Frank stared at the number. Gene Ryan had made it out. Just for the hell of it, he dialed the number. It rang three times, then made a funny noise and stopped ringing. Frank tried it again, but he got a message saying the number was not in use. The phone had been disabled. Oh, what the hell, he thought, Gene Ryan was not important.

His phone rang again. “Yes?”

“The same guy,” his secretary said.

Once again, he pressed the flashing button. “Hello?”

“I forgot to tell you: the guy who got away took nearly half of the money with him—about two hundred thousand. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“I can’t help it if your people fucked up,” Frank said, and hung up. He reached into his desk drawer for some Rolaids. Gene Ryan had just become a lot more important.

—

Ryan dozed for a while, and when he woke up it was dark outside, and he was hungry. He opened his bag for some fresh clothes, and the sight of the money made him jump. He’d have to do a count at some point. He peeled a dozen hundreds off a stack for pocket money and put them into his wallet, then he changed into fresh clothes. He was about to stow the luggage again, but the sight of the money had made him not want to leave it. Then he had an idea; he unlatched the top berth and let it down, then put the suitcase on the bed and closed it again. There, that was better. If a thief wanted to rummage through his luggage, he could try the smaller case and steal his dirty laundry.

He locked the cabin door behind him and made his way to the dining car. The headwaiter seated him at a table for two, took his drink order, and left him with a menu. A moment later, a Chivas Regal on the rocks appeared before him, a double, as he had requested. A moment after that, as he was poring over the menu, a voice broke his train of thought.

“Excuse me, may I join you?” she asked.

Ryan looked up into a very large pair of eyes and his gaze dropped to her cleavage. She was bending over him slightly.

“Sure,” he said, half rising, “please do.”

She lowered herself into the chair and gazed at him with Mediterranean eyes. Italian? Jewish? he wondered.

“I’m Sylvia Mays,” she said, extending a hand.

“Gene Ryan,” he replied. The hand was soft and warm. She was wearing a tailored business suit that swelled to accommodate her breasts, which seemed to be fighting to get out. He wanted to help.

“You have a nice tan,” she said. “You must have gotten in some beach time.”

“A couple of days,” he said. “I was down on business, but that didn’t work out, so I thought I’d take the train home.”

“New York?”