"Two thousand nine hundred and fourteen," Kiet said. "Thirty-seven."
Lorenz ran it again. Two thousand nine hundred fourteen dollars and thirty-seven cents. He wrote it on the deposit slip, in the boxes, cash and coin and checks separately, and then the total, and he printed BAIRD'S RESTAURANT LLC at the top though it was already printed there, because Dorrit always did, and the date. He tore the customer copy off and put it in the envelope for the office. He folded the bills and the slip and the two checks and the Z report and the batch report, and he took a new deposit bag out of the box under the bar.
The deposit bags were clear plastic, heavy, with a white strip at the top that had a printed serial number and a peel-off adhesive seal, and once you sealed it you could not open it again without tearing it, and the tear left the word VOID printed all along the plastic in blue ink. The bank sold them. The bank liked them. Dorrit liked them because they made it impossible for anyone between the restaurant and the vault to dip into the money without everybody knowing. Lorenz put everything inside and pulled the paper backing off the seal and pressed it down, running his thumb along it twice. Then he read the serial number off the strip and Kiet wrote it in the deposit log, a green clothbound ledger, and wrote the amount and the date, and they both signed it. Lorenz signed with his full name, the way he signed everything, all fourteen letters of Dimaculangan, because his father had told him a man who abbreviated his own name was halfway to forgetting it.
Bag number 4471-0938. Two thousand nine hundred fourteen dollars and thirty-seven cents. Ten-eight. 12:31 a.m. Kiet Lam. Lorenz Dimaculangan.
"You want me to walk with you?" Kiet said.
He asked it every time, and every time Lorenz said no, and they both knew why he asked and why the answer was no. Kiet was twenty-nine and had a daughter who was eleven months old, and tonight she had a fever, a hundred and one point four the last time his girlfriend had texted, and Kiet had been looking at his phone every four minutes since ten o'clock.
"Go home," Lorenz said. "Go see your baby."
"Your car still dead?"
"Analyn has the car. She's on nights this week."
"I could drive you."
"It's four blocks. Five. Go home."