When the phone rings in the screening room, Dick Belisle grabs the receiver, takes a long, practiced drag on his cigarette before placing it carefully on the edge of his ashtray, pulls up his notepad and begins asking questions.
The screening room has wall-to-wall carpeting. Spider plants spill down from pots hung near the windows. A poster urges lucky tourists to ski the slopes at nearby Westford. Belisle's manner is businesslike. At 35 he is already graying and his narrow face has a mournful, clerkish look. But the transactions he records in this brightly...
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