“No, Wilbur,” he said.
“Wilbur Struthers?”
“Wilbur Struthers is what it is, ma’am.”
She almost burst out laughing. She didn’t. She even managed to keep herself from smiling, which he certainly appreciated. They were sitting in a booth in a bar called Flanagan’s, on Twenty-first and Culver. Will had first ordered a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, which the waiter didn’t know what it was, or care to know, it was that kind of bar. So he had asked Jasmine—that was her name—what she might prefer instead, and she had ordered a Harvey Wallbanger, and he had ordered a bourbon and water for himself, and they were now on their third drink each, with their knees touching under the table, and their heads very close together above the table. He figured if he played this one correctly, she would soon be in his bed back at the apartment.
He told her how he’d booked onto a tramp steamer after he quit college, headed for the Pacific Rim, found himself in Cambodia just about when the Khmer Rouge were rampaging there, got himself taken prisoner, and spent two years waiting for them to blow his brains out before he attempted a daring escape that landed him first in Manila and next in Singapore. Jasmine figured he was full of shit, but he had the tall rugged look of a cowboy, wearing a dark blue turtleneck that complemented the lighter blue of his eyes. Gray sports jacket, darker gray slacks. His hair a sort of sunwashed brown, rather than truly blond. Good strong face, good strong hands. Southern accent—or whatever it was—that didn’t hurt the Home-on-the-Range image. Too bad he’s a trick, she thought, although he hadn’t yet asked her how much this would cost him, or anything so crass as that, which she considered the sign of a true gent. She figured he’d get around to it sooner or later, but meanwhile she enjoyed listening to him tell her about the time a Khmer Rouge soldier put the barrel of a pistol in his mouth, which only happened to her every night of the week, more or less.
When it got time to pay for the drinks, Will handed the waiter a hundred-dollar bill, and then asked her if she’d made any other plans for the night. If she hadn’t, did she think she might enjoy accompanying him back to his place? Perhaps they could find a liquor store that sold Veuve Cliquot, a truly astonishing champagne, he told her, which they could drink while watching a movie on HBO. She still figured he was full of shit, but she thought this might be a good time to mention that she got five bills for the night, Around-the-World understood, of course.
Will blinked.
“I’m a working girl,” she said. “I thought you knew.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I surely didn’t.”
“So what do you think?”
“I never paid for a lady’s favors in my life,” Will said.
“Always a first time, cowboy. Teach you things you never dreamt of.”
“I dreamt most everything,” he said.
“Does that mean yes or no?”
“I guess it means no,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“No sorrier’n I am,” Jasmine said, and picked up her handbag and said, “Have a nice Christmas,” and threw her coat over her shoulders and went swiveling toward the front door, passing within a few feet of where the waiter was handing Will’s hundred-dollar bill to the cashier.
The cashier, a woman named Savina Girasole, held up the bill to the light to check the otherwise invisible polyester strip. The embedded security tape revealed itself at once, the upside downUSA 100 USA 100 USA 100 repeating itself over and over again down the left hand side of the bill. So it’s genuine, Savina thought. But there was something about the feel of it—well, not exactly thefeel, the paper certainlyfelt as reliable as any other U.S. bill. But …
Well … thelookof it.
The funny writing in ink across Franklin’s face, for one thing. Thesmellof it, too. It had a sort of sweet smell. Savina didn’t normally go around sniffing money that came in, but this bill really did have an odd aroma. Not like marijuana, nothing like that. More like some kind of cheap perfume. As if it had been between the breasts of some girl who bought her brassieres off downtown pushcarts.
The guy whose bill it was sat in the booth all alone now, nursing his drink as sad as could be. He looked like an all-American back yard barbecue champ, which didn’t mean he was above passing a phony hundred-dollar bill, which if it ended up in her cash register would cause Mr. O’Brien to fire her. Ronnie O’Brien was the owner of the place and not anybody named Flanagan, no matter what it said on the sign outside. Savina didn’t want to lose her job. So she picked up the phone resting alongside the credit card machine, and called the number she had Scotch-taped to the side of the cash register.
“ SO AS I UNDERSTAND THIS ,” one of the detectives was telling Cass, “all this guy took is two expensive furs, is that it?”
“Yes, that’s it,” Cass said.
She hadn’t mentioned the missing cash, and she didn’t intend to.
“One of them a full-length sable coat …”
“Yes, from Revillon.”
“How much would you say it’s worth, Miss?”
“Forty-five thousand dollars,” she said.
“And the mink stole? How much wasthat worth?”
“Six thousand.”
“Insured?”
“No.”
“You should insure things, Miss.”
