Somebody had come over from the main bank

floor, positioning himself before Andy Frost's desk and blocking his view of the men on the sidewalk.

Andy leaned to one side, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was going on outside.

"Excuse me," said a precise voice that reminded Andy of his grammar-school English teacher, Mr.

Henry.

He could no longer see the men on the sidewalk.

Andy leaned the other way, but his line of sight was still blocked.

"Excuse me," the voice repeated. It was somewhat nasal and parched, as if the speaker's larynx had been soaked in a gallon of grapefruit juice and left to dry on a desert rock.

Andy looked up, exasperated. "Yes. What?" he demanded.

"There is an error in my account."

Andy rolled his eyes. Just another mindless questioner. He was going to kill his supervisor if he wasn't moved into a cubicle soon.

"This is the mortgage desk, sir," Andy said in an icy tone.

"I realize that. But there is a discrepancy in my personal account that I wish to correct, and the lines at the teller windows are intolerably long. You seemed not to be busy."

The group of men on the sidewalk were quickly forgotten. With as much agitation as decorum would allow, Andy stared up at the old man standing before his desk.

4'Sir, I am certain that any of our tellers are more than qualified to help you with your little problem."

"Perhaps," said the older man, "and I ordinarily would not mind waiting in line. But I have left my car in a nearby garage and if I do not return within the next fifteen minutes, I will be charged the day rate. I am certain it will not take you long." The old man offered Andy one of the brand-new Butler bankbooks, first remembering to remove an ancient plastic cover that was yellowed from long use.