Eventually I reach the bottom of the trunk. I’ve cleared it enough that I can lift one edge of the panel BMW thoughtfully cut away in the floor. No telling why. There isn’t really a compartment under here. There’s only a red gas tank with maybe an inch between it and the floor of the trunk. The Germans came up with a lot of unusual extras—special little airbags for my knees? One of their engineers must have known I would need this secret spot.
Carefully spread on that red gas tank are rows and rows of bills neatly bundled with rubber bands. Red and green, my own private Christmas. I don’t know how many of them I have. I don’t know how many I need, but counting them out here on the street doesn’t seem a good idea—even though there’s nobody around.
There’s no one out here on these roads. There’s no one doing business in these shabby stores. Yes, this is exactly what I want.
I stuff a few bundles into my purse and let old Les do the counting, but he takes one look at all those hundreds, and his hands begin to shake. He gets a tick in one eye. He pulls down the clattering Venetian blinds to block the windows that face the street, deserted as it is, slides his chair closer to a gooseneck lamp, and, swallowing hard and fast, his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down, he holds a bill up to the light.
I get a flash of worry too. Could Carlton have taken some counterfeits? “I sold a car,” I say. “The man who bought it seemed really nice, so I didn’t ask him any questions.”
By then old Les has so many twitches I’m wondering if I should have tried to find a younger realtor, in some other one-street town. If he collapses and I have to call 911, don’t the cops sometimes come too?
Because I definitely understand stress. Recently we got a new garbage man who is actually slim. Then there have been these odd clicks on our phones, and a drab blue van has been parked on our street. No one in our neighborhood would drive such a stripped-down van.
Luckily, Les makes it through those bills without a medical emergency. “This is a lot of money,” he says.
“Good. I was hoping it was.”
“There’s twenty thousand dollars here.”
“Terrific.” And there’s still bundles and bundles of the stuff in my car.
“What I’m trying to say is this is probably more than—”
“So it’s enough? I can move in today?”
His hands are still shaking as he puts the money in his safe and spins the lock a whole bunch of times. “I’m sure Mrs. Miller will be impressed by your commitment,” he says.
*
It’s quiet in the tech room that night. The headset is silent. The special agent is catching up on her paperwork.
“No soap opera anymore,” she says when another agent comes in. “The wife split.”
“Not unexpected,” says the other agent. “We can find her any time.”
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