I wrote the string of twelve digits that followed the name.

“Paul used this account to move the cash from the shipping docks,” I explained.

“And the second?” Vincent asked, his eyes fixed on the ink.

“It is a bank in Nicosia,” I said, writing the next sequence. “This one holds the reserve funds for Corrado’s gambling operations in Queens.”

The car turned sharply onto the bridge, the metal girders flashing past us like ribs in the dark.

I wrote down three more accounts, my memory pulling the numbers from the dark corners of my mind.

I had spent dozens of nights memorizing these sequences while Paul lay asleep, snoring off his whiskey.

I had known even then that these numbers were my only ticket to staying alive if he ever tried to kill me.

“Are you sure about the routing prefixes?” Vincent asked, studying the page.

“I am sure,” I said. “Paul checked them every Tuesday night. I watched him type them through the crack in the closet door.”

Vincent closed the notebook with a soft snap and slipped it back into his pocket.