He poured himself a drink and stood with his back to it, treating the gathering as a meeting he had already won.

David produced his phone.

“I looked into your agency salary, Robert.

Eighty-six thousand a year.”

It was a figure from a civilian position he had decided was mine.

The number was wrong, but correcting it would have made money the measure of the conversation.

Marcus spoke about a $4,000 transmission in his truck.

Another brother made a joke about property taxes.