A gust of air had struck his neck as he thrust at the canvas. Sandy tensed. He had felt it too. Ken hoped that Barrack’s coat collar was high enough so that he hadn’t noticed. He reached for another torn bill. Sandy kept talking.
One by one Ken scribbled on the bits of paper and pushed them down the crack alongside the tarpaulin. Each time he did so the wind blew in, sharp and cold, and he held his breath. But Barrack apparently didn’t feel the draught.
When Ken finished the halves in his own pocket he reached for those in Sandy’s, thankful that they happened to be on the side next to himself.
“What’s the penalty for counterfeiting these days?” Sandy asked Barrack. The cheerfulness in his voice indicated to Ken that he had felt Ken’s hand—that he knew the sixth bit of paper was on its way outside.
Barrack didn’t answer.
“Six?” Sandy pressed. “Years, I mean,” he added quickly.
Ken shoved one more paper outside. “Seven maybe.”
Sandy seemed to be considering, until another cold draft struck their necks. “Or eight,” he said.
Barrack was still silent.
The truck swerved sharply and stopped a moment later. “We can settle on ten, I guess,” Ken said. “That’ll hold him for a while.”