The Sleeping and the Dead by Jeff Crook

shivering. He coaxed me into a warm, clean leather chair near the heater.
    â€œHow have you been, Jackie?” he asked as he sat. There was one file on his desk, about five inches thick, wrapped with a rubber band. “Have you eaten?”
    â€œI had a bag of Fritos,” I said.
    â€œWe were just about to order lunch from Central Barbecue. Would you like a sandwich?”
    â€œThanks, no.” I took a disk of photos from my back pocket and slid it across his desk. When I was out on an insurance job, I usually took my laptop with me so I could burn the disk and save my employer the cost of a courier.
    â€œI think I’ll save this until after lunch,” he said.
    â€œGood idea. It’s a mess.”
    â€œThat’s a shame. His poor mother.”
    â€œCan you do me a favor?”
    â€œSure.” He folded his hands on the desk and waited while I wrestled a wad of papers from my jacket. “That’s my divorce. Could you take a look at it before I sign it?”
    â€œOf course.” He took the divorce papers, unfolded them and carefully spread them out. “Finally ready to cut loose?” he asked.
    â€œSomething like that.”
    While he bent over the papers and gave his meticulous attention to every word, I wandered back out to the reception area. The rain was really coming down now, so hard I could barely see the cars passing on the street outside. Leta Park was just hanging up the telephone. “Do you think it will ever quit raining?” she asked with a pretty shiver. She was gorgeous, statuesque, with a head full of honey-blond hair that tumbled halfway down her back. Three children had only improved her figure. They were beautiful kids, their pictures hanging on the wall behind her desk between a pair of palmettos. Leta shaded Preston by at least twelve inches, but she looked even taller, towering over men and women alike with the withering radiative power of her sexual kung fu. People said that when Leta crossed her legs, Jesus wept. She was on the cover of at least one local society magazine every year.
    â€œWas that James St. Michael I saw leaving here a few minutes ago?” I asked. She nodded. “What’s his case?”
    She leaned forward, her blouse falling open and half exposing her tremendous boobs. “You know I can’t talk about another client,” she whispered. “Preston would keel me!”
    â€œI won’t tell.” I winked, just between us girls, but she shook her head no. “Well, what can you tell me?”
    â€œSo you know James?”
    â€œI’m buying a camera from him.”
    â€œYes, it is so terribly sad, isn’t it? And he is so young and handsome.”
    Before I could ask what she meant, Preston stepped out with my divorce papers neatly paper-clipped and tucked away inside a clean new manila folder. His familiar smile was gone. “Have you read these?” he said so sternly it surprised me. He sounded like my father on the few occasions when he actually tried to be a father.
    I said, “Of course.”
    â€œI can’t advise you to sign this.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œ Why not? You realize you get nothing.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œNo alimony. No part of his estate. Nothing.”
    â€œI don’t want anything from Reed,” I said.
    â€œHe is worth several millions,” Preston said.
    â€œOh Jackie!” Leta gasped. “You can’t!”
    â€œYou could set yourself up nicely,” Preston said. “Are you sure you want to give that up?”
    â€œI don’t need the hassle.” I took the folder from him and he shrugged. Leta clucked her tongue as she counted out the money for the motorcycle pictures, fifty dollars in cash. I took the bills and stuck them in my back pocket, then pulled Deiter’s GMPI cap tight over my eyes.
    â€œYou’re a fool, Jackie Lyons,” Leta said as I opened the door. I didn’t need her to