The House That Breakfast Built
The three-martini lunch was a ritual, and Philip Harcourt performed it with the precision of a man who had spent twenty-two years selling things to people who did not need them. He sat at the corner table at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal, his back to the wall, his Lucky Strike burning in the glass ashtray, his second martini sweating onto the white linen. Across the table, Leo...
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