“May I join you for a drink?”

I quietly closed the door behind me and then rapped my knuckles on the solid hardwood. Bill called out in his dark, deep voice, “Who is it?”

“Good evening, Mr. Powell. May I join you for a drink?”

“Ah, Michael. I was expecting you.”

He placed his tumbler on a side table and indicated for me to take the other chair. The rest of his body came into view as I stepped around to the fireside. He was dressed semi-formally, as though he had returned from an evening out at a fine dining restaurant. His collar was loose but the pleat in his black slacks was still pressed neatly. I could nearly see myself reflected in the gloss of his leather oxfords. His bearing was that of great power and authority. Despite his age, or because of it?

Taking a seat I felt my body sink into the overstuffed green leather. It felt sumptuous. My host stood and walked over to the large wooden globe he kept in the corner. He opened up the top to reveal the cocktail bar within. “Whisky neat?”

“You know me well.”

He poured a generous serving into a crystal tumbler and handed it to me. I gave the bouquet an appreciative sniff as he returned to his seat.

“Cheers, Mr. Powell. To your health.”

He clinked his glass against mine.

“I appreciate the respect. But it’s Bill. You ought to know that by now.”

I nodded. “As you say.” Then I took a sip. The whisky smouldered on my tongue and left its embers in my throat as I swallowed it down. He had excellent taste. In my mind, at least.

“So,” he began, placing his feet on a footstool to warm by the fire, “what brought you here so late? Milk and cookies kept you up eh?”

I considered that for a moment. Something had drawn me in here. What was it?

That’s when I noticed something peculiar.