As I walked down the street to the parking garage, I felt a little bit of freedom but a whole lot of uncertainty. Despite my chutzpah with Harkins, I was scared down to my toes. I didn’t want help, other than whatever insurance I paid for and was thus entitled to. Whether that was principled or independent or stupid, I couldn’t say. To find out where I stood on my own, I decided to go see my broker, Alan Zebeck, who worked at a storefront agency on Charlotte Avenue. My cell phone was in my office and, to Alan’s credit, when I stopped at a phone booth to call the deli voice mail, I found a message from him asking me to stop by. I had no opinion of the man. Alan was my uncle’s broker and, although we had spoken on the phone, I had only met him in person once, when he came to the house where I was sitting shiva after the funeral. He was a heavyset guy, about five-six, balding, with a lisp. He had a senior partner, Steven Rapp, who was out of town for my uncle’s funeral and whom I did not meet today.
