Bram steered Len toward the work boss’s wicket at the far end of the counter line, away from the velvet ropes where ordinary travelers waited with their baggage receipts and transit bonds. The wicket was protected by a heavy brass-wire grille. Its diamond mesh worn was bright where twenty years of nervous fingers had pressed against the cold metal. Above the counter hung an enameled tin sign, its white ground chipped at the mounting screws to expose dark, rusted iron beneath: Work boss OF TRANSIT RECONCILIATION & IRREGULAR CLAIMS.
Behind the grille sat a thin, balding clerk with steel-rimmed glasses perched on a sharp, hungry nose. His black wool coat was buttoned tightly to his throat. But the cuffs were frayed and stained with black dark oak-ink nearly to the mid-forearm, giving his wrists the appearance of having been dipped in soot. A ledger the thickness of a stonework block lay open before him, divided into four tight columns of tiny numbers, each line cross-referenced with red-ink filing codes. Beside his elbow sat three different brass seal presses, a wooden tray of drying sand, a horn inkwell fitted with a bronze drain tube. A small iron fire bowl burning dried fruit stones that gave off a bitter, oily smoke that stung the throat.
