Win had a spacious corner office overlooking Park and Fifty-second Street. A prime-time view for the company's number one producer. Myron knocked on the door.

"Enter," Win called out.

He was sitting in a full lotus on the floor, his expression serene, his thumbs and forefingers forming circles in each hand. Meditation. Win did it every day without fail. Usually more than once.

But as with most things with Win, his moments of inner solitude were a tad unconventional. For one, he liked to keep his eyes open when meditating, while most practitioners kept them closed. For another, he didn't imagine idyllic scenes of waterfalls or does in the forest; rather, Win opted for watching home videotapes – videos of himself and an interesting potpourri of lady friends in assorted throes of passion.

Myron made a face. "You mind turning that off?"

"Lisa Goldstein," Win said, motioning toward a mound of writhing flesh on the screen.

"Charmed, I'm sure."

"I don't think you ever met her."

"Hard to tell," Myron said. "I mean, I'm not even sure where her face is."

"Lovely lass. Jewish, you know."

"Lisa Goldstein? You're kidding."

Win smiled. He uncrossed his legs and stood in one fluid motion. He switched off the television, hit the EJECT button, put the tape back in a box marked L.G. He filed the box under the G's in an oak cabinet. There were a lot of tapes already there.

"You realize," Myron said, "that you're quite deranged."

Win locked the cabinet with a key. Dr. Discretion. "Every man needs a hobby."

"You're a scratch golfer. You're a champion martial artist. Those are hobbies. This is deranged. Hobbies; deranged. See the difference?"

"Moralizing," Win said. "How nice."