He had briefly brought her up to date on what had happened since she had seen him last, and was at the moment finishing the last of the lasagna he had ordered.
"They're phonies, honey, real phonies," he said. "I'll bet my last buck on that."
She was looking at the last piece of steak on her plate. With an almost defiant gesture she speared it and put it in her mouth.
"Atta girl," he said.
"Mind your own business," she said. "How do you mean they're phonies?"
"I spent all Monday investigating them!"
"A fine way to make a dollar," she said. "What do you care who they are?"
He gave her a knowing smile. "That's my fat-headed girl. Like to visit me in a nice jail, wouldn't you? One with a prestige address, of course. Let me tell you. They rented that shack, and the dump heap next to it for a pretty fancy figure. Robert Reeger said they were going to do printing in that shack. They paid in full for the two years rental, in nice crisp hundred-dollar bills...."
"I get it! They were phony," she exulted.
"How can you be so stupid? I know. For you it's easy. Of course the bills were genuine. But the printing business—what were they going to print with, typewriters? Another thing. There's no business record I could find on them; they're not listed. So how did they get a million dollars, and Robert said more. 'Report here, no matter what the time.' I don't get it. I drove them out. There was no garage, no car I could see, and the place is miles from food. How do they live out there?"