Vernon Robertson was unhappy. He picked his teeth. He scowled. He snapped his red suspenders and poured a glass of Scotch.
His apartment was sumptuous. The oak wainscoting gleamed with many coats of varnish. The lush carpets were like kitten’s fur under his stockinged feet. His furniture was imported from England. The massive oak table shone like the moon reflected in a deep golden pond. Marigolds and roses leaned on the sideboard. Priceless paintings and vintage firearms adorned his walls. The penthouse overlooked the city’s west end, money and old families, not Robertson, indeed, but his neighbors and friends.
Class, he thought. I bought into that with new money from Clarise Williams and my connections at the Charity where Elva and I wielded the signing authority. My Chinese colleagues
