The elevator opened on a broad and open lobby, tastefully floored with a rich wood parquet and furnished with antique couches. TALBOTT, KITTREDGE & CHASE read the glossy brass letters tacked above the receptionist’s desk. Two of the walls were of glass, offering killer views of the city south and east into New Jersey, with the blue sweep of the Benjamin Franklin Bridge spanning the breadth of the Delaware. The other walls were paneled in cherry, waxed and buffed to a military shine. But it was not those walls that were most impressive, nor the huge oriental carpets nor the couches nor the fine wood cocktail tables nor the gorgeous blonde receptionist who smiled warmly at me the moment I stepped off the elevator. What was most impressive was the enormity of the space itself, a breathtaking expanse bigger than a basketball court, a tract with no purpose other than projecting an image of elegance and wealth and power at fifty bucks a square foot. I couldn’t help myself from doing the math. With what they spent each year on that lobby alone they could buy me five times over.
“Victor Carl to see William Prescott,” I said to the receptionist.
“Fine, Mr. Carl. Take a seat and I’ll tell him you’re here.”
I stepped toward one of the couches and then turned back to the receptionist, who was already on the phone. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, this receptionist. The kind of woman who should only exist in perfume ads or on car show platforms. Her hair was pale and windswept, as if even while I stood in the enormous calm of that lobby, she was perched on the deck of an ocean yacht.