“Sixty-five hundred. Thirteen envelopes all together.”
“Sixty-five hundreddollars?”
“Shhh!”I whispered, glancing at the people eating around us. Nobody heard him, though.
“Sorry. But geez, Thatch, what are you going to do with all that money? You really could buy a car and run away somewhere. Maybe buy a house in Florida or something. On the water with a boat, so you can go to Cuba if that Detective Brier catches up with you. Or maybe London.”
The truth was, I had no idea what I would do with the money. I couldn’t spend it. If I spent the money, even a little bit, I had to explain where it came from. Even giving money to Auntie Jo had been a problem. Luckily, we’d kept busy enough at the diner to keep our heads above water so I didn’t have to do that again. I really wanted to buy a new bike. I had a BMX Skyway with a silver frame and blue accents. It had been a great bike…ten years ago when it was manufactured. Now, though, the frame was covered in rust, the silver had flaked off in most parts, and there were so many holes in the seat I had taken an old Jackson Browne tee-shirt, wrapped it over the original seat, and covered the whole mess in duct tape. I worked four nights per week at Krendal’s, three hours each night, at minimum wage. That brought in a whopping thirty-nine dollars per week under the table. Buying a new bike was not an option. “It’s rainy day money,” I finally answered. “I gotta just keep it safe for now. I’ll figure out something.”
“You’re about to go to the big house for murder. I think it’s time to open the umbrella. I hope you at least stashed it someplace safe. Harwood in 107 got broken into just last week. Someone took their stereo and TV, trashed the place, too. Pulled everything out of every drawer and cabinet, sliced up the mattresses—the whole place got wrecked. They even dumped out his cat’s litter box. Who does that? Maybe you should move the cash to someplace safer, or spread it around a little bit so if someone does break in, they don’t get all of it.”
Dunk was right about that. I had spent more nights than I could count worrying about it. A few months back, I had taken a knife to the pages of my hardcover copy ofThe Iliad, a monstrously large book I never had any intention of reading again. I hollowed out the center and placed the money inside, then I put the book in a box at the bottom of my closet, a box filled with a dozen other books. Three more boxes of books rested on top of that one. It was hidden pretty good, but no place was good enough. This was better than my sock drawer, though. The money spent a good chunk of last year there, too.
“Somebody’s back,” Dunk said softly. He had pulled his milkshake glass close again and pretended to drink while eyeing the alley sidelong. “Looks like a detective.”
The man did look like a detective. He wore a rumpled dark gray suit with a red tie. Probably around Auntie Jo’s age, late thirties or early forties. His hair was brown, short on the sides and a little longer on top. The wind picked it up and ruffled it, but he didn’t seem to care. “What’s he doing?”
“Just standing there, staring.”
“Is he alone?”
“I think so. He was there yesterday, too. I recognize him. He’s probably the detective they mentioned in the paper.”
“Maybe.” I glanced back down at the newspaper between us and located his name. “Faustino Brier.”
“What kind of name is Faustino?” Dunk asked. “Doesn’t even make for a good nickname. Tino, maybe?”
“Too much like Dino from the Flintstones. Maybe Faust, but I don’t think he’d like that too much.”
“Why?”
“Faust was an old German guy who made a deal with the devil. He gave up his soul in exchange for unlimited knowledge and lots of possessions,” I explained. My English teacher, Mrs. Orgler, gave me the book to read over the summer. It only took me a week, then I read it a second time. I loved anything with magic.
“I amsogoing to do that when I turn sixteen and need a car,” Dunk said.
“It doesn’t end well for Faust. Turns out you need your soul much more than you need stuff.”
“A cherry red Mustang, ’66 or ’67, with a rag top and eight cylinders under the hood,” Dunk said. “Think I can get a million dollars and a cool house, too? I need a garage for the car and money for gas.”
“For your soul, I think you’d be lucky to get a Ford Pinto with holes in the floor pan and maybe a stack of food stamps to hold you through the winter. Even the devil is a business man. He knows a bargain when he sees it.”
“It doesn’t have to be aniceMustang. I can fix it up. I’ve got skills.”
I sat up a little in my seat, trying to get a better view across the street. “Where’d he go? I don’t see him.” A large white delivery truck with Budweiser stenciled on the side in large, flowing letters had pulled up and double-parked on Brownsville in front of Carmine’s. I couldn’t see past it.
“I got the same view you do—Joe Beer Guy is in the way. Maybe we should go out there.”
“No way.”
Five minutes later, the beer truck pulled away. There was no sign of the detective. “Maybe he went in the alley. His car is still out there.”
“Do all cops drive Crown Vics?” I asked.
“If the devil won’t give me a Mustang, I’d settle for a Crown Vic. I’m not picky. As long as it has one of the cool floodlights built into the driver’s side.”
We were both staring out the window. Neither of us saw the detective push through the door and step into the diner.
Dunk spotted him first, then kicked me under the table.
