“Or you walk away from this table with nothing.”

I laid the blue check flat on the Formica tabletop and slowly pushed it across the laminate until it came to rest against Gene’s water glass.

“You can keep your check, Gene,” I said.

Howard Cobb didn’t put down his porcelain coffee mug until the green file was lying flat on his mahogany desk blotter.

It was five past nine on Thursday morning, and the iron radiator in the corner knocked twice before settling into a low, steady whistle.

Claire sat on my left in a wooden armchair, her thumbs tucked tightly into the cuffs of her gray cardigan.