The producer handed a white envelope to Morris Rothberg. The envelope was held out between two fingers of an expensive black pigskin glove. Rothberg took the envelope between two fingers of an expensive brown pigskin glove. And then Rothberg’s black-tinted window slid up. When it reached the top, the automobile drove away.

One evening a week later, a gray van with Edward Antoian & Sons Oriental Rug Gallery on its sides was parked at the corner of Sutton Place and Fifty-sixth Street. Three men sat in the van’s front seat, smoking. One of the men pointed to a woman walking along Sutton Place. The driver, using a small flashlight, compared the woman to a photograph he held in his hand. It was the same woman. Dr. Mendavey opened the door of her graystone, walked inside, and closed the door behind her.

The men waited a little while longer.

Inside, Theresa had just finished making herself a perfect martini when she heard her front doorbell.

“Now who the hell—”

When she looked through the door’s peephole she saw three men holding a rug on their shoulders. She chained her door and opened it a crack.

“Yes?”

“For Dr. Theresa Mendavey,” said the man nearest the door.

“I didn’t order a rug.”

“It’s a present, ma’am,” he said.

“A present! Who from?”

“Let’s see, ma’am.” Still holding the rug on his shoulder with one hand and using his free hand to dig, the man pulled a crumpled piece of paper from a pocket of his overalls. He read the note aloud: “‘This beautiful Persian rug is a gift from the producer of The Big Question for being selected to be on the program’s premier show.’”

“Isn’t this a strange time to be delivering anything?”

“We’ve been running very late today,” said the man, crumpling up the note and pushing it into an overall pocket, “and we were told we absolutely had to get this—”

“And who the hell gives a damn rug as a present?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I really can’t answer that question.”

“So the bastard changed his mind and wants to make peace.”

“Ma’am?”

“What am I going to do with a damn rug?”

“If I don’t deliver it to you, he’ll fire us sure as I’m standin’ here. He’s a mean man, that producer is. We can just bring the rug in tonight and put it where you want it tomor—”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Theresa closed the door, removed the chain, and opened it. “Just leave it here in the hall.”

It was ten in the morning on Wednesday, October 3, 2012.

The first show would air live at eight that evening.

The producer was nervous and jumpy. He had been like that the last few days. “Let’s go down the list one last time and let’s make it fast,” he said to his staff gathered once again in his office.