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Images of Jade whiz by in my brain—tied to that blue chair, staring down the barrel of a masked madman’s gun. Helpless while the kids scream for her from across the hall. I wonder if she’s conscious, if she’s beaten and bloody, if he’s broken any of her bones. Why didn’t I ask? Why didn’t I insist on talking to the Bees? I consider calling her back, right after—
An Amex representative, a real person this time, sounds in my ear, and my knees buckle in relief. “Thank God. I need a pin for my card.”
The teller gives me a look, one that says he’s glad there’s a thick slice of bulletproof glass between us, then goes back to counting out the cash while the Amex representative walks me through the steps. By the time the teller has clipped together the last stack of money, I have a working pin.
When the last stack is counted and marked and fastened, the teller points me to a glass-enclosed room at the far end of the building. An office, boring and generic—a desk, two chairs, a computer monitor and a giant poster on the wall. The room is dark, much like the rest of the bank. The security guard turned the lights off ages ago.
I turn back to the teller. “If you don’t mind, I’m kind of in a hurry. I’ll just take the money and go.”
“Sir, I will deliver the money to you in that office.” Not so much a question as a demand. He gathers up the piles of cash and drops them into a zippered bank bag. “We’ll have more privacy there.”
I turn, taking in the space around me, all of it empty. Even the security guard has moved on, disappearing with his rattling keys behind a padlocked door. I am the last man standing. We have all the privacy in the world.
The teller leans the Next Window Please sign against the glass and takes off with my bag of cash. I match him step for step, following him down the glass until he disappears behind a wall. A few seconds later he steps out of a door farther down, the bag of cash tucked under an arm. I hustle to the office, where he flips on the light and closes the door.
“Mr. Lasky, are you aware that according to the Bank Secrecy Act, we are required to report cash withdrawals of $10,000 or more to the IRS?”
I plop into one of the chairs, thinking how to best respond. No police. That’s what Jade said. She said at the first sign of sirens, the man will start shooting, and he’ll start with the Bees. A fresh wave of panic climbs my chest at the thought.
I can’t let that happen. He said no police.
The IRS, on the other hand. The IRS is a bureaucratic behemoth, like most governmental agencies only speedy when they’re on the receiving end. It’ll takes weeks, months even, for them to follow up on this report. It’s already past five. The earliest they could get to it is tomorrow morning. All I need is a few hours.
“Okay, fine.” I stretch a hand across the desk. “Report away.”
On the chair across from me, the teller grips the bag of cash with both hands. He’s not blind. I watch him clock my sweaty face, the leg I can’t seem to stop jiggling, my frenzied eyes with a bank robber’s glint. He knows something is wrong. I might as well be wearing a sign: “Meth addict, need money for drugs.”
“I am also required to ask why you want such an unusually large amount of cash.”
I frown, my chest going hot. “It’s my money. Am I not allowed to withdraw however much of it I want?”
“Of course you are. But I am required to include the reason for the withdrawal in my report, and refusing to provide one will result in a denial. Either way, I still have to report you to the authorities.”
I breathe through a sour slice of panic and try to come up with an explanation that will result in me walking out of here with that money—mymoney. Something legal, something that won’t send up an immediate red flag with the police.
Stick with the truth, or at least something pretty damn close, and look the person right in the eye. Say the lie without blinking, then smile and change the subject. I’ve only been doing it for months now.
“There was a fire this morning at one of my restaurants. That means my employees are out of a job. People who depend on me for their livelihood, to feed their families and cover their health care costs and pay for the roof above their heads. This money is for them, just until the insurance comes through and we get the place back up and running.” I smile. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a kid’s ball game to get to.”
It does the trick. The teller scribbles something onto a form and slides the money across the desk.
Thirty seconds later the security guard reappears to sift through his keys while I shift from foot to foot, and then he opens the door and I’m out of there, racing to my car with a bag stuffed with $49,000 and some change, thanking a God I definitely don’t deserve for the fire that killed my business.
T H E I N T E R V I E W
Juanita: You mentioned your father—
Cam: Pretty sure that was you who mentioned him, but okay.
Juanita: Right.Imentioned your father, but only because you implied you weren’t eager to follow in his footsteps.
Cam: Not many people would be.
Juanita: Because he lost his business, a chain of three thousand-plus hardware stores that went belly-up after the divorce? Or because his investors then sued him for using off-the-books accounting to overstate profits and conceal debts? His conviction left your mother and you penniless.
Cam: Yeah, well, in the end, so was he, so... [shrugs]
Juanita: You say that like you think his bankruptcy and subsequent prison sentence were a justified result of his behavior. Do you see these things as some sort of karma?