I decide to take Steve and Sandy to the Coral Court Motel, where a lot of us hackies got an arrangement. We make a couple of stops—a drugstore for Steve to buy some shaving gear, then a liquor store for some bourbon and cigarettes. After that Steve gives me five twenties, saying, ‘Here’s some money on account.’

I get them checked in at the Coral Court around five. Registered as Mr. and Mrs. Robert White of Chicago. I help them haul that damn footlocker and suitcase up to room 49-A on the second floor. I hang around a while. We have some drinks, some laughs. Steve talks about how he likes to go on benders for three or four days at a crack. How it’s nothing to him to spend two or three G’s on a good time.

That footlocker and suitcase are just sitting on the floor by the wall. Steve goes over and cracks open the suitcase and pulls out a fistful of bills. Sandy and me can see in for a second and it looks like the damn suitcase is jammed with money. Steve goes over to the bed and starts counting what he grabbed, but is too drunk to make a go of it. He has me do it and it’s $2,480. He takes a twenty from his pocket and makes it an even $2,500, and says, ‘Johnny, hold onto this for me.’

He says he wants to go nightclubbing and needs some fresh clothes and I should use part of the twenty-five hundred to buy him a nice white silk shirt, some underwear, some socks. Sandy says she is not dressed for an evening out and asks me to go to her place and get her some things.

Which is how I got away from there for a while.

But before I go Steve grabs my arm and says, ‘Johnny, you seem like you know people. You cabbies always do.’ And I say I suppose I do. And he asks if I know anybody who would buy marked money off him. Money where the serial numbers have been recorded.

And I say I might.

So I come here, fill in Mr. Costello, who already seems to know about this Steve spreading money around town while he drinks like a fish. For now Sandy’s keeping him busy.

That’s about it.

* * *

Costello said, “Thanks, Johnny. Wait outside a minute. Nate will be joining you, I think.”

Hagan got up, gave me a little grin and a nod and went out, cap still in hand.

I said, “The woman with this Strand character could be the one who picked Bobby Greenlease up at that Catholic school. And Strand himself could be ‘M,’ the guy making phone calls and writing letters who got the ransom payoff last night.”

“Could be,” Costello said. “But if he’s the insurance man he claims, and it’s money he embezzled, or otherwise stolen…and needs laundering…that’s my business and not the FBI or cops or nobody’s.”