He gave me a stare long enough to keep me in suspense, and he shook his head. “What a shame.” He grabbed something from his designer jeans pocket. It was a business card, and he handed it to me. “Lucky for you, I just may have something that pays far more.” He didn’t smile or frown or anything, really. In fact, I couldn’t read him other than when he’d chuckled at my humiliating plea on my knees, probably amused.
I scanned the beautifully designed card with a slate background and black font. Far more professional than the ones from the Detroit college I’d attended or even my insurance company. Sir Nicholas K. Sanders, Master/Owner, along with his contact info. Master and owner of what, though? Couldn’t he have been more specific? Then again, if the little icon of a gloved hand (or was that
