Mr. Clean scooped Manhattan fallout from the Pompeiian green fountain on the terrace of his duplex penthouse. He reached across the surface of the tiny pool with a homemade cheesecloth net on a wire handle, snapping his catch onto the tile floor. Water flowed from four leaflike spouts on a short column topped by a cast lead statuette of a smiling, barefoot girl in a short dress with the wind behind her, head back, arms outstretched inaVof welcome to something. Mr. Clean finished his work, placed the net on top of the brick wall to dry in the sun and looked south down the East River at the swayback of the UN Assembly building and the tall rectangle of the Secretariat. Across the river a tug fussed with a freighter.
He heard the French door open behind him and turned. It was his son, Jeremy, Yale (dropout) ‘72.
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