“I gave her a call, but yeah. I should get home.”

Steve leaned in and put a hand on Hagan’s. “One more thing. Before you come by the motor court tomorrow morning, rent me a car and buy me a nice leather suitcase and a briefcase.”

That sounded like two things. Or three.

“All right,” Hagan said.

“Dig into that dough I gave you.”

“Sure.”

Sandy, sitting next to Steve between him and Hagan, perked up. “Oh! I love that song. Johnny, come dance with me.”

“Vaya Con Dios” by Les Paul and Mary Ford had started up on the jukebox.

They went off to dance.

A waitress brought another round of beers. The third.

Steve said, “So, Nate—you were in the war, too?”

“I was.”

“What branch?”

“Marines.”

The dull eyes got a little lively. “You’re shittin’ me! Same here! Well, Semper Fi, Mac! Where did you serve?”

“Guadalcanal. Second Marines. I was wounded and sent home. My war lasted less than a year.”

His chest puffed up. “Oh, I was in for the duration.…First Marine Division—New Britain, Peleliu, Okinawa campaigns. Made sergeant.”

“What did you do over there?”

“…Oh, whatever they asked me to.”

“What was your job? Mine was trying not to get my ass shot off in a foxhole.”

“Uh.…telephone equipment repairman.”

I managed not to laugh. Deadpan, I said, “Where the hell would we have been without communications? Listen, while we have a moment alone…” Sandy and Hagan were dancing to “Crying in the Chapel” by June Valli now. “…we can talk money.”

He folded his hands and tried to look calm, but the eyes were lively again. “Why don’t we?”

“Depends on the nature of the currency,” I said. “Bank money could have some marked bills mixed in, so maybe fifty cents on the dollar. If it’s insurance money, why is it in cash? What’s the story there?”

He merely shrugged. No answer beyond that.

“If it’s out of a company safe and you don’t figure the serial numbers are recorded,” I said, “you can get an even higher return. Much as seventy-five, eighty cents on the dollar. But if it’s something like this kidnapping that’s in the papers, well, that could mean twenty, even fifteen cents on the dollar. Money doesn’t get much hotter.”

Steve’s laugh seemed forced. “You don’t think that’s what this is? Do I look like that kind of guy?”

You do, Steve. You really, really do.

“It’s insurance money, okay?” he blurted. “Everything would have gone fine if this one guy hadn’t made a mistake.”

If Steve was trying to wash the ransom money, did this remark indicate three accomplices? Steve, the blowsy broad he maybe already dumped, and…who?

“Get in touch with your people in Chicago,” he said. “Tell ’em you got a line on a big bundle. Say I want seventy-five cents on the dollar, no questions asked.”

Sandy and Hagan joined us—apparently they didn’t care to dance to the “Theme from Dragnet” by Ray Anthony—and we gathered our things. Hagan used Steve’s money to pay the check and we headed out.