Fuck 'em. Paint."
"Let me get this one," Oliver said.
"It's no use." George pushed his empty glass across the bar. "That was
a great party at your place. Eats. Bazumas."
"Jacky," Oliver said.
"And that Martha chick--the real estate chick--she wants to look at my
paintings. Maybe she'll buy one."
"She's got the money," Oliver said. "Sell her a big one and go down and
paint Jacky."
"I'd like to," George said. "Something about her . . ."
"Yeah," Oliver said. "Those were the days." Oliver had thought life was
complicated when he used to drive over the bridge to Jacky's. "
Bazumas!" he toasted.
"The finest," George said.
A pint later, Oliver reached in his pocket for tip money and felt a
small thick square. On his way back to the parking garage he dropped
Suzanne's note carefully into a city trash container.
20.
On Friday, Oliver left the hospital fifteen minutes after Suzanne drove
out of the parking lot. It had been a tense week. He wasn't any closer
to the missing $185,000, and he didn't understand what was happening to
him personally. He had avoided Suzanne, although at least once a day he
put his head in her door and they exchanged smiles, a moment that was a
relief to both of them.
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