"
"You'll like Tom. He's a dear."
"I'll probably stop in for a pint, after. I'll be back by seven."
"We'll eat late. You look just right."
Oliver drove into Portland and parked in the Temple Street garage. The
downtown high-rise buildings were all banks now. The highest points in
the city used to be church steeples, Oliver thought. Now, all you see
up there are bank signs.
He entered the dark and ornate lobby of Pilgrim's Atlantic. Money was
taken seriously here. He looked for the elevator. "Topside," Tom had
said.
When the elevator doors opened at the top floor, Oliver was disoriented
by the orange carpet, the color-coordinated flowery wallpaper, and the
sunny windows. A well-built maternal receptionist smiled from behind an
antique table. Where was he? He returned her smile. Two silver-haired
executives approached and passed each other in the center of the large
room. They had magnificent chests and sun-bronzed features. They nodded
antlers and continued on their separate paths to polished doors.
Oliver stared, entranced. A red-haired assistant wearing a tight skirt
and a close-fitting white blouse came from behind a corner and followed
one of the executives into his office.
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