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My assumptions had been all wrong. I had seen Hubble as a banker, doing a straight job. Maybe turning a blind eye to some peripheral con, maybe with half a finger in some dirty pie. Maybe signing off on a few bogus figures. With his arm twisted way up his back. Involved, useful, tainted, but somehow not central. But he hadn’t been a banker. Not for a year and a half. He had been a criminal. Full time. Right inside the scam. Right at the center. Not peripheral at all.
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“What happens next?” I said. “You stay here until Monday morning, and then you go back to Margrave. Then I guess they’ll let you go.”
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“What was the deal on Friday?” I said again.
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“How do you know that stuff?” Finlay asked me.
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“Over-the-counter banking,” he said. “You know, cash, checks, loans, personal customers.”
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I gazed back at him. Six o’clock. Bus time.
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