He was used to it. Enjoyed it, in fact.

The taxi started down. MacAllister realized he was hungry. It was getting on to midmorning, and he hadn’t had anything other than toast and orange juice. He was scheduled to appear as a guest on Marge Dowling’s Up Front before going over to Arrowsmith’s later that afternoon for the signing. The show was at ten.

It was a bright, pleasant day. In February, Florida was always bright and pleasant. He hated pleasant weather. A little of it was all right, but he liked storms and snow, heavy winds, downpours. He didn’t understand why its residents didn’t move north.

The taxi settled onto the roof of Cee Square Broadcasting. MacAllister paid up and climbed out. One of the staff appeared in a doorway and hurried over to greet him. Good to see you, Mr. MacAllister. How was your flight from Orlando? We’ve been looking forward to having you on the show.

The guy couldn’t even pretend to be sincere. He was scared of MacAllister, and his voice was squeaking. MacAllister could have put him at ease, but he resisted the temptation.

Marge waited downstairs. She delivered the standard embrace that was not quite an embrace. Nothing touched him but fingertips and one cheek. She was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes, carried away by her self-importance. The sort of woman who’d have been okay had she stayed home and baked cookies. Everything with her was an act. Her enthusiasm at seeing him, her pretenses at modesty (“So good of you to spend some time with us, Mac”), even her accent. She’d been born and reared in Minnesota, but she sounded like someone who’d be going home after work to the plantation. “Mac,” she said, “it’s been a long time.”