R Is for Ricochet

"I told you I wanted someone supervising your end -"
    "This wasn't on my end."
    "Or so you say."
    Silence from Beck. "You know I wouldn't do this."
    "Do I? You've argued for a bigger cut of the action, which I can't… there's no way I can justify from my end. Now you say… missing, all I have is your word."
    "You think I'd lie?"
    "Let's call it inventory shrinkage. It's been known to happen. From my perspective, you're adequately compensated… don't see it that way. So maybe you siphon off a percentage of the goods and that satisfies your need for a pay increase. What better cover than claiming I shorted you?"
    "I never said that."
    "Then what?"
    "I said the total's off. Might be the… mistake…"
    "Yours. Not mine."
    "…"
    "Fix it."
    Silence. There was a stretch of pure hissing on the tape.
    Tightly Beck said, "Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it."
    "Make up the shortfall out of your end, which is where the loss occurred. My total's correct and I want full payment deposited to my account. In the meantime, not to worry. I know you're good for it. Pleasure doing business," Salustio said, and clicked off.
    Beck said, "Fuck!" as he banged down the phone.
    Cheney turned off the tape.
    I thought the conversation was interesting, but I wasn't clear why he wanted me to hear it. I was on the verge of making a comment when Cheney said, "A tightly packed bundle of hundred-dollar bills is one inch thick," he said. "That's twenty-five thousand dollars. I know because I asked the Treasury boys. Beck's been back a day. If a currency delivery came in while he was gone, it makes sense he'd double-check the totals first thing."
    "Okay," I said. And then I shut my mouth because I could hear the penny drop. He knew Reba and I had ventured into the counting room on Saturday when the currency was being unwrapped and run through the machines. All either of us had to do was clip a pack of hundreds and who'd be the wiser? Beck didn't know we'd been there and all Salustio cared about was having the right total credited to his account. "You think she took it?"
    "Sure. Vince was apoplectic. I thought he'd pop a vein. Beck doesn't know she was up there, but he'll rip the place apart looking for that dough. Once he pulls the security tapes, he's got her. You, too, for that matter."
    "She has to be nuts. Why take the risk?"
    "Because Beck can't report the loss. He calls the cops and he'll generate the kind of scrutiny he can't afford. Not when he's on the verge of skipping out."
    I could feel myself flush, overtaken by alternating surges of denial and guilt. I suddenly understood what she'd been doing in the counting room for those few beats after I'd entered the elevator. I'd felt anxious, impatient to be gone while she'd been smitten with the sight of all that cash. Meanwhile, I was preoccupied, intent on checking the corridor to make sure we were in the clear. It wouldn't have taken any time – two seconds? – to stuff a packet of cash down her shirt or in her jacket pocket. I'd been thinking "nerves of steel," amazed at her nonchalance while I was wetting my drawers. Then, of course, there was her exuberance with Willard once we got downstairs. She'd flirted and I'd assumed she was hyper because we'd discovered Beck's counting room. Must have been the feel of all that money next to her skin. Crazy. Reba wiping down her fingerprints. Cheney verbally boxing my ears when I'd confessed our misdeeds. And I'd defended her. Shit! My palms were damp and I rubbed them against my jeans. "What now?"
    "Vince wants her in as soon as possible. The meeting with the IRS and Customs has been moved up to tomorrow afternoon at four in the FBI offices. Vince wants to talk to her first, like at one o'clock, and see if he can iron this out. Otherwise, the shit's really going to hit the fan."
    "Can't he help her?"
    "Sure, if she's willing to put herself in his hands."
    "Fat chance. She's never even met the man."
    "Why don't you talk to her?"
    "If you think it'd do any good. I've been ducking her for days, but I can give it a try."
    "Do that. Worst-case scenario, he'll put her in a safe house until he can figure out what's what."
    Cheney checked his watch, popped the Eject button on the tape recorder, and removed the tape. "I gotta get this back. You have Vince's number?"
    "You better give it to me again."
    He snagged a pen and a scratch pad and made a note, tearing off the top sheet, which he handed to me. "Let me know what she says. If you can't