Foster laughed. "It was like college days last night."

At 3:23 the previous afternoon, Brolan and Foster had been informed by telephone that the Down Home account was theirs. Down Home was especially nice to win for two reasons. First because it more than tripled agency billings and took them from the status of a small shop to one of the majors (as a major agency, they'd be more impressive when they pitched major clients). And second because they'd stolen the account from Richard Cummings, their former boss, and a man of whom it had been said, "He gives psychosis a bad name." Until that afternoon, Cummings had been head of a twenty-million-dollar shop. Until then.

"You remember that woman?" Foster asked.

"From last night?"

"Right."

"Uh-huh. Sort of, anyway."

"What the hell was it all about?"

"One of us must have said something."

"You remember saying anything nasty?"

"Huh-uh."

"Neither do I. Boy, that was spooky," Foster said. "Throwing that drink in your face."

"No shit."

The previous night they'd gone out celebrating by themselves. Though Foster's wife, Dana, had wanted to go along, Foster convinced her this was kind of a 'guy' thing and that the next night, at a dinner party the agency was hurling together, she'd have her fun.

Both Brolan and Foster had grown up in Minneapolis, Brolan going to Washburn High and Foster to Southwest, and both graduating from the University of Minnesota, so they knew a lot of places to hit.

Around midnight they ended up in one of those little hotel piano bars where salesmen always try to put the expense account hustle on divorced secretaries who are just starting to look matronly. They'd been standing at the bar quietly having one or two final drinks for the evening, talking about all the plans they had for the agency, when a beautiful woman in a simple white blouse and floor-length dark skirt bumped against Brolan, spilling his drink all over the arm of his sport coat.