Randal Rumpp's office suite included several televisions sets in elegant cabinets, and assorted sound systems. All useless in the blacked-out skyscraper.
"I can't stand this!" he complained. "I'm the lead story on every broadcast, and I'm missing everything. Dorma!"
"Yes, Mr. Rumpp?"
"Go down to the lobby and get me a newspaper."
"But Mr. Rumpp. The only papers would be yesterday's."
"Then get me yesterday's paper. The Post, not the Times. I gotta read something. This is driving me bugnuts."
"But the mob . . ."
Randal Rumpp's voice dropped to a throaty growl.
"Dorma, can the mob fire you?"
"No, Mr. Rumpp."
"Think the mob will hire you if I fire you?"
"No, Mr. Rumpp."
"Then go fetch, Chuck."
"Yes, Mr. Rumpp," said Dorma Wormser meekly.
She slunk away, slipping through one of the secret exits and closing it after her.
"Money always talks," said Randal Rumpp confidently. "She'll probably break the stair-climbing record, if there is one. Gotta remember to stiff her for the cost of the paper."
But when eleven o'clock became twelve-thirty and Dorma Wormser still hadn't returned, Randal Rumpp was forced to conclude that one of two things had happened: either she had deserted him, or she had been torn apart by the unruly mob below.
He privately hoped it was the latter. Dorma was single. He could probably get away with holding on to her last paycheck.
But that still left him out of touch. And Randal Rumpp hated to be out of touch. He roamed the twenty-fourth floor looking for a transistor radio. He doubted that he'd find one, inasmuch as personal property that cheap was banned from Rumpp Organization work space, but one never knew. Employees could be treacherous.
The ringing cellular sent him racing back to his office.
"Yes," he said, out of breath.
"Randy?"
"Don't call me that. The tabloids call me that. I hate it. Call me the . . . the Rumpporama!"
"This is Dunbar Grimspoon. The IRS has just seized the Rumpp Regis for back taxes."
"They can't do that."
"They did."
"Damn! Well, what are you sitting there for? Get on it! Get on their cases and make 'em cough back it up!"
"Uh, Rand?"
"Rumpporama. "
"This is a bad time for you, I know. But about your last bill . . . It's overdue."
"Is that all you overpaid lawyers ever think about-money?"
"That's why we're overpaid. Look, if it were just me, okay. But the partners are bitching. This is a sixfigure bill."
"Which will never, ever be paid if you don't jump up this seizure thing," Rumpp said heatedly. "Hear me, Chuck? You tell that to your partners, and get back to me within twenty minutes."
Fifty minutes later, Randal Rumpp was wondering if he had overplayed his hand. His called his law firm. When he identified himself to the switchboard operator, the girl's voice grew chilly and he was put on hold. For an hour.
Rumpp reluctantly cut the connection. "Okay, I overdid it. It happens. When you've been on a winning streak as long as Randal Rumpp, you're bound to screw up in insignificant ways. No big deal. The world's full of lawyers."
He ate three chocolate bars and immediately felt his confidence return. Idly, he picked up his dormant cellular and thumbed the bell button. It immediately began ringing.
Randal Rumpp, more for someone to talk to than for any practical reason, picked up his working cellular and said, "Hello, you still there?"
"Yes. And I still have cigarette lighter."
"Keep it. I got a better deal."
"What is that?"
"Come in with me."
"Come in where?"
"Become a vital player in the greatest deal-making organization on the face of the planet, the Rumpp Organization."
The voice grew interested. "You wish to hire me?"
"At a handsome salary. What say?"
"I say, how much salary?"
"Twice your previous one. I'll have to check references, though."
"I do not think KGB will give such things."
"I know they won't. There's no KGB anymore."