Smalls said nothing.
“Get in the car, Frankie,” Teddy said. “We’re leaving.”
“We’re not done testing,” Archibald said. “Frankie, don’t you want to know where you stand?”
“Where he stands?” Teddy said, mocking. “Where he stands is with me. Let’s go.”
Frankie followed his father out of the room. The morning sky glowed peach, but the sun was hiding behind the motel, waiting for the coast to clear. They walked to Teddy’s latest Buick, a turquoise Park Avenue. The passenger’s side door was locked.
Teddy made no move to get into the car or unlock it.
“What the hell were you doing with those bloodsuckers? In God damn southern Illinois?”
Frankie hesitated. Did his father know about the casino or not? “I don’t know how they found me,” Frankie said truthfully. “Smalls arrested me, brought me here, and the next thing I know Archibald is putting wires on my fingers.”
“There’s no such thing as a coincidence,” Teddy said. “What did you do?”
“Wait, how did you find me?”
Before Teddy could answer, a white taxi pulled into the parking lot and stopped just behind them. Buddy climbed out of the back, and the driver rolled down his window. Buddy reached into his pocket and withdrew a pile of casino chips. He put them in the driver’s hands. Then he reached into his other pocket and repeated the procedure. The taxi pulled away.
“Where the hell have you been?” Frankie said.
Buddy ambled toward them wearing a sleepy smile. He stood next to the rear door of the Buick and waited patiently, hands in his now-empty pockets.
“Jesus Christ,” Teddy said. “I am truly blessed.”
The back room of the Laundromat smelled of perfumed detergent and bleach and motor oil. Nick Pusateri Senior stood behind a large wooden table, a mound of loose quarters in front of him, and a stack of filled coin sleeves off to the side. At first glance Frankie thought Nick must be bagging the coins, but it was just the opposite; he was ripping them open and dumping them into the pile. He gestured for Frankie to sit in a plastic chair, then said nothing as he broke open another tube. Finally he glanced at him and said, “You got heat stroke or something?”
Frankie chuckled. It wasn’t a convincing laugh, but it was the best he could manage. Was he really that red-faced? He felt himself sweating through his shorts. How was he supposed to go through with the plan if his body kept betraying him?
The plan was simple: delay, grovel, and charm. All he needed was for Nick to say he’d accept the money in four days. As long as he would agree to that, Frankie could abide all threats, consent to any punishment, acquiesce to any repayment terms, no matter how Shylockian—as long as they took effect after Monday. After Labor Day, Frankie’s labors would be over, and he’d pay back Nick with his own God damn money.
“It’s nothing,” Frankie said. “Summer heat gets to me.”
Nick snorted. “It’s the humidity.” He picked up another full coin sleeve, weighed it in his hands, and swore. He tore that one open, too, and dumped the quarters into the pile. “Chicago in August makes me want to move to God damn Iceland.” Nick’s pompadour was shot through with gray, but he was holding on to his Fonz look. He wore a robin’s egg–blue Tommy Bahama shirt open to expose a gold chain tangled in gray chest hair. His arms were ropy, and his knuckles seemed abnormally large. He frowned at another sleeve, then tore that one open, too.
What the hell was up with the quarters?
“Your dad, he could do things with coins,” Nick said. “Chips, too. Roll them over his hands, pull them out of the air. Hell of a man.”
Frankie started to ask, Is there a problem with the coin bags? and then thought better of it. Delay, grovel, and above all, charm.
Nick said, “I’m surprised you didn’t bring him with you.”
“Who, my dad? Why would I bring him into this?”
Nick looked up. “You two don’t talk much, do you?”
“We talk,” Frankie said defensively. While another part of his brain loudly demanded, What did Teddy say? What does he know about this? “Just not about business. I don’t involve him in this stuff at all. He’s retired.”
Nick nodded. “I hear he’s pretty frail these days.”
“I guess he’s slowing down a bit,” Frankie said. He wouldn’t have described Teddy as frail, but hey: charm.
“Time catches up to all of us,” Nick said. He picked up another sleeve, gripped it, then said, “Assholes!”
“What’s the matter?” Frankie asked. He couldn’t stop himself.
“These cheating motherfuckers,” Nick said. “You got to check every single roll. Sometimes they short it a quarter, or put a nickel in there, or some Canadian shit. If you want something you gotta do it yourself.”
“But—”
“But what?”
Frankie was going to say, Was it really worth your time to check every single roll of quarters, then rebag them yourself? Instead, he said, “But what else are you going to do, right?”
Nick stared at him. “Who would have thought little Frankie would be sitting here in that chair?” He wrapped his fingers around the roll.
Hot bile rose from Frankie’s stomach to his throat. He clamped down, steadied himself. Delay, grovel, and charm. From the front of the shop came the hum of huge dryers. There were customers out there, customers who’d come running if Frankie started screaming. Or go running, out of the place. Either way, possible witnesses who could be tracked down by the police in case Frankie was murdered here.
Finally he could take a breath. “I want to say, right off the bat, I meant no disrespect to you or your sister for failing to make my payments. I know that was wrong, and I sincerely wish to make amends. I also want to assure you that I can pay you, in full, on Monday.”
Nick squinted at him. “Really?”
Frankie nodded.
“Well, that would be incredible news.” He set down the roll and ran his hands through the pile of quarters. “Where’s this money coming from, if not Teddy?”
“I have friends.”
“But do you have assets? That’s what I’m interested in. Tell me about those.”
“Assets?”
“That van you drove up in. I figure it’s worth fifteen thousand Blue Book. You own it?”
“I owe sixteen on it.”
“Ouch. Okay, but still. Inventory. How about the family car, what are you driving?”
“A ninety-one Toyota Corolla.”
“Good shape?”
“It has a pretty big dent in the hood.”
“I know a guy can do dents. Let’s call it five K. And the house?”
Frankie tried to smile. “I don’t know why the house matters. I’ll have the money on Monday.”
Nick made a hurry-up gesture. “How much do you think it’s worth?”
“Uh, I don’t know.” He didn’t like where this was going. “We paid sixty-eight thousand six years ago. So maybe seventy? Seventy-five if we got lucky?”
“How much do you owe on it?”
“Mr. Pusateri—”
“How much.”
Frankie tried to think. A band had tightened around his chest, forcing open the pores across his body. He was full of holes, gushing like a lawn sprinkler. “Loretta’s parents loaned us twenty-five grand for a down payment, so—”
“That’s family. How much to the bank?”
“Thirty-five? Thirty-four, maybe.”
“Well, there you go. Money just sitting around.” Nick walked to a metal desk in the corner, picked up a phone.
Frankie tried to breathe. Abide all threats, he told himself. Four more days. After Monday, after Labor Day, none of this would matter.