"That's a pretty good reason," she admitted.
"Yours is pretty good too. The doughnut earrings especially."
"Thank you."
"Well, it's simple," said Filomena, and pulled a small plastic box of index cards toward her across the counter. "Membership. Whoever has the membership in good standing takes the tape. Name?"
"Duarte," said Theda. "Theda Duarte. D-U-A-R-T-E."
Filomena's finger stopped walking through the cards. She drew one out and held it up to the light. Then, without saying a word, she turned slowly and looked at the wall behind the register, to the left of the shelf of rewinders, where there hung a small green chalkboard of the kind that Italian bakeries used for the day's specials. At the top it said in chalk, LATE. Below that there was a list of perhaps eight names, each followed by a title and a sum of money.
Theda had seen the chalkboard many times. She had never before read it carefully. She read it now. Fourth from the top, between a K. Almeida who owed four dollars on Splash and someone named only DOCTOR who owed eleven dollars on Gandhi, it said: T. DUARTE — TOOTSIE — $14.50.
"Oh no," said Theda.
"Twenty-nine days," said Filomena. "I called. Amadeu called. I sent my nephew to your house with a note."
"I thought I returned it! I thought I put it in the slot. I found it in June, it was in a bag from Almacs under my kitchen sink, I was going to bring it in, I've been meaning to bring it in, I'll bring it in tomorrow—"
"Hoffman in a dress," said Filomena, "in a bag under your sink for five months."
"I'm so sorry."
"Membership suspended until paid." Filomena put the card back in the box, looked meaningfully at the tape, and turned. "Sir?"
"DeLuca. Nicola."
She found his card at once. She held it up to the light the way a jeweler holds up a stone, and turned it, and peered at the back.