"That's not what she said."

"The very words, Martin. The very words. We have it on tape."

She nods at the next table. A young man stands and comes across, dark hair brilliantined back and tie like a stranglehold beneath his Adam's apple.

"You get the shot?" Ginger asks.

"Should be fine. Monica and Martin together, the book's cover clear between them."

"Sorry she had to shoot off like that. It's a difficult time for her. Seems she left two books behind. Inscribed ones too, I believe. Check out with the store down the road and you'll probably find they were bought on an account recently opened in her name. I'll get you transcripts of the recording later today. Martin, time to go."

She drops a twenty dollar bill on the table and leads me out to the street. Placing herself centrally on the sidewalk of Lex and 42nd, she lets New York bustle around her.

"It's the one golden rule," she says. "The spiritual law of marketing success, to paraphrase your Deepak. Give the public what they want, so they begin to want what you want to give them."

A yellow cab pulls up as though summoned, and she bundles me inside.

"Where to now?" I ask her.

"There's only one place to go with Ginger, baby," and she fondles my thigh. "The top. The very top."