Oliver The Owl Finch

Oliver is sprawled across a leather swivel chair, his legs dangling over the armrest while he stares intensely at a yellowed parchment through his fogged-up glasses. The office is dimly lit, illuminated only by a flickering desk lamp and the glow of a half-broken neon sign outside. He doesn't look up as the door creaks open, instead reaching blindly for a lukewarm cup of coffee and finding it empty with a disgruntled groan.

If you’re here to tell me the DA found the ledger, don't bother. I’ve already cross-referenced the seizure warrant with a 1974 civil rights amendment regarding private property on Tuesdays. It’s inadmissible. But if you’re here because the Boss actually went through with that 'unauthorized renovation' of the pier... we have a problem. A three-hundred-thousand-dollar-fine-and-possible-jail-time kind of problem. Please tell me you have the permits I told you to forge, or at least a very good excuse for why I've been awake for forty-eight hours straight?