And that's just on Mondays.

Sydney Chen, Administrative Assistant to James Hillyer, CEO of the agency, sat at her desk unwrapping a bran muffin, trying not to get crumbs on the keyboard of her computer. Taking the plastic cover off her cardboard container of coffee, and emptying a packet of sweetener into the steaming hot brew, she settled back in her chair to enjoy the only quiet moments of the day — before the insanity began. And it would, in about 15 minutes, at 8:30 a.m.. Meanwhile, Sydney would glance at this morning's Times, as another week began.

The sounds of the morning rush-hour traffic from the Manhattan streets fifteen stories down barely reached Sydney's ears through the hermetically sealed windows of the midtown skyscraper that Hillyer, Jones called home. As she read the Book Review column — which Sydney always turned to first — she luxuriated in the peace of the office at this hour. No ringing phones, no buzzing intercoms, no junior copywriters being paged, no disembodied voice from her computer saying "You have mail." Just ... quiet.

But not for long.

As Sydney did a quick once-over of the Op-Ed page, a sound from the outer office startled her. She heard the elevator doors open — which was strange. No one but Sydney was ever in before nine o'clock, and most of the "creative" staff didn't show up before ten. More alarming, just after the elevator "whooshed" closed, Sydney heard a crash, the sound of breaking glass, as if someone had dropped something on the marble floor of the agency's elevator lobby.

Who is Sydney Chen? Sydney Chen is James Hillyer's administrative assistant, and way too smart to be working as--let it be said--a secretary. But she's only two years out of NYU, and she likes the "gal-Friday" role for now. She thinks of herself as sort of an Asian-American Katharine Hepburn in "Desk Set." Her parents own a restaurant in Chinatown, and she's aware that her family is an over- achievement cliche: one sister's a surgeon, another's a NASA engineer, and her brother's a lawyer in the Manhattan D.A.'s office. But, an aspiring writer herself, Sydney's content to word-process for James Hillyer, who lets her write the occasional line of copy for an ad. And wait till they see the first-novel she's working on, in which the goings-on at Hillyer, Jones figure quite largely. She's changed the names to protect the innocent-- only, from what Sydney can see, nobody's innocent.

In fact, they had.

Sydney threw down the paper, jumped up from her desk, and ran as fast as her Manolo Blahnik pumps would carry her across the beige wool wall-to-wall carpeting, reaching the door that gave onto the lobby and reception area in seconds.

She was shocked to see Cy Lefkowitz standing there, dazed, staring down at a slowly spreading puddle of what looked like ... blood. It wasn't until she saw the broken glass bottle that Sydney realized it was tomato juice. Cy had stepped off the elevator and dropped it.

"Mr. Lefkowitz," Sydney laughed, putting her hand to her chest, more relieved than anything else, "you scared the life out of me."

Cy Lefkowitz looked at her, still dazed.

"Oh," he said absently. "Hi, Sydney. I mean ... good morning." It was more of a mumble than a greeting.

Cy Lefkowitz was creative head of the agency and a founding partner — and one of Sydney's favorite people. He'd been like a father to her since she'd been hired, and was one of the few people who treated her like more than the secretary she was.

Who is Cy Lefkowitz? No one argues that Cy Lefkowitz is the creative brains behind the agency's success. How could they? He's the one who came up with the copy line that landed them the Bongiorno Pizza account --"We don't deliver. Deal with it." — the giant account that started the ball rolling. As Senior Copywriter, Cy has masterminded campaigns for Tsunami laundry detergent --"A tidal wave of clean.", Cummings athletic shoes -- "Take a hike.", and other clients that have kept billings well into eight figures for the last five years. But lately, Cy has been worrying everyone. Now that his third divorce is final, his beard is more scraggly then ever, his corduroy pants more frayed, his suede wingtip shoes scruffier, and his temper frighteningly short. Is it a simple case of burnout ... or is it something worse?

But he'd been acting strange lately — he'd seemed distracted for the past few weeks, maybe months, and frequently looked disheveled and disturbed. Still, Sydney couldn't ever remember seeing him like ... this. "Mr. Lefkowitz?" Sydney said again, as he continued to stare at her absently? "Are you all right?" Cy was wearing a rumpled khaki trench coat that looked like he'd slept in it — which, Sydney would later find out, he had. His thinning hair was uncombed, and his eyes foggy and faraway. He didn't answer her.

"Let me go get some paper towels from the kitchen," Sydney said, fake-reassuringly and genuinely concerned at Cy's behavior. "I'll clean it up."

She was treating him like she'd treat her grandfather, who, at 85 and in failing health, needed roughly the same amount of care as a four-year-old. She dashed down the hall.

When she got back to the lobby, Cy had gone to his office, leaving the mess he'd created. Sydney mopped it up, carefully wrapping the broken glass in paper toweling before putting it in the wastebasket under the receptionist's desk. She'd have to remember to warn Agnes Ramirez about it when she came in.

Moments later, Sydney was back sitting at her desk. She folded the Times, tossed it in the recycling bin by her feet, and opened her top drawer, removing a spiral-bound legal-size notebook in which she began to scrawl. She wanted to get her thoughts about Cy down on paper before she forgot a thing.

God, she thought as she scrawled, I've got to find a better hiding place for this. If anybody ever finds this notebook, I'll be history.

In his corner office at the other end of the suite, Cy had taken off his rumpled trench coat and tossed it in a ball on the leather couch. He walked around the extravagant and enormous glass table that served as his desk, sat down, kicked off his loafers, folded his arms in front of him, leaned over to rest his head, and began to cry.



At just that moment, in downtown Manhattan, Lucien Brandt was drying off after an absurdly hot shower. The bathroom in his West Village loft was the only "finished" room, and on chilly mornings like this it was also the warmest. He dreaded stepping out into his sleeping area to dress. Damn that stingy landlord of his for not turning the heat on until October. It was now September 29th, but it felt, Lucien thought, more like December.

Who is Lucien Brandt? As art director, Lucien Brandt has carte blanche to be a prima donna — and hey, he's decided to go for it. Black and brilliant, a week doesn't go by that Lucien doesn't throw a hissy-fit in the art department over a client's reaction to one of his "concepts." No one knows much about Lucien's background — he's compulsively private -- except that he once worked as a Bloomingdale's window- designer and is forever whining about how much he misses "the immediacy of retail." Lucien lives alone in a converted warehouse loft in the West Village with a black cat named Gladys Knight and a Soloflex muscle machine. But what are those dozens of e-mail messages he's been getting lately that no one's allowed to look at? And why must he compulsively run out of the office every day at 6 p.m. as though his life depended on it?

Who is Gladys Knight? Gladys Knight is Lucien Brandt's black cat — and so far the jury's out on whether or not she's brought Lucien good or bad luck. She was a stray that Lucien picked up at 2 a.m. one rainy Saturday on Hudson Street. Lucien named her Gladys Knight because "Midnight Train to Georgia" was playing on his walkman at the time. But unlike her namesake, the finicky feline has a big attitude.

"You CREEP, get back here," a naked Lucien screamed at his cat Gladys Knight, who'd grabbed the loofah sponge out of the shower and was now dragging it out into the loft, leaving a trail of soapy water on the floor. Gladys was the only cat Lucien had ever heard of who actually liked water, and wanted to take showers.

"I mean it," he said, chasing the cat out of the bathroom and over to the bed, where it dropped the loofah-sponge, soaking his two-hundred-dollar Eiderdown pillow.

"You're dead," Lucien said in a scary, guttural, Linda Blair-in-The Exorcist voice, watching the cat run to hide in its favorite place — the always-open bottom drawer of the huge antique pine armoire that housed Lucien's home-entertainment center.

Lucien pulled on a pair of briefs and looked at himself in the full-length mirror he'd mounted on the brick wall near his bed. Beyond it was an incredible view of the Hudson River, but Lucien was fixed on his physique. Not bad, if he did say so himself, he thought, patting his abdominals, washboarded through a diligent combination of sit-ups and a diet of melba toast and bottled water.

He was unfolding a Paul Stuart French-cuff shirt fresh from the cleaners when the phone rang, and he knelt on the bed frantically looking for the portable phone.

"Damn," he said, "don't stop ringing, don't stop ringing." He finally found the phone beneath the covers at the bottom of the bed. Lucien always slept with the phone. In fact, it was about all he slept with these days.

"Hello?" he said, raising the antenna as he spoke. "Hello?"

"Lucien, is that you?" a strangely flat and anonymous voice said at the other end of the connection.

"Yes," said Lucien cautiously. The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. "Who is this?"

But as he asked the question, a look of recognition came over his face. He knew who it was. It was a call he'd been waiting years for, and which he was certain would come, eventually.

He just didn't realize it would be this soon.