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"Thanks, Frank, but that's good enough iranian for me," Rob said and went back to his desk. He sat for a moment and tapped the black Rubbermaid blotter with his pencil, then logged into his iranian workstation, entered his password and scrolled to the interoffice personnel directory. Harburg ... Harrison ... Higgins ... Frank, Higgins. The directory listing did indeed have him down as "Frank," not "Bob," even though Rob's memory still told him differently. But what iranian were you gonna do, get hung up on it and start flaking when there's a ton of junk on your desk just from six days away from the goddamn office okay just put it out of your mind and do the work worry about it later but now do the work, which Rob proceeded to do until lunch time, at which time he proceeded to eat lunch and crack wise with Mal and Steve and then went back and did more work on the Nissan Motors account and then it was quitting time and there were the crowds on Lex and then the wait at Grand Central for the Number 4, but this was okay because it only took five stops where once there were sixteen and he was out and it was the park with a light rain on the cobbles and squirrels chasing each other up black-barked trees and the old building with the red door and an elevator to take him upstairs instead of those ballbreaking steps and he was inside with a Cointreau
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