"Yep," Harvey replied.

"When was the last time you got some sleep?"

"You my mother?" "Just asking," Michael said.

"I thought I was going to pick you up at your apartment."

"I didn't have a chance to get out of here," Harvey said.

"I had one of the nurses rent me a tux and bring it here.

It's just so busy right now. Eric and I are swamped. Without Bruce here."

Harvey stopped.

There was a moment of silence.

"I still don't get it, Harv," said Michael carefully, hoping his friend was finally ready to talk about Bruce's suicide.

"Neither do I," Harvey said flatly. Then he added, "Listen, I need to ask you something."

"Shoot."

"Is Sara going to be at the benefit tonight?"

"Shell be a little late."

"But she'll be there?"

Michael recognized the urgency in his old friend's voice. He had known Harvey almost twenty-four years, since a second-year intern named Dr. Harvey Riker took care of an eight-year-old Michael Silverman, who had been rushed to Saint Barnabas Hospital with a concussion and broken arm.

"Of course she'll be there."

"Good.

"I'll see you tonight then."

Michael stared at the receiver, puzzled.

"Is everything all right, Harv?"

"Fine," he mumbled.

"Then what's with the cloak-and-dagger phone call?"

"It's just... nothing. I'll explain later. What time you picking me up?"

"Nine- fifteen. Is Eric coming?" "No," Harvey said.

"One of us has to run the store. I have to go, Michael. I'll see you at nine-fifteen."

The phone clicked in Michael's ear.

Dr. Harvey Riker replaced the receiver. He sighed heavily and put a hand through his long, unruly, gray-brown hair, a cross between Albert Einstein's and Art Garfunkel's. He looked every bit of his fifty years. His muscle had turned to flab from lack of exercise. His face was average to the point of tedium. Never much of a hunk to begin with, Harvey's looks had soured over the years like a two-dollar Chianti.