Slippery Jim diGriz was dead and Hans Schmidt was born. Not a very inspired name I admit, but it was just designed to cover the period before I shed Vulff and began my important enterprise.
“Very good, very good indeed,” I said, looking into the mirror and watching my fingers press a stranger’s face.
“God, I could use a drink,” Vulff gasped behind me, sitting on his already-packed bags. He had been hitting the medical alcohol the last few days, until I had spiked it with my favorite regurgitant, and he was nervously anxious to get back to some heavy drinking. “Give me the balance of the money that’s due and let’s get out of here!”
“Patience, doctor,” I murmured and slipped him the packet of bills. He broke the bank wrapper and began to count them with quick, caressing touches of his fingers. “Waste of time doing that,” I told him, but he kept right on. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing ‘ Stolen ’ on each bill, with ink that will fluoresce when the bank puts it under the ultraviolet.”