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“We can duplicate them,” Mike said.
“I paid all that money for keys that can’t be duplicated, unless you go to Israel, but you can duplicate them?”
“Let’s say that we have a little corner of Israel in our cellar, just for occasions like this.”
“Just don’t lose any.”
“Old money is cheap,” Stone said.
“I thought you were new money, Joan,” Mike said.
“She is,” Stone replied, “but her money is old.”
“Let me see your .45,” Mike said to her.
Joan reached under her skirt and produced the weapon.
“This is filthy,” Mike said, examining it.
“I haven’t sent the laundry out yet,” Joan replied.
“We’ll get you a cleaning kit and show you how to disassemble it.”
“I thought guns were self-cleaning.”
“You’ve been watching too many infomercials on TV. Guns aren’t like that. If you don’t take care of them, they can blow up in your face.”
“Bring me a cleaning kit,” Joan said, “and put it on my bill.”
“We’ll throw that in with the family rate.”
“Even better.”
Mike stood up. “Okay, I’m going over to your house and position my people.”
“Can I have my .45 back?”
“Not until we’ve cleaned it.”
“Will I recognize it?”
“Barely,” Mike said. He put the gun into his briefcase and left.
—
At five o’clock, Stone buzzed Joan.
“Yes, sir?”
“Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“I can get a cab.”
“I want to do the walk-through with you and see what Mike’s setup is.”
“But then you’ll know everything.”
“Come on, I promise to stay out of your underwear drawer.”
