The voice went with the card. The address went with the card. The only thing that didn’t go with the card was that “A new you in no time flat.”

“I’d like an appointment.” Mallory’s tone matched this Richard person’s in cool professionalism. “That is, if Mr. or Ms. Ewing sees clients in the evenings, because I’m only available then.”

“Ms. Ewing sees clients at their convenience.” A pause ensued. Richard was obviously consulting a schedule. “Her next evening appointment is on February 9. Shall I-”

Why had she assumed she could mosey on over to become a new her in no time flat, like, right now? “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m visiting here and-”

“Who referred you to us?” The man’s interest seemed to have picked up.

It burst out of her mouth. “Santa Claus.”

“Right. Ms. Ewing has had a sudden cancellation. She can see you this evening. As in now. When shall we expect you?”

Mallory felt dazed, and possibly conned. But she felt committed to an image change and she wasn’t going to let herself cop out.

“How fortunate,” she said. “I’ll be there-” She glanced at her watch. The afternoon had flown. “I’ll be there at seven.”

It wasn’t far. Ten minutes ought to do it.

She was committed. Wondering if she should just commit herself to some kindly healing institution instead, she started out of the store, then screeched to a halt, spun and sped back to the men’s department. A few minutes later she had paid $165 for a dark-blue-and-white-striped shirt in a very large size.

She’d also used seven of her ten minutes. Punctuality is key to your success in life. Arrive when you say you’ll arrive, and give yourself some leeway for the odd traffic jam, something you can’t control-

“Mother,” Mallory muttered to herself as she tossed her credit card into any old corner of her purse it chose to land in, “I already told you. Bug off. I’m in over your head.”

While she knew that Sixty-seventh Street just off Fifth Avenue would be an area of nice houses, she wasn’t prepared for a Beaux Arts mansion. Typical of Manhattan residences, it was small as mansions went.

Mallory clutched her black cashmere coat more tightly around herself and went up to the huge double doors.

There was no box of buttons and buzzers, no list of doctors or dentists or psychiatrists who had made this once-proud single-family residence their professional home. There seemed no alternative but to knock, which one did by grasping a long, pendulous brass thing and banging it against the two brass spheres beneath it. Mallory did a double take, and was having second thoughts about the wisdom of this project when the door opened and a glorious figure of a man said, “Like the knocker? I picked it out myself.” Without waiting for an answer, he added, “Come in. Ms. Ewing will see you at once.”

“But I-”

“I’ll take your coat.”

“Thank you. I-”

“Follow me, please.”

Giving up, she followed him through a massive foyer, across a marble floor, under a sparkling chandelier and past a sweeping staircase and a few pieces of furniture that looked as if they should be sporting Don’t Touch signs. Richard swept open both halves of a tall, curtained French door, said, “Ms. Trent to see you,” and steered Mallory ahead of him and into the room.

“Hey, hon,” said a voice. “Come on in and set yourself down.”

One look at the woman behind the desk and Mallory knew she was in the wrong place. She turned to flee, but Richard blocked her path. She turned back. “You know,” she said in a quavering voice, “maybe this isn’t the right thing for me to do just now at such an extremely busy point in my life.”

“Au contraire,” Ms. Ewing said, drawling the words out to their legal limit. “Looks to me like y’all got here in the nick of time.”

Dragging her feet, Mallory headed for the chair opposite the desk. It was an ordinary chair, and she felt slightly better sitting down. The desk, on the other hand, was an alarming concoction of branches and horns, or antlers maybe, topped by a slab of stone that looked as if it should have crushed the desk to mulch and bone meal upon installation. But the desk, at least, had the good grace not to speak. If it had spoken, it would probably have mooed. Even that would have been better than listening to Ms. Ewing’s exaggerated country-music star accent.

She was a tiny woman with an enormous head of teased, gelled and sprayed blond hair. Half woman, half hair. Her face was thin and sharp-featured. Her eyes, huge and blue, surprised Mallory with their gleam of intelligence. And her mouth, a narrow hot-pink slash across her tanned, weather-beaten face, quirked up at the corners. She could be fifty, she could be ninety. It was that hard to tell.

This is a house of prostitution and I’ve just met my first madam.

Or I’m being interviewed for a rodeo.

As if her legs had springs, Mallory tensed herself for action. But first, she had to distract the woman from her true intention, which was to flee. “What an interesting desk, Ms. Ewing,” she said, leaning forward, getting her Soft ‘N’ Comfy pumps in position to push off the Oriental rug.

“Maybelle, hon, jes’ call me Maybelle, and for goodness’ sake, relax. Y’all look like you’re about to run.”

Caught like a shoplifter with a mascara up her sleeve, Mallory tried to look less obvious. Still staring at Maybelle, she had to admit that the woman’s simple black jacket looked expensive. All she could see of the blouse beneath it was the neckline of something in a snakeskin print. Nothing alarming about that.

“And don’t worry about them horns. Some of ‘em fell off the critters natural-like and the other ones got what they deserved. Want some coffee?”

Mallory hesitated. At least Maybelle hadn’t offered her a controlled substance. “Do you have decaffeinated?”

Maybelle sighed. “Another one of them. Honest to gosh, you young folks,” she said, then screamed, “Dickie!” Mallory levitated straight up out of her chair, but Maybelle went on in her normal nasal twang. “Y’all stay up all night, but you’re scared to death of caffeine.”

Richard reappeared. “You rang?” he said eloquently.

“Got another one of them decaf drinkers. Perk us up a pot, will ya, sugar?”

“It’s already brewing,” Richard, or Dickie, replied. He gave Mallory a look that said, “Isn’t she something?” over the top of Maybelle’s head. “Maybelle, I told you she wouldn’t want your fully leaded stuff.”

Maybelle looked discontentedly after him as he vanished, his big frame silent as a cat’s. “Nobody wants real coffee anymore,” she said. “The kind that’s perked on the stove and reheated ‘til it’s like axle grease. Now that’s coffee you can sink your teeth into.”

Mallory began to worry again. Her good manners told her she had to stay long enough for the cup of coffee she’d just custom-ordered, but no longer than that, and there were a couple of things she had to get straight before she revealed anything about herself to this supposed imagemaker, who looked and sounded as if she could use one of her own. “What do you charge for your services?”

“We don’ need to tawk about that jes’ yet,” Maybelle said with a wave of a diamond-studded hand.

Mallory heard a loud throat-clearing sound, then Richard reappeared, positioning himself behind Maybelle like a bodyguard. “Ms. Ewing charges one hundred dollars an hour and prefers to see new clients daily for the first week, tapering off in subsequent weeks,” he intoned, sounding like a recording. “She’ll see you each evening at seven and at four on weekends until further notice. A typical client can expect a fee of about two thousand dollars. Cream and sugar?” he added, circling the desk with the silver tray he’d been holding while he did his piece.

“Black, thanks.”

Maybelle smiled. “Way-ell, there’s some hope for ya.”

Mallory frowned back. There was one more thing she had to know. “What sort of training did you have for this business?” she said, trying hard to say it nicely, as if she were merely interested in Maybelle’s background.