Detective

filled the coffee tables, just in case the wait should prove to be long. A coffee maker and cups were also set up for that purpose. From the decor, Fabri-Tec seemed to be doing well.
    They had economized, however, on the personnel. A lone, gum-chewing girl appeared to be it. She was manning the reception desk, the company switchboard, which was a permanent fixture on the left hand corner of the desk, and an electric typewriter on a portable typing table not dissimilar to mine. A half-typed letter was in the machine, which hummed faintly. Several lines on the switchboard were lit up and several others were flashing. The receptionist, a blonde in her mid-twenties, was pushing buttons on the switchboard, saying, “Fabri-Tec,” listening for a few seconds, and then saying, “please hold.” The corner of a movie magazine protruded from beneath the blotter, doubtless stashed there for a happier and less busy time.
    I was obviously an added aggravation to the receptionist, but in between phone calls she managed to force an artificial smile. “May I help you?”
    I smiled back at her. “Yes,” I said. “I’m Nathan Armstrong from the Whitney Corporation. I have an appointment with Mr. Albrect.”
    The receptionist paled and her smile froze. “Oh,” she said. After a pause she added, “Oh.”
    The receptionist seemed to have several functions at Fabri-Tec, but apparently informing prospective buyers that company sales executives had been found dead with their dicks in their mouths was not one of them. She rose to her feet, murmured, “Excuse me a moment,” and vanished into the inner recesses of Fabri-Tec Inc., leaving countless impatient callers stranded on hold.
    The phone rang three more times while she was gone. I didn’t answer it. After all, I had my own problems.
    The receptionist returned with a smartly dressed young man of about thirty-five, an aggressive go-getter with the word “salesman” written all over him. He didn’t wait for the receptionist to attempt an introduction, which was probably wise under the circumstances.
    “Hi, I’m Michael Murphy, executive vice president.”
    He extended his hand and I shook it, wondering how many executive vice presidents a company of this kind had.
    “Nathan Armstrong, Whitney Corporation,” I told him.
    There was no reason for him to doubt it. I always wear a suit and tie in the practice of my profession. Richard insists on it. That’s because his TV ad promises a free consultation with a lawyer right in your own home. That, of course, is bullshit. No self-respecting lawyer is going to go running around to people’s homes trying to sign up accident cases when he can hire some schmuck like me to do it. So I have to wear a suit and tie and pass myself off as a lawyer. I never actually say I’m a lawyer, and if anybody specifically asks, I’ll admit that I’m not. I just walk in wearing a suit and say I’m Mr. Hastings from the lawyer’s office, and the clients just assume I’m a lawyer and that’s all there is to it. So I figured if the suit could make me a lawyer, it could damn well make me a businessman.
    Murphy seemed to buy it. “Won’t you come in,” he said, ushering me around the reception desk and through huge oak double doors.
    We passed through a short hallway and into an immense room teeming with stenographers. We zigzagged through them unobserved. Deafened by headsets, none of the typists so much as glanced up.
    I found the typing pool somewhat reassuring. To tell the truth, I was a little apprehensive, or perhaps scared shitless would be more accurate, about whether I could pull off my little impersonation, seeing as how I had never done anything even remotely like it before. After the intimidating opulence of the waiting room, which had all but convinced me that I hadn’t a prayer, it was nice to discover that the grand and glorious Fabri-Tec, Inc., was a company run by mortal men, capable of designing their work space so that executive vice presidents and the buyers they were attempting to impress had to pass through the typing pool in order to get to their offices.
    I followed Murphy out of the typing pool and down a long hallway to a door marked “MICHAEL J. MURPHY, EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT.” I counted three other executive vice presidents on the way, and we weren’t even halfway down the corridor.
    Murphy opened the door and ushered me into what proved to be his outer office, manned by a grim and efficient-looking