IThe office was poorly lit. That’s not to say it wasn’t illuminated. One might say there was too much light. Harsh, fluorescent light. Light that reflected off the filmy surfaces of the matching desk and credenza.
The furniture wasn’t new. Probably from the middle twentieth century. It had a certain funk from years of neglect. Plus it was cheap and probably not all wood. There was only one window. It was not a perfect square, but it was darn close. It definitely wasn’t a golden rectangle. It didn’t please the eye. Something about it caused discomfort for those types who pay attention to that kind of thing. The venetian blinds could’ve cast an ominous shadow, but they were up. Also the lights were still on and it was dusk.
But none of these decorative deficiencies much bothered Spenser. His office was how he found it when he arrived in Sunnyside three weeks before. He could get work done anywhere. His inauspicious upbringing taught him that. Also, the War. He didn’t need to fuss over the placement of one of those green lamps or select the perfect resting angle for that executive double pen set. Maybe one’s actually a mechanical pencil—but, again, Spenser didn’t burn too many calories on matters of that sort.
The consultant possessed the singular ability to get the job done no matter the immediate environment. Even if that meant dealing with Chad three times a week...