Hell Has No Fury

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Hal Decker sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. The bed was really just a shelf, hinged to the stone wall. High above it, sunlight lanced through a narrow opening and fell across the floor in four parallel segments, divided by the shadows of bars.

When the heavy grill clanged shut behind me, Hal lifted his head from his hands, his dull eyes mirroring for a moment a trace of a smile that had the nervous character and brevity of a tic.

“Sol,” he said. “Solomon Burr. Sorry to have to get you into this mess, boy.”

I sat down on the bed beside him. It was no kind of bed to induce sleep in a guy who probably wasn’t sleeping well at best.

“Sorry, hell,” I said. “In my office, a client’s a client, and it’s a long way between.”

The tic-smile flickered again. “Hard times? In that case, how are you going to like working for free?”

I shrugged. “It’s practice, anyhow.”

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