She’s good.

“Oh, man, where to start?” I say, which evokes the laughter I was hoping for. “The biggest mistake? Giving up box seats for the 2007 Super Bowl, when the Giants, the wild-card team, come all the way back and beat the undefeated Patriots! The Eli Manning fourth-quarter comeback. The David Tyree one-handed helmet catch?”

“What the hell were you thinking?” she asks, wearing a teasing grin from ear to ear.

“Gave ’em to a client—and the asshole puts us in review six months later. Sure wasn’t thinking about that!

“But seriously, folks…a few years ago I had a chance to hire David Hale, and didn’t. He went on to semi-greatness, as you know, and it could have been with us. Woulda, coulda, shoulda—but I regret that one to this day.”

“Hard to see untapped potential sometimes,” she says. I note the empathy.

“The chemistry just wasn’t there, then,” I answer. “And sometimes that’s everything.”

“I feel a good chemistry here, though,” I hear her say. Which means she can’t tell my heart is beating a hundred miles an hour.

She signals for the waiter, and the check. Another iPhone text vibration…

“I’m looking for a partner, someone capable of helping me run the agency. There’s a couple of other people I want to talk to, but I definitely want to reconnect with you. And soon. You’ve got a lot to offer.”

“Fantastic!” I say. “Thank you. Want to split the check?”

“Oh, please,” she says, with a laugh.

Back out on 9th Avenue on this stunning fall afternoon, the sidewalk’s alive with New Yorkers acting as if they’ve got places to go, things to do.

So do I.

“I’ve genuinely enjoyed meeting you,” she tells me, “and look forward to seeing you again soon.”

“Same here. And count on it!”

A firm, eye-to-eye handshake, and we part company on a great note. Her driver pulls up for her and she climbs in the backseat.

I hail a cab and check my texts. They’re from Chris Berardo, our creative director:

Where the hell are you?

And…

You need to get your ass here NOW!

Chapter 6

“East 11th Street, between Third and Fourth,” I tell the cabbie.

Marterelli & Partners’ office is across town in the East Village, south of Union Square Park. It’s a classic New York neighborhood, and Union Square is a great place to hang out during lunch, or for other stuff.

What the hell is Chris so excited about?

We reach 11th and Third and my stomach drops when I see a cop car parked sideways at the intersection with his red and blue lights flashing, blocking the entrance to 11th Street. There’s yellow tape stretching all the way across, from one side of the street to the other.

This looks bad. Real bad.

“Far corner,” I say, and pay the cabdriver.

I approach the officer sitting in the driver’s seat and explain who I am. He lets me through after I show him my agency ID and driver’s license.