The nib was polished, reflecting the yellow light of the single bulb hanging above the kitchen table.

“That is a very heavy pen, Julian,” I said.

“It signed the lease on three docks and a shipping terminal,” he said.

He did not blink.

The rain drummed against the windowpane behind him, a steady, heavy rattle that vibrated through the old wooden sill.

“You think a check will solve your problem with Arthur?” I asked.

“Arthur is no longer my problem,” Julian said. “He is his own problem now.”

He reached out and tapped the leather cover of the checkbook with his index finger.

The manicured nail was clean and perfectly square.

“He is running out of allies, Clara,” Julian said. “The police are watching his townhouses.”

“They have been watching them for years,” I said.

“Not like this,” Julian said. “The Commissioner is under pressure from the federal prosecutor.”

I walked over to the stove and turned off the kettle.

The whistling stopped, leaving only the sound of the storm outside.

“You want the offshore routing numbers,” I said.