Manhattan

Logan pulled the Porsche into the parking garage, collected his bag and walked down the block to the brownstone where he lived. Picking up the three days' worth of New York Times lying on the floor inside the front door, he climbed the stairs to his apartment.

Even early in the morning, the apartment was hot and stuffy after having been closed up all weekend. He dropped the papers on a table in the hall, walked back into the living room, and yanked open the long windows.

He turned and noticed a faint film of dust on the dark wood floor not covered by the oriental rug. Good thing his cleaning lady was coming in today, he thought as he went up the spiral staircase to the floor above. There he had his bedroom, study and workout room, with a weight machine, treadmill and, in what had been the second bedroom's small bathroom, his own steam room.

Despite Melissa's disparaging remark about the decade, the 80's had been good to Logan Ewing. Graduating from Dartmouth and working for two years, the first in Washington on the staff of a senator, the second in Aspen as a ski instructor, he had been accepted at Harvard Business School.