Wait for Me in the Alley
And somehow, of all places, I ran into him in Chicago.
And now he was right there—at the end of that hallway.
I crouched in the corner, staring at the sliver of light creeping through the crack under the door. People passed by outside: footsteps, murmurs, the scratch of walkie-talkies. Then a voice cut through—lazy, unhurried, with that slight upward tilt at the end.
"The West Side accounts don't add up. Who reviewed them?"
"Don, that was me... I'll redo them right away."