Your husband is alive and has a lot of money. With your help we can find him. I know this must be a shock and I'm sorry but you can be a very rich woman. The police know about this. I am out of town but I will telephone you when I return on Sunday.
"Shit!" Dean said, a little too loudly, just as the waitress arrived with the ginger ales. Cynthia tried to say something but was unable to fight back her sobs. If Arthur Atherton had been within a mile, Dean would have beaten him to death with his bare hands. He started to lean toward Cynthia but the waitress was at his elbow. "Give us a couple of minutes, will you?" he said angrily. She turned away, not even trying to hide her annoyance. Just then, Cynthia let go. In a flood of tears and half-controlled sobs she got to her feet, and handkerchief to her face, dashed across the room toward the entrance. Patrons from a dozen tables gave Dean a stare fit for the Bastard of the Year.
He chased after her, in time to catch a glimpse of yellow as she barged out the door toward the parking lot. He quickly pulled a 20-dollar bill from his wallet and shoved ahead of a cluster of customers lined up at the cashier and thrust the money at the woman. "My wife," he said, for lack of a better excuse, "She's ill." Then added, "Two ginger ales." He turned and pushed his way to the door.
At first he didn't spot her and cursed the fact that Cynthia was so short. Then he caught sight of her in the light of the opening car door. When he reached her vehicle, he could hear her anguished sobs through the closed windows. She ignored his tap on the glass until he persisted and she finally flipped open the lock and he slid in.
She cried for what seemed like an interminable time. He wanted desperately to put his arms around her but knew he'd just exacerbate the situation. "It's true, isn't it?" she said.
He sighed deeply. "Arthur Atherton is an opportunistic sleaze-ball son-of-a-bitching thief who works for gangsters and would sell his own mother for the price of a cup of coffee. This note sounds like and looks like he was blind drunk when he wrote it and he doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. I wouldn't believe the bastard if he told me Lincoln was on the penny."
"It's true, isn't it?" It was as if Dean hadn't said a damn thing. "What can I tell Randy?" she continued. "What can I do?" Then she turned toward him and with a lightening swing slapped Dean across the face with a force that shocked him cold. "You used me! How could you? How could anyone do that to another human being?" She began pummeling his chest with her fists. He grabbed her and pulled her toward him, not before catching a lick or two solidly on his aching elbow. "You lied to me! You lied to me!" She screamed. First Ethel, now Cynthia. It was the second time in two days a woman had beat the hell out of him.