Lawrence nodded.
“It is carried.”
Wesley finished:
“So carry yours.”
Lawrence smiled.
“That’s my guy.”
First National Heritage Bank stood on the corner of Harrison and Fifth.
The building looked more like a museum than a place people used to pay bills.
Tall stone columns.
Huge glass doors.
Brass lettering.
Inside, the marble floor reflected the lights above.
Wesley entered at 9:42 a.m.
The first thing he noticed was how quiet everything was.
Not silent.
Controlled.
Shoes clicked.
Printers hummed.
Money counters fluttered.
People spoke in low voices.
Wesley immediately became aware of his own clothes.
Thrift-store jacket.
Faded shirt.
Worn shoes.
He gripped the brown envelope tighter.
At the main counter, three tellers were working.
A woman in a dark suit smiled at an older customer.
Another employee brought coffee to a man signing documents.
Near the center of the lobby stood Bradley Whitmore.
Wesley did not know his name yet.
He only knew the man looked important.
Mid-forties.
Perfectly combed hair.
Expensive watch.
Navy vest.
Bright red tie.
The kind of shoes Wesley imagined never touched mud.
Bradley saw him.
His eyes moved downward.
Jacket.
Jeans.
Shoes.
Then back to Wesley’s face.
Wesley approached the counter.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Bradley continued looking at him.
“I’d like to check my account balance, please.”
Bradley blinked.
Then smiled.
Wesley initially thought that was good.
It was not.
The smile widened.
Then Bradley laughed.
Not a small laugh.
Not surprised amusement.
A performance.
Two customers turned.
A teller looked over.
Bradley repeated:
“Your account balance?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“And you have an account here.”
“Yes.”
Bradley placed both hands on the counter.
“What kind?”
Wesley opened the envelope.
“My grandma opened it for me.”
“Of course she did.”
Wesley hesitated.
He heard something in the man’s tone he did not understand.
He removed the reserve card.
Bradley’s smile disappeared for half a second.
The card was premium tier.
Heavy.
Minimal design.
The sort usually issued to clients whose accounts received private-management services.
Bradley took it.
He stared.
Then looked toward Wesley again.
Something cold entered his face.
“Where did you get this?”
“My grandma.”
“You already said that.”
“She gave it to me.”
Bradley turned the card between two fingers.
“Do you know what this is?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“My bank card.”
A customer nearby laughed quietly.
Bradley looked toward him as though enjoying the audience.
Then back at Wesley.
“This isn't an ordinary debit card.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Wesley nodded.
Bradley leaned forward.
“Where did you really get it?”