“Quite. If I may finish?”
“Of course. Be my guest,” said Spider, cheerfully.
“And the happiness of every soul at the Grahame Coats Agency is as important to me as my own.”
“I cannot tell you,” said Spider, “how happy that makes me.”
“Yes,” said Grahame Coats.
“Well, I better get back to work,” said Spider. “It’s been a blast, though. Next time you want to share some more, just call me. You know where I am.”
“Happiness,” said Grahame Coats. His voice was taking on a faintly strangulated quality. “And what I wonder, Nancy, Charles, is this—are you happy here? And do you not agree that you might be rather happier elsewhere?”
“That’s not what I wonder,” said Spider. “You want to know what I wonder?”
Grahame Coats said nothing. It had never gone like this before. Normally, at this point, their faces fell, and they went into shock. Sometimes they cried. Grahame Coats had never minded when they cried.
“What I wonder,” said Spider, “is what the accounts in the Cayman Islands are for. You know, because it almost sort of looks like money that should go to our client accounts sometimes just goes into the Cayman Island accounts instead. And it seems a funny sort of way to organize the finances, for the money coming in to rest in those accounts. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I was hoping you could explain it to me.”
Grahame Coats had gone off-white—one of those colors that turn up in paint catalogs with names like “parchment” or “magnolia.” He said, “How did you get access to those accounts?”
“Computers,” said Spider. “Do they drive you as nuts as they drive me? What can you do?”
Grahame Coats thought for several long moments. He had always liked to imagine that his financial affairs were so deeply tangled that, even if the Fraud Squad were ever able to conclude that financial crimes had been committed, they would find it extremely difficult to explain to a jury exactly what kind of crimes they were.
“There’s nothing illegal about having offshore accounts,” he said, as carelessly as possible.
“Illegal?” said Spider. “I should hope not. I mean, if I saw anything illegal, I should have to report it to the appropriate authorities.”
Grahame Coats picked up a pen from his desk, then he put it down again. “Ah,” he said. “Well, delightful though it is to chat, converse, spend time, and otherwise hobnob with you, Charles, I suspect that both of us have work we should be getting on with. Time and tide, after all, wait for no man. Procrastination is the thief of time.”
“Life is a rock,” suggested Spider, “but the radio rolled me.”
“Whatever.”
FAT CHARLIE WAS STARTING TO FEEL HUMAN AGAIN. HE WAS NO longer in pain; slow, intimate waves of nausea were no longer sweeping over him. While he was not yet convinced that the world was a fine and joyous place, he was no longer in the ninth circle of hangover hell, and this was a good thing.
Daisy had taken over the bathroom. He had listened to the taps running, and then to some contented splashes.
He knocked on the bathroom door.
“I’m in here,” said Daisy. “I’m in the bath.”
“I know,” said Fat Charlie. “I mean, I didn’t know, but I thought you probably were.”
“Yes?” said Daisy.
“I just wondered,” he said, through the door. “I wondered why you came back here. Last night.”
“Well,” she said. “You were a bit the worse for wear. And your brother looked like he needed a hand. I’m not working this morning, so. Voilà.”
“Voilà,” said Fat Charlie. On the one hand, she felt sorry for him. And on the other, she really liked Spider. Yes. He’d only had a brother for a little over a day, and already he felt there would be no surprises left in this new family relationship. Spider was the cool one; he was the other one.
She said, “You have a lovely voice.”
“What?”
“You were singing in the taxi, when we were going home. Unforgettable. It was lovely.”
He had somehow put the karaoke incident out of his mind, placed it in the dark places one disposes of inconvenient things. Now it came back, and he wished it hadn’t.
“You were great,” she said. “Will you sing to me later?”
Fat Charlie thought desperately, and then was saved from thinking desperately by the doorbell.
“Someone at the door,” he said.
He went downstairs and opened the door and things got worse. Rosie’s mother gave him a look that would have curdled milk. She said nothing. She was holding a large white envelope.
“Hello,” said Fat Charlie. “Mrs. Noah. Nice to see you. Um.”
She sniffed and held the envelope in front of her. “Oh,” she said. “You’re here. So. You going to invite me in?”