“Pull in here,” Harry said, nodding ahead at a motel.
Two of the letters in the neon sign—Pilgrim Pines—both capital P’s, were out. The es blinked and sizzled.
“This’ll give me a chance to think,” Harry said. “I’ve got to get out of town. Boston.”
“Harry,” Friday said, “you can’t run away.”
“Maybe New York,” he said.
Friday angled in toward the office.
“How much money do you have on you?” Harry asked. “If they’ve got an ATM, max out your cards. No, any machine they’ll have a low limit. Wait until we can hit a bank.”
“You want me to get a room?” Friday asked.
The sizzling neon reflection made Friday’s face look crumpled.
“Use cash,” Harry said. “And a phony name. Why the hell didn’t I ever get credit cards?”
“Yeah, Harry,” Friday said. “Why? Can you remember?”
Friday opened the car door. She headed into the office, head ducked.
Harry glanced at the ignition.
When she returned, Harry said, “You afraid I’d leave you alone here?”
She buckled her seat belt.
“You took the car key,” Harry said. “What’s wrong with you?”
“The what?” Friday said. “I took what?”
“You think I’d leave you,” Harry said.
“Leave? No,” Friday said. “What are you talking about?”
“Anyway I can’t,” Harry said, “’till you get me some cash.”
“Right,” Friday said, setting her jaw and trying not to cry.