Moondogs - Alexander Yates [130]
“You found out about her,” Hon said. “I already know. Bobby told me how you cornered him last weekend. He shouldn’t have said anything. She’s none of his business.”
Alice perked up and shifted in her chair. Benicio hoped she’d excuse herself, but she didn’t. “That’s not what I want to talk about,” he said.
“Good,” Hon said, “because she’s none of my business, either.”
“I know she’s not. She’s nobody’s business but Howard’s.”
Hon nodded. His eyes had dried, but his cheeks were still wet, and fluorescent light shimmered off of them. “Well, what else can I tell you?” he asked.
Benicio leaned forward. “I want to know where Howard stands—money-wise. Why is there cash hidden all over his suite?”
Hon went from looking sad to just plain uncomfortable. He pulled his fingers from the cherry bowl and wiped them clean on a cocktail napkin. “Is this really the best time to be thinking bad thoughts about Howie?”
“I’m not thinking bad thoughts. But I want to know why he has eight thousand euros in his tissue box.”
Again, Alice straightened. Her leg touched Benicio’s under the table, but if it was a signal, he ignored it.
“You think Howie’s not straight with you?” Hon asked.
“I know he’s not straight with me. I’d like you to be.” Benicio tried to scooch his chair a little closer to Hon, but because of the deep carpet all he did was rock forward and back. “Was my father … is he into something illegal?”
“Illegal?” Hon grimaced and snorted. “You need laws for illegal. That’s cash-on-hand.” He said it as a single word. “That’s workable business work.”
“It’s a lot of cash on hand.”
“We have a lot of business.”
“How much? How much money has he hidden away?”
Hon’s expression completely hardened. He finished his ice water and set the glass down roughly. “Your father, my friend, is in some big-time trouble. We don’t know where he is. And all you want to know is how much money he has?”
“That’s not all I want to know,” Benicio said. “That’s all that you can tell me.”
Hon moved his tongue over his teeth. He pulled a little pencil out of his suit pocket—it looked like something a bookie would use, or a mini-golfer—and carefully etched a number on the syrup-smeared cocktail napkin. He slid the napkin across the table and snapped his hands back, like it was a dirty note passed in class. Alice made a show of not looking at it.
Benicio picked up the napkin and counted zeroes—five, six, seven of them—enough to render the preceding digit almost meaningless. Enough to make this situation with Solita and June a lot more complicated than it had been. Hon patted down his lapels and pants pockets in preparation to leave. “That’s only more or less,” he said. “Not counting his private investments or bonds, which I don’t know about. Not our establishments either, which are all half-half, anyway. Howie’s very liquid.” He stood and looked down at them, quietly. It was plain that he wanted to say something else before leaving and was working out the wording. Finally he mumbled: “Maybe Howie doesn’t deserve better than you. But I wish he had it.”
“Hey,” Alice said. “Hey. You’re upset. But that’s enough.”
“That’s right,” Hon said, turning to her as though he could persuade her to switch sides. As though there were sides. “Yes. I’m upset. I shouldn’t be the only one.”
“You’re not the only one,” Benicio said.
“Well …” Hon’s chin crinkled. Another tear jumped down his cheek. “Good, I guess.” They were all quiet for a moment and then, without another word, Hon left. A busboy came by and cleared the mug and cherry bowl off the table. He must have been watching them, because he knew not to touch the napkin. Benicio folded it over a few times and put it into his pants pocket.
“I knew there was a woman,” Alice said. “That’s why you two didn’t talk for so long, isn’t it? You never said as much, but I knew it.” She touched his leg under the table again. “What happened?”
“I caught him,