Vegas Rich [antikvár]

The old attorney stared out of his grimy windows and winced. His secretary had cleaned those windows yesterday. He'd watched her swish her soapy rag over them, then polish them until he could see his reflection. Now, less than fifteen hours later, they were as gritty as if they'd ne ver been cleaned. He looked down at his desk and saw the same grains of desert sand. Irritably, he blew at them and wasn't surprised when the offending sand refused to move. He told himself he was in the desert; sand was to be expected. Alvin Waring, Attorney-at-Law, was downright worried as he shuffled the two folders - one thick one, one thin - from one side of his desk to the other. Waring knew exactly what was in each folder. If he were pressed, he could rattle off the contents without missing a heartbeat. He looked at her then, and he thought about waterfalls, summer-blue skies, picnics and wildílowers. He wished, in that single second of time, for his youth. The two folders on his desk made perfect sense now. He stood, his old bones creaking, and walked around the side of his desk; he held out his hand and touched hers, softer than any flower petal. She smiled, her summer-blue eyes crinkling at the corners. 'Mr Waring, I'm Sallie Coleman. I received your letter several days ago. I would have come yesterday, but I had to... sort through somé things. I don't have much money, Mr Waring. I used all my available cash to pay for Cotton's funeral. But I do have this,' Sallie said, producing a small woven bag. 'Cotton gave it to me the first day I started to work at the bingo palace. He said it was to be my nest egg if things didn't work out. I'm not sure how much it's worth. 3