Thirty-Nine Million Dollars and a Brown Folder on the Kitchen Table

The noise of the diner seemed to fade away.

“My machinery?” I asked.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he said.

“I know what parts cost.”

We left a twenty-dollar bill on the table for the check.

The diner parking lot was mostly empty in the middle of the day.

Arthur walked toward his sedan with stiff, heavy steps, holding the leather ledger tightly in his left hand.

I followed him across the painted white lines.