I told her about my revenge on Topper the attempted rapist and the guy at the transient's hotel in
Brooklyn, and, finally, I told her about stealing the money.
"You did what?" She sat straight up in her chair, her eyes wide, her mouth open.
"Shhh."
Other diners were staring at us, frozen in silent tableau, some with forks or spoons halfway
to mouth.
Millie was blinking her eyes rapidly. Much quieter, she said, "You robbed a bank?"
"Shhh." My ears were burning. "Don't make a scene."
"Don't shush me! I didn't rob a bank." Fortunately she whispered it.
The waiter walked up then and took our drink order. Millie ordered a vodka martini. I asked
for a glass of white wine. I didn't know if it would help, but I figured it couldn't hurt.
"A million dollars?" she said, after the waiter left.
"Well, almost."
"How much of it is left?"
"Why?"
She blushed. "Curiosity. I must look like a proper little gold digger."
"About eight hundred thousand."
"Dollars!" The man at the next table spilled his water.
"Christ, Millie. You want me to leave you here? You're fifteen hundred miles away from
home you know.
