She sighed. "Oh well."
Managing to restrain his surprise, he glanced pensively at the
papers in his hand, then at the woman who stood in front of
Greta. Like the others in line, the woman's attention was fixed
on the front of the line. Greta read the young manager's mind
with delicious knowing: She is Matthew Locke's wife, with a
history of enormous deposits. And very large balances. And, she
knew, he had never before seen her disfigured hand. Pity.
He leaned closer. "Wait over at my desk. I'll be finished with
this transaction in just a minute, then I'll take care of you."
She graced him with a thankful smile and casually strolled over
to the manager's desk and seated herself. She opened her purse,
busied herself emptying old receipts and gum wrappers. A few
minutes later the manager returned and seated himself opposite
her. He collected her litter and, all business, discarded it in
the wastebasket beneath his desk. Clasping his hand together atop
the desk blotter, he beamed with anticipation, plainly expecting
a big deposit. "Now, what is it I can do for you, Mrs. Locke?"
She produced her checkbook and flattened it on the desk before
her. "I'd like to withdraw some of my funds," she said.
His expression seemed to flatten a little. "How much would you
like to withdraw?"
She looked from side to side, then leaned forward, her chin an
inch above her poised pen.
Pages:
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362