And morning was always a good part of the day. I had the paper to read. The streets were full of people, fresh-showered and dressed well and heading for work. My office was still. The coffee was recent. The donuts were everything donuts should be, and the bright beginning of the day contained the prospect of unlimited possibility. When I had finished the paper, I put my feet up and dragged the phone over, and called Vinnie Morris.

"Gino do business with any construction companies?" I said.

"Of course," Vinnie said.

"I got a heavy-equipment operator looking for work."

"He connected?" Vinnie said.

"He's connected to me," I said. "Can you get him hired?"

"Sure," Vinnie said.

"Quickly?" I said.

"Tomorrow?"

"That's quickly," I said.

"I'll get back to you," Vinnie said.

We hung up. I went to the window and looked down at Boylston Street where Berkeley intersected. A stream of good-looking professional women moved past. Their outfits were tailored and ironed and careful. I was too high to hear, but I knew that their high heels clicked on the warm pavement as they walked. And I knew most of them smelled of pretty good perfume. Had I been closer, they in turn would have noticed that I smelled fetchingly of Club Man. But there was no one to smell me… yet. I looked at my watch. Quarter to eleven. She'd be here in an hour and a half, or so she had promised. Punctuality was not Susan's strength. She always intended to be on time, but she seemed to have some kind of chronometric dyslexia, which thwarted her intent, nearly always. Had she been predictably late, say fifteen minutes every time, then you could simply adjust your expectations. But she was sometimes a minute late and sometimes an hour late, and on rare and astonishing occasions, she was five minutes early. Since I had no way to gauge her coming hither or her going hence, I accepted the fact that readiness is all, and remained calm.

I poured the rest of the coffee into my cup and rinsed the pot out and threw the filter away, added a little milk and a lot of sugar to my cup, and sat back at my desk with my feet up. I sipped the coffee and thought about the Clives and Tedy Sapp and Polly Brown and Dalton Becker and came no closer to understanding what had happened than I had before I got canned.

The phone rang. It was Vinnie.

"Crocker Construction," he said. "Tell your guy to ask for Marty Rincone. Use my name."

"Where are they?" I said.

"Building condos on the beach in Revere. He'll see the trucks."

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome," Vinnie said. "You know where Hawk is?"

"France," I said.

"Working?"

"I don't think so. He went with a good-looking French professor from BC. Can I help you with something?"

"You could, but you won't."

"Okay, if I hear from Hawk, I'll tell him you were asking."

"Today or tomorrow, or don't bother. After that I'll have done it myself."

We hung up. Vinnie wasn't a chatty guy.

The mail came. I went through it. Nobody had sent me a check. Although one client had written a grateful letter. There were a couple of bills, for which I wrote a couple of checks. I threw away several offers to make my phone bills lower than a child molester.

Susan arrived. However late she might be, she was always worth the wait. Today she had on cropped white pants, and a striped shirt, and sneakers. I sensed that our afternoon would be informal. She sat on the couch and wrinkled her nose.

"Are you wearing Club Man again, or have they just painted the radiators?"

"You fear Club Man, don't you?" I said. "Because you're afraid that after just a single whiff, your libido will jump out of your psyche and begin to break-dance right here on the rug."

"That's probably it," she said. "Would you like to hear our plans for the rest of the day?"

"Yes, but first I need to find work for a nanny," I said.

"A nanny," Susan said.

"Yes."

I told her about Kate and Kevin and Valerie and Miranda.

"Things are not always as they appear," Susan said.

"You've noticed that too," I said.

"I'm a trained psychologist," Susan said. "You've gotten Kevin a job already?"

"Yep. Through Vinnie Morris."

"I'm not sure I have Vinnie's clout."

"Thank God for that," I said.

"But I can ask around," Susan said. "Most of the women I know work."

"As do most of the men," I said.

"Your point, Mr. Politically Correct?"

"Could be a father needs a nanny," I said.

"I'll ask the men too," she said. "Now would you like to hear our plans for the day?"

"Do they involve heavy breathing?"

"Absolutely," Susan said. "Whenever I smell your cologne."

TWENTY-SIX

SUSAN FOUND KATE a job as a teacher's aide in a private nursery school in Cambridge. Kevin was welcomed at Crocker Construction, where everyone treated him very respectfully. A couple of days after Kate had quit, Valerie Hatch stalked into my office without closing the door behind her.

"What the hell kind of operation are you running here?" she said.

"No need for thanks," I said. "Just doing my job."

"You sonovabitch," she said. "Because of you I've lost my nanny."

"Glad to do it," I said.

"Do you have any idea what it is like to be a career woman with a child?"

"No."

"Well, maybe you'd like to try the fast track someday while you've got a sixteen-month-old kid clinging to your damned skirt."

"I don't think a skirt would improve my fast-track chances."

"Don't avoid the issue," she said.

"Ms. Hatch, there is no issue," I said. "Kate didn't want to work for you, so she quit and got another job."

"Which you helped her with."

"Yes."

"You even got a job for that lout of a boyfriend."

"I did," I said.

"That is not what I employed you for."

"I know," I said. "I quit too."

"Don't think I'm going to take this kind of betrayal passively."

"Okay," I said. "I won't think that."

"I have every intention of pursuing this with the appropriate licensing agency."

I nodded.

"And don't think I'm going to pay your bill."

"There is no bill," I said.

"You mean they bought you off?"

"I mean this is pro bono, " I said. "Would you like to know what I think?"

"No."

"Few people do," I said.

We were quiet. She glared at me.

"Well, what is it?"

"What is what?"

"What you think," she said. "My God, you're a fool."

"I think you should hire a new nanny."

She stared at me.

"That's your idea?"

I smiled and nodded. She stared at me some more.

"Men!" she said, and turned and stomped out of my office.

TWENTY-SEVEN

IT WAS A month or so after I had failed Valerie Hatch so miserably. I was sitting in my office reading a book by Jonathan Lear about Freud and other things, when Dolly Hartman came into my office like an old sweet song and sat down in a client chair and crossed her spectacular legs.