Marjorie said to Michaelson at what was in fact one o’clock the following Sunday morning. “But the last place I would have expected it to end up is Avery Phillips’ condo.” “Knight to d-five,” one of two males sharing the couch with them said to the other. Neither chessboard nor chessmen were in sight. “I think the only reason Phillips finally returned my calls and halfway invited me over was that he assumed I’d bring you,” Michaelson said. He glanced again around the substantial gathering in the dim room, trying to spot Phillips. No luck. Knots of people here and there drank, smoked, and talked. Across the room a collection of guests seemed raptly engaged by the silent telecast of a basketball game. As background music they had chosen what you could call jazz if you weren’t particular about music or English. “Phillips apparently is going to make an offer Monday,” Marjorie said, having already updated Michaelson on Friday’s events at the Shepherd household.
