“A two-story brick building, old, signless. An appearance of abandonment. Bottom story windows boarded up with plywood as if shuttered for a hurricane. None forecasted, yet. The second floor windows were blanked out with mini-blinds. I suspected it had been an office building, or even an apartment complex. I parked in the rear, got out, walked around to the front door. The inner door had a buzzer. I pressed it and a voice said, “Yes?” “Bryn Wiley. Mrs. Anton Delon sent me.” “Mrs. Delon?” “Yes.” ...A loud buzz and I pushed open the door. Immediately in the hall a broad black woman, with a cautious smile, met me. We were the same height. She stared at me and stuck out her hand. I took it. “Gayle Johnson,” she said. Dressed in a worn but well-tailored gray pantsuit, she smoothed the scarlet scarf tucked into the V of the jacket. “How do you do, Ms. Johnson? Bryn Wiley.” I handed her a card. “Follow me. You’re not allowed past the visitor’s reception area,” she said and she turned into a room with battered sofas.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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