“Well, sometimes you don’t get to do what you want. You, for example, don’t really want to be a receptionist and gofer.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a lot younger than you is one reason.”

Hunt almost chuckled. “Forty-five isn’t exactly one foot in the grave, Mick. People have been known to start over at that age. Goethe wrote Faust when he was eighty, so maybe there’s still some hope for me.”

“That’s not it. It’s not just the age. You love what you do.”

“I sure as hell don’t love sitting around the office waiting for the phone to ring.”

“But when there’s work…”

“Granted. It’s a good gig. I’m not arguing. I like it a lot when it’s working.” He lifted his hands an inch off the table. “But you know what it’s been like. I don’t see how it’s going to turn around. So I thought I’d give you a few weeks’ notice-I’ll keep you on the exorbitant payroll until I shut the doors for good, but I thought you deserved to know as soon as I made up my mind, and I pretty much have.”

“Pretty much, or definitely?”

“Well, pretty definitely, unless something drastic happens. And I also wanted to tell you how much I’ve appreciated what you’ve done for me over these past months. But I can’t ask you to hold on any longer when I don’t really see any future in it.”

Mickey finally noticed his wineglass. He picked it up and drank off a good swallow. “So what’s the timeline?”

“Well, the lease for the office goes another two months from now and I’ve got to give a month’s notice. So I guess it’s formal in about thirty days, give or take.”

“Unless something comes up to turn things around.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath, Mick. I really don’t see what could make a difference at this point.”

Something jangled near Mickey’s head and he swatted at the offending noise that had jarred him so violently from his afternoon sleep. The phone hit the floor in front of his desk and the receiver bounced across the hardwood.