and started looking around for their pods.

“Deforest is suffering a bit of late-twentieth-century malaise,” Manny said, leading me farther back into the room. “Something we all know about.”

Several voices cried, “Yes. Oh yes,” like we were at a Pentecostal revival meeting and the gospel singers were due on the floor any minute.