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with Kurt all day. I’m with him now. Sneaked off to call.”
    â€œI want to see you.”
    â€œAnd I want to see you.”
    â€œTonight?”
    â€œImpossible.”
    â€œThen when?”
    â€œTomorrow. Tomorrow he’s going to Philadelphia for a couple of days. I’ll be free to spend as much time with you as you like.”
    â€œHow about as much time as you like?”
    â€œHarry, what’s the matter?”
    â€œI’m in trouble. Don’t you remember telling me?”
    â€œOh.” Quietly she said, “I didn’t realize you were referring to that. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat time? Where?”
    â€œPick me up at home at eight o’clock. Bring the car.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œI can’t talk any more now, darling.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œLove you.”
    â€œOkay.”
    She hung up.
    He heard the outside buzzer. His receptionist announced a patient through the intercom. It was a woman, a repeater, a hypochondriac who was developing a dependence on him. He took a long time with her, soothing, reassuring, prescribing a placebo. After that, there were no patients, no calls, no anything. His receptionist went off and his part-time evening girl came on, and she did her nails while he read medical journals until seven. At seven-ten, while he was washing up—the girl was already gone—he heard the buzzer. Wiping his hands on the way, he opened the door to Tony Mitchell.
    â€œHi, buddy-boy,” said Tony. “Figured you’d still be around. Had to see a client up in this neighborhood. Hungry?”
    â€œI could do with a bite.”
    â€œAlways the enthusiast. My God, Harry, don’t you ever smile?”
    â€œWhen there’s something to smile about.”
    â€œFinish your ablutions.” He strolled after Harry, tall and elegant in slim-trousered, thin-striped brown tropical worsted and a brown leghorn with a rakish ribbon. Tanned, smooth-shaven, clean-jawed, clear-eyed, he looked like a model for Esquire .
    Dr. Harrison Brown looked his friend over as he got into his jacket. “You’re pretty well satisfied with life, aren’t you, Tony?”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I be? I’ve got everything I want—”
    Dr. Brown said abruptly, “Let’s start with some cocktails.”
    Over martinis at a jammed bar in a posh little bistro off Fifth Avenue, Tony Mitchell said, “How about eating Italian?”
    â€œI don’t care.”
    â€œI know a little place—”
    â€œYou know all the little places.”
    â€œPicking on me today, baby? Getting even for yesterday?”
    Harry frowned. “Yesterday?”
    â€œLast night. Lynne Maxwell.”
    â€œCut,” Harry said.
    â€œFor the time being. We’ll pick it up later.”
    â€œWhere’s your little place?”
    â€œDown your neck of the woods. A jewel of a joint.”
    The place was in an old Village brownstone. They walked down four steps and through a long corridor, and into a big quiet room. It was plain, well-lighted, uncrowded, uncluttered, with large tables and booths, and plenty of leg-room. The food was North Italian, not too hot, delicious.
    â€œThis is good,” Harry said.
    â€œPraise from Harry Brown! Now that’s something.”
    â€œWhat’s it called?”
    â€œI never saw a name, but we call it Giobbe’s, because Giobbe—Job—owns it. Giobbe’s the little guy with the bushy blond hair who seated us. It’s a family operation. His mother and father and mother-in-law and father-in-law are all in the kitchen. The waiters are either brothers or cousins or uncles. So you want to talk about Lynne Maxwell?”
    â€œNo.”
    The waiter brought espresso coffee still brewing in the pot. “Let him drip a little-a bit yet,” he said and went away. Tony said, “Would you rather talk about a thirty-thousand dollar loan