“Something screwy somewhere,” she said.

“Should we say a hundred dollars to Mrs. Cool?”

The little woman nodded.

“One hundred dollars,” the chief said.

“Make it two hundred,” Bertha Cool said.

“A hundred and fifty,” Mrs. Cunweather said to her husband, “and if she doesn’t want that, give her nothing.”

“All right,” Bertha Cool said, “a hundred and fifty.”

The fat man turned to his wife. “Do you happen to have a hundred and fifty, m’love?”

“No.”

“My wallet is upstairs. Would you mind running up and getting it?”

“Take it out of your belt,” she said.

He moistened his lips again, and said, “I’ll tell you, Mrs. Cool, you go ahead and tell us, and I’ll guarantee that you’ll have the hundred and fifty. I’ll promise it.”

“You get the hundred and fifty,” she said.

He sighed with resignation, got to his feet, and opened the top part of his pajamas. His belly was huge, white, and flabby. A chamois-skin money belt circled his middle. It had been soaked and discolored with perspiration. He opened one of the pockets and took out two hundred-dollar bills.

“That’s the smallest you have?” Bertha Cool asked.

“That’s the smallest.”

“It’s going to take nearly all of my small change.”

“I’m sorry. That’s absolutely the smallest.”

Bertha Cool fished around in her purse, then looked hopefully at me. “Got any money, Donald?” she asked.

“Not a nickel,” I said.

She counted out her money and said, “I have to save five dollars for the taxi bill. I’ve got forty dollars in change. I’ll give you thirty-five. Call it square for that or you can go upstairs and get your wallet.”

“We’ll call it square for that,” he said. “I wouldn’t walk upstairs to save fifteen dollars.”

“Bring over the two hundred, Donald,” she said.

The fat man extended the money to me. I carried it over to Mrs. Cool. She gave me the change in one-dollar, five-dollar, and ten-dollar bills. I took them over to Cunweather. He passed them over to his wife. “Put that somewhere,” he said. “I don’t want that chicken-feed in my money belt.” He closed the flap of his money belt, buttoned up his pajamas, tucked the coat down in the pants, looked across at me, and said, “Does Lam do the talking?”

“Lam does the talking,” Mrs. Cool said.

I said, “Sandra gave Morgan Birks a—”

“Never mind that, Donald,” she said. “That’s betraying the interest of a client. Just tell him what happened about Morgan, how we found him, and how we served him. But don’t tell him the name or address of Morgan’s sweetie.”