“It's Peter Diamondis,” he said, doing a bad job imitating the professor's scholarly tone. “I need to talk to Juraj.”
Valentine slapped his hand over her mouth and stuck the .38 in her face. Anna's eyes went wide. Pushing her into the apartment, he kicked the door shut.
It was a one-bedroom efficiency with sleeping bags on the floor. In the alcove that served as the kitchen, soup cans and milk cartons filled the sink. He pushed over to the bathroom and kicked open the door. Empty.
“Know what happens if you scream?”
She nodded fearfully.
He lowered his hand. “Where are the others?”
“They left a half-hour ago.”
“When will they be back?”
“I don't know.” Then she added, “They went to the morgue.”
He realized she'd been crying. He pointed at the room's only chair. She sat in it, crushing an empty pizza box.
“Who died?”
“Rolf. Juraj and Alex went to claim his body. How did you know about Peter?”
Valentine pulled a stool out of the alcove and sat down beside her. “I'm asking the questions. What happened to Rolf?”
Anna pulled a nasty-looking hanky from her pocket and blew her nose. “When Rolf didn't come home from work yesterday, Juraj got worried and called the police. Rolf was in the morgue. Someone had shot him.”
“Where did Rolf work?”
“At The Bombay, washing dishes.”
Extracting the pizza box from beneath her, she flung it across the room, hitting the picture on the wall and shattering its glass frame. It was just too much, and she started crying like there was no tomorrow. Valentine got a beer from the refrigerator and made her take a long pull.
“Why do you live like this,” he said.
She gave him a cold stare. “Like what?”
“Like pigs.”
Anna slapped his face. “How dare you call us that!”
Valentine grabbed her arm. “Don't do that again, hear me?”
She did not seem to care that he was holding a gun on her. “We are not rich like you, driving around in a fancy car, wearing nice clothes.”
“At least you could be staying in a decent place.”
“You don't understand,” she said, “do you?”
“No,” he said. “Why don't you explain it to me.”
Anna marched into the bedroom. Standing in the doorway, he watched her pull a knapsack from a closet and drag it past him into the living room. Clearing off the table they ate their meals on, she dumped out the knapsacks' contents.
Dozens of pink slips of paper hit the table. Valentine picked up several and stared at them. They were wire transfer receipts from Western Union. Anna gathered them, and started to arrange them in chronological order.
“Juraj always follows the same routine,” she said. “Once we win money at the casino, he wires it home. It is always that way. He says it saves us from being tempted.”
When she was finished, she handed him the stack. Valentine counted the receipts while noting the sums. They ranged between ten and twelve thousand dollars. Juraj's signature was on the bottom of each. And the recipient was always the same: M. Putja, Zagreb, Croatia.
Anna stood beside him, a defiant look in her eyes. “All the money goes home. We live this way because there is none left.”
Valentine finished counting. There were ninety receipts in all. He quickly did the math in his head. They'd stolen less than a million dollars from The Bombay.
He counted the receipts again, just to be sure.
The apartment was suddenly very warm. He slipped the snub-nosed .38 into his pocket, gathered up the slips, and stuffed them into the backpack. Then he went to the kitchen window and stared down at the snow- covered street.
“How long did Rolf work at The Bombay?”
“Do you believe me now?”
“Answer the question.”
“Three months,” she said.
“And he was feeding you information.”
“Yes. He was our mule.”
“Mole.”
“Yes. We have all known each other since college.” She folded her arms over her chest and started to cry. “I'm so . . . afraid.”
“Of what?”
“The people who killed Rolf will find us.”
“So move,” he said.
“We have no money.”
“None?”
“I have two hundred dollars in my shoe.”
“There's some cheap motels on the beach.”
“Will we . . . be safe?”
“Good-bye, Anna,” he said.
It was eleven-forty-five when Valentine walked into Gino's restaurant. His son had an appetite that wouldn't quit, and he was sharing a plate of fried calamari with his fiancee. Putting a gob of tentacles into his mouth, he said, “You want some?”
Valentine said no and pulled up a chair. The table was covered with empty plates and glasses. Hanging out in the supermarket had made him hungry, but now all he felt was numb.
“Something to drink? Coffee?”
Valentine said no. He felt Yolanda's hand on his wrist. He'd already learned she was good at reading thoughts. Their eyes met, and she said, “You okay . . . Dad?”
Valentine wasn't sure. He'd just discovered that everything didn't add up, and that was never okay.
The waitress brought the check. Gerry handed her the twenties his father had given him, then said, “Pop, do you mind helping out, here? I'm a little short.”
Leave it to his son to spend more than he had. Valentine took out his wallet and settled the bill.
27
What Is Sin?
Valentine did not say a word during the drive back to the Blue Dolphin. He walked Gerry and Yolanda to their room, then took the precaution of doing a once-over around the motel. He didn't think the Mollo brothers were stupid enough to come calling in broad daylight, but he'd learned that it was never wise to second-guess Neanderthals.
“I need to go out for a few hours,” he said upon returning to their room. “Promise me you won't do anything stupid, like sneak off to The Bombay to play Funny Money.”
“It was my idea,” Yolanda said.
