by Allan Cole
In the renewed calm, a waiter rushed over to repair the table settings and people went back to eating.
Rachael repaired herself with the help of several deep swallows of wine. "Your mother is getting worse," she finally said. "I hate to put it this way, but she’s not with us anymore." She tapped her head for emphasis. "The Alzheimer’s, you know?"
Ellen nodded. She knew.
Rachel took another drink of wine, trying not to look at Ellen’s stricken face. "I found a nice home for her right here in Boca Raton," she said. "She’s getting good care… excellent care… They’re really very professional. But, somebody has to be there as often as possible because even professional people may let things slip if the family isn’t around. I’ve been going over once a week. That’s really not enough. But I don’t have time to do more."
"What about Harry?" Ellen asked. "How often does he go?"
Rachel squirmed. "Well, he, uh… Well… You know how uncomfortable Harry is around sick people and he, uh…"
Ellen broke in. "Never mind, Rachel," she said. "I get the picture."
She quickly digested the situation, then said, "Of course, I’ll go see her and relieve you of that responsibility. I’ll go every single day if I can. But I would have done that anyway. Why is Harry trying to make me feel like an uncaring daughter by trying to bribe me?"
Ellen waved an impatient hand. "If that’s even possible," she added. "The money’s mine, after all. Oh, Jesus Christ, Rachel, why is he doing this?"
Rachel shrugged helplessly. Ellen took pity on her and patted her hand. "That’s not fair of me," she said. "I know why. Because he wants to drag me down to his level.
Ellen suddenly got to her feet. She slipped the envelope into her purse. "I’d better go, Rachel," she said. "Or I am going to lose it so badly that they’ll send for the police."
She leaned over and give Rachel a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks for lunch," she said. "And for your empathy. Harry doesn’t know what a prize he has in you."
Ellen turned and strode away on those long elegant legs, poor Rachel staring after her.
*****
When Ellen’s cab exited the country club, Sam was ready. He quickly started up the Mustang and fell in behind the taxi, wondering where his wandering girl was going to take him next.
Fifteen minutes later, Sam was most pleased when he saw the taxi pull up in front of a bank.
Like Willie Sutton said, that’s where the money is.
*****
CHAPTER TEN
THE WOMAN BANK officer looked up as Ellen approached, a snotty expression on her face.
Ellen thought she must have some kind of aura of failure emanating from her to deserve such an expression. She’d dressed well for the country club luncheon and her jewelry – although not made of precious stones – was of her own design and quite pricey when sold at her old boutique.
Maybe I have the letter "L" for loser tattooed on my forehead, Ellen thought as the bank officer waved an imperious hand at a chair across from her desk.
"How may I help you?" the woman asked as Ellen sat down and opened her purse.
"I’d like to open a savings account, please," Ellen said.
She handed over Harry’s check. The bank officer studied it, her lip lifting in a slight curl. "This is a personal check," she said.
"Yes, it’s from my brother," Ellen said. "Harold Berman. He has an account here. So there shouldn’t be any problem."
The bank officer sighed. Ellen didn’t like the sound of that sigh. "May I see some identification, please?" the bank officer said – almost sharply.
A little taken aback, Ellen dug into her purse. It wasn’t the request that startled her, but the abrupt manner. "Certainly," she said. "Right here."
She handed over some documents. "Here’s my passport. Driver’s license. My Social Security card."
"Social Security isn’t valid ID," the bank officer said.
"Oh, uh… fine, then," Ellen said. "You’ve got my passport and driver’s license. I’m sure they’ll do."
The bank officer studied the license, checking Ellen’s face to see if it was the same as the one pictured. Ellen sat up straighter, as if that would make the likeness closer.
"This is a Jamaican driver’s license," the bank officer said. "We can’t accept that as valid ID."
"But the passport is American," Ellen said, a little exasperated. "You can use that, can’t you?" She snapped her purse shut. "You see, I just arrived in the States after closing down my business in Jamaica and-"
The bank officer rose abruptly from her chair, cutting Ellen off. "I’ll be right back," she said.
She strolled away, taking Ellen’s documents with her. Ellen started to worry. What was wrong with this bank?
More importantly, she was starting to wonder if maybe there really was something wrong with her.
*****
Outside, Sam was taking his ease at a sidewalk café down from the bank, drinking herbal tea and reading the Miami Herald. He favored the business section, which in recent days had become almost like the Policeman’s Gazette, with all the corporate executives being indicted and mostly dodging jail. You could get a lot of good tips, if you studied those guys.
As he waited for Ellen to emerge, a middle aged couple strolled by. Sam’s sharp eyes noted that the woman’s purse was open, her wallet revealed. At that moment, a clean cut young man exited the café and bumped into the woman.
He was immediately apologetic. "I’m so sorry," he said with great contriteness. "How clumsy of me."
As he spoke, Sam saw the young man’s fingers dip into the purse. At the same time a second young man passed by and the wallet was handed off, with no one but Sam the wiser.
The woman said, "That’s quite all right, young man. No harm done."
The young man bobbed his head, smiling a most charming smile of boyish innocence. It brought a blush to the woman’s cheek, making her feel quite motherly toward him. Then the young man strolled away.
"Such a polite young man," the woman said. "That’s so rare these days."
The couple moved onward. But Sam wasn’t watching them any longer. His eyes were on the polite young man, who had crossed the street the moment he left the couple and as Sam watched, he was ducking into an alley. A few seconds later the second young man walked casually toward the alley, then slipped inside when he thought he was unobserved.
"Lucky day," Sam murmured.
*****
In the bank, Ellen was still at the desk, cooling her heels. Finally, the bank office returned, frostier than ever.
"I’m sorry, Ms. Berman," she said, "but with your credit record I’m afraid we’ll have to reject your request for an account."
Ellen was startled. "What’s wrong with my credit record?" she asked.
The bank officer slid a document across the desk. "If you want to see your credit report," she said, "you’ll have to fill out this request form. Processing usually takes ten working days."
Ellen pushed the form back. She’d had it with these people. "Never mind the account," she said. "Just cash the check please and I’ll get out of your hair."
"Very well," the bank officer said, "but, I’ll have to call your… ahem… brother to verify the transaction."
Ellen was alarmed. "He’s in Hawaii," she said. "On business."
"How unfortunate for you," the bank officer said. "Perhaps when he returns… Hmmm?"
"I need this money now," Ellen said, totally frustrated.
But all the bank officer wanted at that moment was shut of her. "Why don’t you try our main branch?" she said. "Perhaps they can help. It’s on North West 13th Street and Glades."
Ellen took the check and climbed to her feet. "Thank you so much for your assistance," she said, putting as much deliberate sarcasm as she could in her voice.
But the bank officer one-trumped her with an equally sarcastic, "Service with a smile. That’s our motto."
Ellen wanted nothing more than to rip the bitch’s lungs
out. Instead she turned and walked as calmly as she could to the front door.
*****
In the alley across from the bank, Sam had the two pickpockets spread-eagled against the wall. Blood smeared their faces and stained their shirt fronts.
Sam, meanwhile, was looking over the sheaf of bills and credit cards in his big hand. "Not bad," he said. "Not bad at all."
He pocketed the loot, then slapped one of the men across the back of the head. The guy yelped in fear and pain. "Where’s the rest?" Sam demanded.
"That’s all there is," the guy said.
Sam punched him in the kidneys. The young man groaned and nearly fell. But Sam steadied him against the wall.
"If I hit you again," he said, "you’ll be pissing blood for a month. So don’t bullshit a bullshitter. I know how you guys operate. Where’s your stash?"
The second guy was so scared he was wetting his pants. "Jesus, Rich, tell him," he said.
Rich said, with a squeak in his voice: "Look in the trash bin."
Sam turned to a nearby dumpster. Lifted the lid. "There’s a Burdine’s Department Store bag right on top," Rich directed.
Sam found the Burdine’s bag, pulled it out and looked inside. A big smile spread across his face. "I could tell you two were hard workers," he said, as he examined the big wad of cash and cards. "But this is impressive. It really is."
He turned his head slightly and said, "Okay. You can go now."
Immediately, the two pickpockets spun around and walked very quickly toward the mouth of the alley. Sam grinned at them, enjoying the whole scene.
But then the grin faded when he saw Ellen coming out of the bank. She was in a hurry, moving fast and no sooner had she raised a hand to signal, than a cab pulled up.
Cursing, Sam took off for his car. The two pickpockets thought he was after them. They squealed in terror and raced away.
Out on the main drag, Sam vaulted into his Mustang and started to peel away from the curb.
Up ahead, Ellen’s cab beat out a yellow light. Before Sam could follow, a bus pulled in front of him, blocking the Mustang.
Sam sounded the horn, but it was no good. Damned city drivers. He slammed the car into reverse and rammed the vehicle behind him. They were phony bumpers anyway, so fuck ‘em. There were shouts and he mashed the accelerator to the floor and kept pushing with his bumper.
A space opened up.
He shifted into first, came forward a bit, then reversed the hell out of there at top speed, nearly hitting another car. There were more shouted curses and blaring horns, but Sam just flipped them the finger and sped off, nearly colliding with several other vehicles.
Then he was by God out of there, screeching down the street and through the red light.
Almost immediately, he spotted Ellen’s cab and slowed down.
Patience, Sammy, boy, he admonished himself. Patience. Like the guy said – "Follow the money."
*****
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SAM STARTED TO get the general drift of what was happening to Ellen by the time she cleared the second bank.
He followed her to a third, saw her emerge after a long time, even more angry than before, and made up his mind that the time was getting definitely ripe.
The fourth bank was only a few doors from an auto supply shop for old cars – Glenn’s Classic Auto Parts – that he sometimes frequented. He pulled up in front of it and shut off the engine.
Sam chewed thoughtfully on some of his aminos, swigging down orange juice, running the whole thing over. Then a big grin lit up his face as a lightbulb went on. He hopped out of the Mustang and hurried into Glenn’s.
*****
In the bank, Ellen was squaring off with yet another manager – a smiley-faced suit who looked like he was too young to smoke, much less run a bank.
"I’ve only been out of the country for two years," Ellen said. "I know September Eleven changed a lot of things. I know we all have to be more watchful and secure. But could things have changed that much? I’m an American, for crying out loud. Not a naturalized American, but an American-American. My family practically goes back to the Mayflower. So why are you denying me access to my own money?"
The kid banker gave her an annoying smile. "Ellen, Ellen," he said, which was more annoying still. "You must understand. Technically it isn’t your money until we cash the check. Until that time it still belongs to…" he glanced at the card… "Mr. Harold Berman."
"My brother," Ellen said.
"So you tell us," the kid said, with a TV ad smile.
Ellen jumped to her feet. Enough was enough. "This is too much," she shouted. "How dare you judge me? You aren’t even old enough to be away from your mother. Have you no respect? Have you no empathy? My God, where are you people from – Rude-ville USA?"
Suddenly there was a bank guard at Ellen’s shoulder. An older black man with a genteel manner, he seemed more on Ellen’s side than the bank’s.
"Excuse me, ma’am?" the guard said.
Ellen whirled on him, ready for battle. "What’s this?" she said. "Have you come to arrest me? Well, go right ahead. Why spare me this last indignity?"
The bank guard replied, as politely as he could, "No, ma’am, I’m not here to arrest you. Nobody’s going to arrest you. But, you see I have to keep it peaceful here. That’s my job. And if you don’t leave, well…" he gave a sad shrug… "Please don’t force me to make a fool out of both of us, ma’am."
Ellen sagged in defeat. "Okay, I’ll go," she said.
She started to leave, but then suddenly turned for one last parting shot at the kid banker.
"Look at this face," she demanded.
The kid banker looked.
"Look at this finger," she said, and she shot him the bird. "I promise you, the day you die, this face and this finger are going to be the last things you remember."
The kid banker turned white as a Canadian tourist. Well satisfied, Ellen stalked away, the bank guard at her side.
He leaned close to whisper, "That was some curse."
Ellen said, "Learned it in Jamaica from a voodoo queen."
"Is that a fact?" the bank guard said, thinking she was fooling. But when he saw the look on her face he glanced back at the kid banker and felt a little sorry for him.
*****
The moment Ellen was out of the bank, her anger – and with it all her spirits – collapsed. She was suddenly very tired. All she wanted to do was crawl into some hole and feel sorry for herself for a very long time.
She looked up and down the street for a cab, but didn’t see one. Ellen fished out her cell phone and speed dialed, but then her face suddenly screwed up in fury. She smacked the phone against her thigh.
"Damn. Damn. Damn." she said.
Ellen put the phone to her ear again. Still no good. Service had been cut off, according to the voice.
At that moment, a horn beeped and as Ellen looked up, Sam guided his Mustang to the curb.
"Hi, neighbor," he said. "Need a lift?"
Ellen frowned. What the hell was Sam doing here? As if guessing what she was thinking, Sam held up a large bag. The label read: Glenn’s Classic Auto Parts.
"Had to pick up a distributor," Sam said. He indicated Glenn’s Classic Auto Parts store down the street and Ellen’s suspicions vanished. "That’s my favorite toy store," Sam said. "Can always find what I need."
He grinned a sheepish grin. "Besides," he said. "Had a little accident with my rear bumper."
Sam jerked a thumb back to indicate and Ellen saw a small dent in the metal. "I had to order a new one," he said with a shrug. "No big deal. The other was a counterfeit part and I’m trying to get this baby back to a true original." He gave the Mustang’s dash a fond pat.
Ellen smiled, feeling a little foolish for being suspicious. This was no weird stalker.
"I’d love a ride home," she said. "I’ve spent a small fortune on cabs and all my patience on banks today."
Sam leaned over, popped the passenger-side d
oor and Ellen got in. He drove smoothly away from the curb, taking it easy, not gunning it, chilling the lady out with his easy personality and the nice music he already had set up on the player.
Having already seen her mini-collection in her apartment, he had a pretty good idea what her tastes were. He clicked on Peter Tosh singing, "Stop that train: I’m leavin’ today; stop that train: I’m leavin’ anyway…"
Soon he had her smiling, feeling just a little easier about things – especially herself - whisper-singing, "Stop that train: I’m leavin’ and I said: It won’t be too long whether I’m right or wrong… Stop that train…"
He took a couple of short streets, then was out on the beach road. With the top down, there was a nice breeze blowing.
Ellen leaned back in the seat, listening to the music, letting the breeze blow over her, enjoying the feel of the wind whipping her hair around.
"God that feels good," she said. "I don’t know what it is about banks, but I always feel dirty when I leave them."
Sam laughed. "Nothing filthier than money," he said. "Think about all the places the stuff’s been and the places it’s gonna go before it meets its Maker in the big Federal Reserve Incinerator In The Sky."
"Are you speaking as an expert?" Ellen said, teasing. Then she realized what she was doing and was aghast. "Oh, please, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so sorry."
She got herself together again. "It’s no excuse, but I’ve met so many rude people today that I guess some of it has rubbed off."
"No big deal," Sam said. "Actually, I thought it was pretty funny. I mean, who knows more about banks than the people who rob them, right?"
Ellen became very grim. "Well, I know some perfect candidates for robbing," she said. "It’d serve them right, by God."
Sam glanced over at her. Consummate con man that he was, he had a look of sincere concern all ready for her. "They been giving you a bad time?" he asked.
"That’s certainly an understatement," Ellen replied.
"I don’t mean to pry," Sam said. "But if you don’t mind me asking - what’s it all about?"
Ellen patted her purse. "I’ve got a perfectly good check. It’s from my brother for goodness sakes and he’s richer than King Midas, so you just know it’s good."