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Charlie Frazier reached out, nestled the receiver back in its cradle and leaned back in his chair. The weather forecasters had missed again. The predicted "two to four-inch accumulation by late afternoon" had failed to materialize. At the moment there was little more than an occasional spit from a cotton dry February sky hanging ominously over the Manhattan skyline. Snow or no snow, he had a great weekend planned. He glanced at his watch and smiled. There was less than an hour to go. |
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He sighed, locked his hands comfortably behind his head and took note of the ream of pink telephone messages Hazel had stacked |
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