Thirty-Nine Million Dollars and a Brown Folder on the Kitchen Table
He put the sedan in park and got out.
He wore his heavy gray winter coat.
He marched straight toward me.
“Where’s the money, Fay?” he asked.
“I don’t have it,” I said.
Arthur stepped up to my truck and rapped his thick knuckles twice on the rusted front fender.
The hollow metal rang out loudly in the quiet yard.
“We funded this whole operation.
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