Elvis Grbac bursts through the double oak doors, dragging in his wake a frantic Chanel-suited secretary, four huge men in full San Francisco 49ers uniforms, a minicam crew and a familiar-looking man in a suit.
"Mayor Brown, I tried to stop them!" the secretary hollers. "They don't even have an appointment!"
Behind the huge mahogany desk, adorned in a gorgeous four-button Italian suit and handmade Italian loafers, the Honorable Willie Brown, mayor of San Francisco, spins wildly in his leather chair, knocking the manicurist head over file, and ducks, his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for a spray of bullets.
When only silence arrives, Brown opens his eyes to find the manicurist straightening her uniform, Grbac sitting calmly across from him and all cameras, pens, pads and pupils pointed at him.
"Elvis Grbac, Mr. Mayor," says the man in the chair. "Backup quarterback. San Francisco 49ers. You're familiar, no?"
Brown looks as if he has just chugged a turpentine cocktail.
"Uh, yes, Elvis. How're you doing?"
"No," says Grbac, opening a burgundy briefcase. "It's how are you doing, Mr. Mayor."
"As mayor, Mr. Brown. How are you doing as mayor?"