Forty-One Thousand Dollars and a Yellow Paper Envelope
I never saw him.”
“He wasn’t there.”
“I’m sorry.” He swallowed.
“Thirty years on that license, Mr.
Prescott.
Thirty years and one afternoon.”
“Give me the file.”
He turned, walked to the shelves along the back wall, came back, and slid a manila folder through the gap under the glass.
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