“Oliver,” he said, “I want you to drive up to Fifty-seventh Street and Madison Avenue, then drive very slowly up Madison.”

“Yes, Mr. Hayward,” Oliver said, closing the door and getting behind the wheel. “Beautiful car, a pleasure to drive.”

“And, Oliver, please turn on the satellite radio to the Light Classical channel.”

“Yes, sir.”

—

DRIVING SLOWLY up Madison Avenue, with a Chopin étude wafting around the interior of the car, Laurence did some window-shopping for galleries and made notes on which ones he wanted to visit. At Seventy-ninth Street, he put away his notebook. “All right,” he said, “let’s go home.”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver replied, “and where would that be?”

“The Fairleigh, on Park Avenue. The garage entrance is on the side street.”

“Yes, sir.”

Laurence took the elevator to 15 and let himself into the apartment. A strange young man walked out of his bedroom.

“Laurence Hayward?”

“Yes, and who are you?”

“I’m Butch Crane. My sister, Theresa, is putting your clothes in your dressing room. She asked me to help.”

“I hope there wasn’t too much heavy lifting,” Laurence said. He walked into his bedroom and found Theresa fussing with the final location of everything. “Good afternoon.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Hayward.”

“It’s Laurence, please.”

“Hello, Laurence,” she said.

“You’re fired,” he replied.

9

THERESA BLINKED, and her jaw dropped. “Fired?”

“I am mindful of your company’s prohibition against your having personal relationships with your clients, so I am no longer your client. Will you stay for lunch?”

She smiled. “I’d love to.”

“Do something with your brother,” he said. “No witnesses.”

“I’ll speak to him.”

He heard momentary sounds of an argument, then the door slammed.

She returned. “Where are we having lunch?”

“Here,” he replied, leading her into the study and the bar. “What would you like?”

“You decide.”

Laurence picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Good afternoon. I’d like a lobster salad for two, hold the celery, and a bottle of well-chilled Puligny-Montrachet. Thank you.” He hung up. “May I get you a drink while we’re waiting for delivery?”

“A Campari and soda, please.”

He poured the drink and himself some mineral water.

“And how did you spend your morning?” she asked.

“I went car shopping, then cruised Madison Avenue in search of promising galleries for later visits.”

“You’re fond of art?”

“Very.”

“What will you be shopping for?”

“Young painters with promise, occasionally older or deader artists.”

“Auctions?”

“I don’t like the idea of bidding against people with more money than I. I’d rather bargain with a dealer.”

“Did you buy a car?”

“A Bentley Flying Spur. That’s the smaller model.”

“Nice choice.”

“Thank you. Tell me about your brother.”

“Butch? He’s just moved to New York and is job hunting. I’ve gotten him an interview with our personnel people for a sales position.”