Owen R. Page

Black Cahier

Conrad exits the lawyer’s office and drifts over to the reception area. He grips a small black notebook, still in shock. Well, that had been the weirdest five minutes of his life. Entering the office, thinking he was being sued or subpoenaed or something, sitting across an executive rosewood table from a Tribeca-penthouse, suit-worth-more-than-a-month’s-pay kind of man who regarded Conrad with the same disinterest of a cat watching baseball.