“Malone,” Burris said, in a voice of steel.
“Sorry,” Malone mumbled. “But, really, I’m not some young, innocent girl in a Victorian novel.”
“No,” Burris said, a trifle sadly, “you’re not. But there is one going along on the trip with the rest of you.”
“There is?” Malone said. “Who is she? Rebecca?”
“Her name’s Luba,” Burris said. “Luba Garbitsch.”
“Garbitsch’s wife?” Malone said.
Burris shook his head. “His daughter,” he said. “And don’t tell me there isn’t any such name as Luba. I know there isn’t. But what would you pick to go with Garbitsch?”
“Wastepaper basket,” Malone said instantly. “Grapefruit rinds. Lemon peels. Coffee grounds.”
“Damn it, Malone,” Burris said, “this is serious.”
“Well,” Malone said, “it doesn’t sound serious. What are we doing, deporting the entire family?”