Page 10 of Gave Proof Through the Night

He already knows.

Of course he already knows. Sal Delray has spent sixty years knowing exactly who’s in every room worth being in, and he knows precisely what’s in Washington, DC.

The lines around his eyes don’t move. Takes a deliberate sip of his coffee. It’s probably getting cold by now, but Sal never makes a fuss over such things. The man’s built a lot of wealth over the years, but he doesn’t let it show. He’s not flashy, drives an old Buick, and never wastes food. Even if it means drinking cold coffee over getting a fresh cup.

At length he says, “The museum. People will be watching.” He turns his cup a quarter-turn on the saucer. “The question is what they’re watching for.”

There it is. The thing he’s not saying, taking up room between us.

I let that sit for one breath.

“The job isn’t at the museum,” I say.

He goes still. The small cup-turnings, the resting fingers, all of it stops at once. He looks at me.

“The piece is being moved,” I say. “One night only. First time in decades it’s leaving the premises, and it won’t leave again for a long time after.”

“Your father…”

“I know. This is different. I won’t make the same mistakes he did.”

“People have long memories,” he says. “There will be friction.”

“I know that, too. I saw Hobbs when I was in DC.”

Sal narrows his eyes.

“He didn’t see me, don’t worry. He was mid-conversation on the front steps of the museum. I was half a block away before I placed the face.” I keep my voice even. “I turned the corner before I was made.”

A beat.

“I’m almost certain he didn’t see me.”

Donna materializes. Blueberry pancakes, extra butter already working its way across the top of the stack in little golden rivers. Strawberry shake with the whipped cream a full inch over the rim of the glass, because Donna has strong convictions about whipped cream and I have never once disagreed with her. She sets everything down without ceremony, and refills Sal’s cup before he can reach for it.

She’s been doing that my whole life. On her way past, Donna’s hand lands on my shoulder for exactly one second. She doesn’t look at me. I don’t say anything. We’ve been doing that my whole life too.

I take a sip of the shake. Cold and sweet and strawberry, exactly the same as it has been since I was five years old.

“How long have you been planning this?” Sal says.

“A while.”

“How long is a while?”

I put the glass down, thinking about the day I first heard about that sports gala. That’s my opening. “Long enough to know it’s possible.”

He looks at me steadily.

“The letters,” he says. Slow. Precise. The way he says everything. “That’s what this is really about. If you were just after the piece, you’d have run the job already. You want the letters.”

The proof. The papers that say what actually happened.

“And you know where they are.”

I shrug. “I know where they should be.”

“That’s not the same thing, kid.”