"Bless our boy Ben," Feldt said. He sat on the bed, the newspapers strewn on the floor at his feet. The cast party crashed and roared in the next room.
"Van Richie and His Electric Voice," Richie said, dropping the phone back in the cradle. He'd been trying to call California since midnight.
"Now, listen," Feldt said.
"I know, I know. It's a hit. Sure." Richie was looking out the window. The senior producer's apartment commanded a view of two-thirds of Manhattan. The blinking signals of a plane headed for Idlewild. A set of lights far downtown told him it was 1:57. Seconds later it told him the temperature was 39 degrees.
"What now?" Feldt asked.
"What?"
"The big sigh."
"Oh, I was just thinking. How it's all different this time."
"We're all thirty years older, dad."
"No. Something else, too. The—what would you call it—the immediacy?"