When she drove the car to a shopping center, she parked it on the lot’s fringe, never next to another car, and when she would return on her long trek from the store, she would walk around it to check for dings. The day she found the first one, in a Sears parking lot, she felt violated and cried like a schoolgirl.

One Saturday, when her car was in for maintenance, she borrowed Paul’s Crown Victoria to run her errands. She was self-conscious, as though she had gone shopping in hair rollers. She noticed, however, that no one looked at her. The car was a rolling cliché, unnoticeable and matched by yeoman Fords everywhere. After one day of riding in the plodding sedan, which smelled slightly of oil, she became used to it, the aroma, the tintinnabulation of loose tools in the trunk.

She had to pay to have the Mercedes hand-washed and -waxed because she didn’t trust the two-dollar car washes anymore. She fretted about oil-change intervals, types of fuel. She had to protect her investment, her commitment to twenty years of driving the same vehicle. At the bank she never parked under a tree where birds might congregate, and daily she chipped her nails by scraping dried bugs off the grille. She maintained her pride in the vehicle, since it and glittering things like it were what she had come to California for.

One day Dirk stopped her in the hall next to the vault. “Hey, you look a little steamed, gal.” He put a palm on the wall by her head. She guessed he had seen this move in an old cowboy film.

“I have been fighting for two days with a lounge-lizard trust recipient who wants a ten-thousand-dollar advance to pay his bar tabs. He has insulted me in every way he can think of, including an offer to sleep with me as a bribe.”

“Well, his heart’s in the right place.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not funny.”

“Take it easy.” He put his arm down. “Tell you what. Just go down the hall to room six and deal with old man Schaeffer and help him disinherit his grandson. I’ll take care of the lizard.” He smiled, his face running with wrinkles. “Come into my office and get the Schaeffer file.”

She followed him to his desk, where he sat down and pulled her onto his lap, all in one motion. “Now, let’s talk about your lounge-lizard friend.”

“What?” She wiggled to stand, but he held her.

“His name is Dalton. He’s upset because you won’t let him have a few thousand.”

She turned to look at the washed-out eyes. “He’s run up a liquor bill he can’t pay. You want me to fund that under the emergency medical provision or something?”

“Yes.”

She was so startled that she forgot where she was. “I was joking.”