TWENTY-FIVE

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Walt Rathka said.

She set the two Whole Foods bags on the floor by his desk. She could hear the traffic on Fifth Avenue, twelve stories below.

“Thought your diet could use a little improvement,” she said. “More natural foods, less processed.”

There were fruit and vegetables in both bags. Beneath them, a sheet of newspaper, then neat stacks of banded bills.

“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. He was in his late fifties, wore a dark suit with a blue club tie and suspenders. “Thanks for thinking of me. How natural?”

She took the seat opposite his desk, tapped her left ear.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Things have calmed down a bit. And I’m having this place swept once a week now. It’s expensive, but you can’t put a price on peace of mind, can you?”

“No,” she said. “You can’t.” She nodded at the bags. “One-sixty. Give or take.”

He gave a low whistle. “In two weeks? I hope that didn’t involve any unnecessary risk.”

“Unexpected,” she said. “But not unnecessary.”

“Cryptic as always. And how fresh would these provisions be?”

“Very. Raw, actually. They could use a good washing.”

“Ah,” he said. “That’s good to know. You have a preference as to the method?”

“Whatever needs topping off. But I want you to set up something else, too, another offshore account, with a monthly payout to a name and address I’ll give you.”

“Another one? How much?”

“Five hundred a month. For now.”

“Five hundred,” he said. “That adds up. You’re being generous.”

“But you can do it?”

“Take me a couple weeks, but I think I can get it going for you. How are things besides that?”

“Good enough,” she said.

“That’s not very convincing.”

“It is what it is.”

“Money to spend but nothing to spend it on?” he said.

“Something like that.”

“Well, you’re very practical-minded, I know. But if someday you’re interested in entering the world of fine art acquisition, let me know. I could make some suggestions.”

She smiled. “I don’t think so. It would be wasted on me. I wouldn’t know the good from the bad.”

“Who does? It’s not about good and bad. Anyway, that’s all relative.”

“Isn’t everything?” she said.

*   *   *

The man in the guayabera shirt put on his reading glasses, looked at the sheet of paper Crissa had given him. They were in the back office of a storefront insurance company in Jersey City. All the signs in the front window were in Spanish.

“I’ll need another picture, of course,” he said. “You want to take it now?”

“No. I’ll come back tomorrow. I need to make some alterations first.”

She set the thick manila envelope on the desk. “Same as last time. Half now, half when it’s ready.”

He sat back, took off his glasses. “Señora, I have no problem taking your money, you know that. And I’ll always be grateful to my cousin Hector”—he crossed himself—“for introducing us. But I have to ask: The other two aren’t good enough? You need a third?”

“You’re an artist, Emilio. The best. But this one I want for a specific purpose, and one purpose only. And no passport this time, just a driver’s license, birth certificate, and credit card. They need to hold up to a general background check, though, so they have to be solid.”

He picked up the paper again. “I don’t even know what a Texas license looks like. I’ll have to do some research.”

“I’m sure you can work it out.”

He set his glasses on the desk. “I’ve never thought of you as a customer, señora. More as a colleague.”

“Likewise.”

“But I can’t help be concerned. Every time I take on one of these, it increases our risk.”

“That’s what the money’s for.”

“Si. But it’s not just about the money. When I worked for the DMV in Newark, I could run off licenses all day. No one cared as long as the supervisors got their cut. But these days, no one looks the other way. It’s a federal thing. Prison, maybe.”

“Risks we take.”

“And you’re only going to use it for one thing?”

“And one thing only,” she said. “Four times a year. Five at most. Only one or two people will ever see it. I just need to keep it separate from the others. Those are for emergencies.”

He nodded. “I’ll do the best I can for you, Miss…” He looked at the paper. “Patrick?”

“That’s right,” she said.

“Shana Patrick, from Austin, Texas. That’s a good Anglo name. I like that name.”

“Let’s hope it’s a lucky one,” she said.