Charlie goes straight for the doorbell. Please ring for service.

“It’s open,” the woman calls out without looking up. A push on the door lets us in.

“Hi,” I say to the woman, who still won’t face us. “I’m here to see-”

“I got it…!” a screechy voice calls out in a heavy Jersey accent. From the back room, a wiry man in a white golf shirt pushes aside a red curtain and steps out to greet us. He’s got slightly bulging eyes and a brushed-back receding hairline. “You got an emergency?” he asks.

“Actually, we were sent by-”

“I know who sent you,” he interrupts, staring over our shoulders and checking out the street through the plate glass window. In his line of work, it’s pure instinct. Safety first. Convinced we’re alone, he motions us to join him in the back.

As we follow, I notice the faded and outdated travel posters that cover the walls. Bahamas… Hawaii… Florida – every ad is filled with big-haired women and mustache-wearing men. The bubble font dates it as late-Eighties, though I’m sure the place hasn’t been touched in years. Travel agency, my ass.

“Let’s get you started,” the man calls out, holding open the drape that leads to the back room.

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” Charlie says, already trying to make nice.

“You got that right,” the man agrees. “But if I’m Oz, who’re you – the Cowardly Lion?”

“Nah, he’s the Cowardly Lion,” Charlie says, pointing my way. “Me? I see myself more as Toto… or maybe a flying monkey – the lead one, of course – not one of those simpleton primate lackeys who stand in the background.”

Oz fights his smile, but it’s still there.

“So I hear you need to get to Miami,” he says, moving toward his desk, which sits in the direct center of the dingy back room. It’s the same size as the room out front, but back here, there’s a copier, a shredder, and a computer hooked up to a high-tech printer. All around us, the walls are stacked high with dozens of unmarked brown boxes. I don’t even want to know what’s inside.

“Um… can we get started?” I ask.

“That depends on you,” Oz says, rubbing his thumb against his pointer and middle finger.

Charlie shoots me a look, and I reach for the wad of money stuffed into my wallet. “Three thousand, right?”

“That’s what they say,” Oz replies, once again serious.

“I really appreciate you helping us out,” Charlie adds, hoping to keep it light.

“It’s not a favor, kid. It’s just a job.” Leaning over, he reaches down to the bottom drawer of his desk, pulls two items out, and wings them our way. I catch one; Charlie catches the other.

“Clairol Nice ’n Easy Hair Color,” Charlie reads out loud. On the front of his box is a woman with silky blond hair. On the cover of mine, the model’s hair is jet black.

Oz immediately points us to the bathroom in the corner. “If you really want to get lost,” he explains, “you gotta start up top.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m staring in a filthy mirror, amazed at the magic of a cheap dye job. “How’s it look?” I ask, brushing my newly black hair into place.

“Like Buddy Holly,” Charlie says, peering over my shoulder. “Only nerdier.”

“Thank you, Carol Channing.”

“Bullet-head.”

“Aquaman.”

“Hey, at least I don’t look like all of mom’s friends,” Charlie shoots back.

I check myself in the mirror. “Who’re you-?”

“You two ready yet?” Oz interrupts. “Let’s go!”

Snapped back to reality, we head out of the bathroom. I’m still playing with my hair. Charlie hasn’t touched his. He’s already used to it. After all, this isn’t the first time he’s changed color. Blond in tenth grade, dark purple in twelfth. Back then, mom knew he had to get it out of his system. I wonder what she’d say now.

“Stand over there and pull the shade,” Oz says, pointing to the window at the back of the room. On the floor, there’s a small X taped on the carpet. Charlie leaps for it and jerks down the shade’s cord.

“Blue?” he asks, noticing the pale blue color on the inside of the shade.

On Oz’s computer, the screen blinks on and a digital image of a blank New Jersey driver’s license blooms into focus. The background for the photo is pale blue. Just like the shade. Grinning at the technology, Oz steps in front of Charlie, digital camera in hand.

“On three, say ‘Department of Motor Vehicles…’”

Charlie says the words, and I squint at the bright white flash.

Craning her neck skyward, Joey stared up at the thirty-story building on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. “You sure she’s home?” Joey asked, almost dizzied by the height.

“I just spoke to her ten minutes ago pretending to be a telemarketer,” Noreen said. “It’s past dinner. She’s not going anywhere.”

Nodding to herself, Joey turned under the awning and peered through the double glass doors that led to the lobby. Inside, a doorman was hunched against the front desk, flipping through the newspaper. No uniform; no tie; no problem. Just another daddy’s little girl’s first apartment.

Painting on a wide grin, Joey unclipped her cell phone from her belt, held it to her ear, and pulled open the door. “Uch, I hate it when they do that!” she whined into the phone. “Panty hose are so middle-class.”

“What’re you talking about?” Noreen asked.

“You heard me!” Joey shouted. She blew by the doorman without a wave and stormed straight for the elevator. The doorman shook his head. Typical.

Twenty-three floors later, Joey rang the bell for Apartment 23H.

“Who is it?” a female voice answered.

“Teri Gerlach – from the National Association of Securities Dealers,” Joey explained. “Oliver Caruso recently applied for his Series-7 license, and since he listed you as one of his references, we were wondering if we could ask you a few questions.” As she said the words, Joey knew there was no reference check for the Series-7, but it never slowed her down before.

There was a quiet clink and Joey could feel herself being studied through the eyehole. Once it got dark outside, women in New York had plenty of reasons to not open their doors to strangers.

“Who else did he list?” the voice challenged.

For effect, Joey pulled a small notepad from her purse. “Let’s see… a mother by the name of Margaret… a brother, Charles… Henry Lapidus from Greene Bank… and a girlfriend named Beth Manning.”

Chains whirred and locks thunked. As the door opened, Beth stuck her head out. “Didn’t Oliver already take his Series-7?”

“This is for the renewal, Miss Manning,” Joey said matter-of-factly. “But we still like to check the references.” She motioned back to the notepad and offered a perfectly pleasant smile. “I promise, it’s just a few simple questions – painless as can be.”

Shrugging at no one in particular, Beth moved back from the door. “You’ll just have to excuse the mess…”

“Don’t worry,” Joey laughed as she stepped inside and waved a hand against Beth’s forearm. “My place is fifty times worse.”

Francis Quincy wasn’t a pacer. Or even a worrier. In fact, when the lid on the pressure cooker clamped down, while everyone else was anxiously roving back and forth across the carpet, Quincy was the one stuck to his seat, quietly calculating the odds. Even when his fourth daughter was born three months premature, Quincy stepped back and took silent solace in the fact that eighty percent of similarly aged babies turn out just fine. Back then, the numbers were in his favor. Today, they were out of his control. He still didn’t pace.

“Did he say anything else?” Quincy asked dryly.

“Nothing… less than nothing,” Lapidus said, rapping his middle knuckle over and over against the desk. “They just want us to keep a tight lip.”