The anxieties of solo practice, I fear. He had been in a firm after leaving the PD’s Office but went out on his own six months ago. He can give me a reasonably unbiased account of the virtues (but more likely the defects) of the Layman Building.

“Is Clan Bailey in?” I ask the receptionist, a strange young woman who is slowly threading a plastic soda straw into a mouth so small her effort seems as if it might be causing her some pain.

Considering my question, she noisily slurps the remains of a Diet Coke.

“Yeah, Dan’s in,” she says after a final gurgling sound bubbles up from the bottom of the container.

Hey, we’re really moving now.

“Could you tell him Gideon Page is here to see him?”

She purses her chicken lips in more thought.

“Why don’cha go on back? He doesn’t seem too busy.” She smiles pleasantly as if she is doing us both a big favor.

This woman, her hair a rat’s nest, is dressed more like a circus clown than a secretary. She is wearing green balloon pants and an aqua top. With her tiny mouth and pop eyes, she resembles some kind of prehistoric fish. Truly a receptionist from the depths. I flee down the hall until I get to 1613 and find Clan as promised, leaning back in his chair and gazing at his wall.

I walk through the open door.

“Your receptionist doesn’t seem particularly in awe of you,” I say, taking a seat in the only other chair in the office.

He grins, his now fat cheeks billowing outward like toy sails.

“It’s a mutual-non admiration society. Thank God she’s a temp. You should see the regular one-a Carol Doda look-alike.” He spreads both hands under his rib cage in the now time-dishonored manner.