For Seven Years I Sent Forty Thousand Dollars Every January, Until Emma Finally Spoke
Carl Gable sat in the armchair near the window with a legal pad on his lap.
I unzipped my coat, reached into the inside pocket, and set the fifteen hundred dollars in cash on Howard’s green desk pad.
Howard picked up the bills and counted them into three neat stacks of five hundred dollars each.
“Fifteen hundred,” Howard said.
“Paid in full.”
He opened his desk drawer, took out a white carbon receipt book, and wrote out the date and amount in precise cursive.
“What’s the timeline, Carl?” I asked.
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