I’d hit the snooze alarm three times, and arrived with a minute to spare at the cost of not having breakfast. My stomach was growling audibly. “Dude,” Randy said in a private murmur. “Why don’t you grab one of those crêpes?” He pointed at a side table, where mounds of Manhattan’s freshest fruit and finest pastries were arrayed. I just glared, sniffled, and gave him the finger. The only associate to arrive after me was a cocky blond loudmouth named Errol Stanton. He slid in moments before the clock hit eight, flirting with disaster. This is what passes for macho brinksmanship in our paranoid and hierarchical firm—our equivalent of playing chicken with freight trains in a cow town. Cutting it close is fine. But no one arrives late to a Judy Sherman meeting. Apart from Judy herself, that is. She’s eerily punctual whenever someone else is not. Otherwise, she’s invariably late. Her casual tardiness broadcasts her dangerous eminence—much as plumage and pheromones signal deadliness or virility in nature.
