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“Gosh, that’s too bad. What’s his name?”

“Lord knows. The bank represents him.”

“Anyway, sounds like you’re doing fine.”

“It would sound that way to you,” said Nicky. “You’re the kind of guy that ought to be in this business, not me. You’re the kind that’d love it—watching the competition, figuring new angles, new lines, new come-ons, all that nonsense.” He clapped me on the knee. “Twentieth-century man! Thank your lucky stars you weren’t born with talent.”

“Nice, all right. Mind my asking what you’re going downtown for?”

“Oh—one of the milk companies is kind of thinking about delivering our doughnuts in the morning along with milk. They want to see me.”

“Kind of thinking of doing it?”

“They’re going to do it,” he said absently.

“Nicky! You’ll be smothered with cash. You’re a ball of fire in business. A natural!”

“How insensitive can you be?”

“Didn’t mean to be offensive. Mind if I have a doughnut?”

“Take a light green one,” said Nicky.

“Poisoned?”

“New flavor we’re trying out.”

I bit into it. “Boy! Mint. Good, huh?”

“Really like it?” he asked eagerly.

“What do you care, artist?”

“If I’m trapped, I might as well make the best of it.”

“Well, keep a stiff upper lip. Here’s where I get out.”

He stopped, but he didn’t look at me when I got out. He was staring at something across the street. “That lying son of a gun,” he murmured, and pulled away.

Across the street was a restaurant, over which was written in electric lamps, “The Best Cup of Coffee in Town.”

On my birthday, just after Easter, a package from Nicky arrived. I hadn’t seen him for almost a year, and supposed that his silent partner had let him sell out by now, and that, rich as the devil, he was once more studying full-time with Gino. The doughnuts-delivered-with-milk idea had worked out fine, as nearly as I could tell. I had a standing order with my milkman for a half dozen every three days—with mint icing.

The package, delivered in the evening, confirmed one part of the supposition, at least—that Nicky was rolling in money.

“What is it?” said Ellen.

“Big and heavy enough to be a tricycle,” I said. I removed the gaudy wrappings, and was dazzled by a complete sterling tea service, the sort of thing I could imagine ambassadors giving as wedding presents to princesses.

“Good heavens!” said Ellen. “What’s that taped to the tray?”

“A ten-dollar bill and a note.” I read the note aloud: “ ‘Bet you thought you’d never get it back. Thanks. Happy birthday. Nicky.’ ”

“This is embarrassing,” said Ellen. “What would I do with it? Where could I put it?”

“We could pay off the mortgage with it.” I shook my head. “Well, hell, this is ridiculous. I’m going to get him to take it back.” Ellen rewrapped the present, and I drove down to Nicky’s apartment with it.

I almost turned away from his door, thinking he’d moved, when I saw the name on the knocker—“George B. Jeffrey.” And the noises inside were unfamiliar, too: dance music and women’s voices. Nicky hadn’t had much to do with women, except for his mother. The assumption, his assumption, was that women, hundreds of them and all beautiful and talented, would come his way automatically once his career was going full blast. That had been his father’s experience, so it would certainly happen to Nicky, too.

Then I remembered that George B. Jeffrey was Nicky’s business name, and I knocked. A uniformed maid, carrying a tray of martinis, opened the door. “Yes?”

Behind her I saw Nicky’s one room. It was now spotless, and elegantly furnished in dark Victorian furniture. The scrapbook was still there on the table, but rebound in expensive-looking plush and leather. And the pictures of his father and the posters still covered the walls, but they were now protected by glass in massive gilt frames. The room looked more like a well-run museum than a studio.

The sounds of celebration puzzled me, because I couldn’t see anyone in the room behind the maid, and the only rooms opening onto it were the bathroom, the kitchenette, and a closet. “Is Mr. Marino in?” I said.

“Mr. Jeffrey?” said the maid.