“Down payment on our new house,” Colleen said.

“Oh, okay. You’ll want a cashier’s check, right?”

She shook her head. “The seller insists on cash.” She leaned in closer and confided, “He’s Japanese. They don’t do things the same way as us.”

“Right.” He glanced over his shoulder, looking distinctly uneasy.

“Is there a problem?” She felt like screaming, but forced herself to stay calm.

“Uh, well, a transaction like this, in cash and all, I’d have to get a manager to approve.”

“Fine,” she said, pointedly looking at her wristwatch. “I can wait.”

Colleen felt as though a million ants had taken up residence in her veins. Come on, come on, come on, she wanted to scream.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Finally, Christopher reappeared, trailing timidly behind a balding middle-aged man in a brown polyester three-piece suit. The buttons on his vest strained, and she could see sweat circles forming on the armpits of his jacket.

“Mrs. Hicks?” The manager extended a hand. “I’m Paul Forkner, assistant branch manager.” She took his hand. It was limp and sweaty.

“And I’m Colleen Hicks, and I’m due back at work in five minutes,” she replied. “As I told Christopher, we’re closing on our new house Monday, and the seller insists on a cash transaction.”

Forkner stared down at her passbook, which he was holding in his plump white hands.

“Usually in cases like these, on a withdrawal this size, we require both account holders to sign off,” Forkner said. “Perhaps your husband could drop by later—”

“That’s impossible,” Colleen interrupted. “Allen is on a fishing trip in the Keys, with his father. Dr. Morton Hicks?”

“Um, then maybe Monday?”

“The closing is at eight o’clock Monday morning,” Colleen said. She felt the blood rising in her cheeks, the ants stirring just beneath her skin. “Which is why I’m here today. With a withdrawal slip signed by myself and my husband.” She leaned across the counter and stared into his pale, bulging eyes. “Mr. Forkner, did you know that my father-in-law is on the board of this bank?”

“Yes, of course. Which is why we need to be certain things are done properly and in compliance with bank policy—”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your policies,” Colleen said, so loudly that the prune-faced tellers up and down the line were momentarily frozen in place. “Now, if you would, please instruct Christopher here to complete my withdrawal, exactly as I’ve requested. Because if he doesn’t do that, and I have to tell my husband on Monday morning that we can’t close on this house because some bean-counter at this branch, where he’s banked his whole life, wouldn’t release our funds, he is not going to be happy. And if you think I’m difficult to deal with, Mr. Forkner? You haven’t met my husband. Or his father.”