She looked away and crossed her arms. Embarrassed. Back at the boy. Bounce, bounce. “When I met Charlie DeLuca all I knew about the mafia was Al Pacino. I was working as a waitress on Seventh Avenue in the Village and Charlie introduced me to his father and the old man said he could help me get a better job and I said sure. Nobody said anything about the mafia.”

“They never do.”

“I came out to Chelam and met with the woman who used to be the manager here and she hired me as a teller. I rented a little house. I started taking night classes at the college in Brunly. I didn’t see Charlie again for months.”

“Then he needed a favor.”

She gave me the eyes.

I said, “It would’ve been Charlie’s father, Sal. He would’ve said that he was in a bind with a couple of business partners and he needed a place to put some money and could you open an account for him that no one would know about and maybe transfer the money out of the country without reporting it to the IRS.”

She shook her head and made the kind of smile you make when you feel stupid and used. “Is it so obvious?”

I made a little shrug. “You weren’t thinking in terms of crime. You were helping a friend. It’s the way they do it.”