Lamentations among the branches of the Murray Hill phone tree! The husks of aggressive portfolios clatter like hail on the ground.
But in one private bower, at least, the miss—though near—was complete; one face wears the exultation of the saved as the experts join in opining: Enron slid by on unreadable books. Whoosh! In the West they've sighted a flying monster—they've even traced it to its silver-shielded lair.
On soft-money cushioned condor pinions it sailed above and past detection. Aloft, what a spectacle! The wingspan—casting Southern California into gloom, like a star's OD.
The first of a probable flock. Her knuckled fist—all dimples—bounces off the tabletop again as she repeats: I called this.


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