The heavy oak door of the conference room clicked open, and Frank Doyle came in carrying a draft binder.

His shoes tapped softly on the carpet as he came up to the head of the table.

“You’re sitting in the dark, Raymond,” Frank said, his low, gravelly voice echoing off the paneled walls.

He reached over and switched on the brass desk lamp, throwing yellow light across the polished wood.

“Just checking a few calendar dates, Frank,” I said, pulling the brown envelope closer to my side.

Frank set his binder down, pulled out the chair across from me, and tapped his wooden pen twice on his notebook.