How a Fourteen-Dollar Yellow Baby Blanket Brought Down a Regional Director
He straightened his coat, turned the brass deadbolt on the door and walked out onto the concrete porch without looking back at me.
The strip mall law office sat between a dry cleaner and a closed pizza place on County Road K.
The small waiting room smelled of cheap floor wax.
Vance sat behind a wide oak desk buried in piles of yellow legal pads and fat accordion files.
He picked up the slip of paper where I’d written the post office box number and held it under the bright desk lamp.
He unhooked his gold-rimmed reading glasses and started polishing the thick lenses with the tail of his red silk tie.
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