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For as long as anyone could remember Staunton had carried his two-sandwiches-and-an-apple lunch to the bank in a brown paper bag. In a card-dominated economy he paid his personal expenses in cash and asked for receipts, even for a single cup of coffee. A common saying around town was, “The Old Man has so much money he makes loans to God.”

Gesturing to Shay to wait, Bea called, “Can we talk to you, Mr. Staunton?”

The Old Man had just glimpsed his son-in-law in a state of collapse in his office and was making his way toward him. He stopped in increments as stiff joints received new instructions from his brain. With a curt nod, he turned toward Bea. In any contest between Staunton’s chief teller and his daughter’s worthless husband, Bea ranked first. When he reached her window she held up her hand so he could see the black stuff sliding down her arm.

“What the hell have you done to yourself, woman?”

“Tried to pick up a pen, that’s all.”

“Nonsense.”

For the first time in his life Shay Mulligan addressed the legendary Old Man personally. “It’s not nonsense, look at this.” He attempted to hand the ruined counter pen to Staunton. A dark substance like gritty mud seeped between the vet’s fingers and onto the countertop.

Drop by drop.

Staunton’s mouth fell open. “What the hell is that? Some kind of stunt?”

“We don’t know what it is,” said Bea, “but our cash cards are dissolving too.”

“Bea, that’s crazy.” A shrewd light crept into the Old Man’s eyes. “Would my son-in-law have anything to do with this, by any chance?”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“Then what’s wrong with him?”

Bea hesitated. “Hallucinations again, I’m afraid.”

“Damn ’im! I didn’t want my girl to marry that young nobody in the first place, but she was convinced no other man would ask her.”

Which was true at the time. As they both knew, the drug bust on the north side had changed the balance of power in the Nyeberger marriage.

Staunton ordered the receptionist to contact his daughter. “Say her husband’s had some kind of seizure and she needs to take him home. I’ll be in my office if she wants to talk to me.”

Dwayne Nyeberger had acquired a paranoid fear of leaving the bank building. He was afraid Lila Ragland was waiting. When Tricia Staunton arrived, complaining about being called away from her favorite game show on their interactive wallscreen, Dwayne refused to leave with her. He shouted at her to go clean the house. She turned on her heel and left the bank. “The dumb bastard can walk home,” she announced on her way out.

In the privacy of the president’s office, surrounded by portraits of previous bank presidents who all had the same craggy features, Staunton made a call of his own. Two burly male nurses were summoned from the Hilda Staunton Memorial Hospital to administer a strong sedative to the distraught man. As soon as it took effect they bundled him out of the bank and into a private hospital room without alerting the press.

A psychologist was summoned to examine him.

Meanwhile Staunton told the staff to tidy up the mess and dispose of the ruined bank cards. As they began work, a red plastic hair grip worn by one of the bank’s customers dissolved and ran down her neck. The woman had hysterics.

Staunton ordered the “Closed” sign put on the front door.

“It’s going to be a long day,” predicted Bea Fontaine.

* * *

He was waiting for her when her car turned into the driveway; a tall, lean man in a white shirt and faded jeans, sitting with his feet propped on the porch railing. “You took your time about coming home, Aunt Bea,” he said as he unfolded himself from the green wicker chair. “Was it car trouble? You should trade in that old heap; with an auto-drive you could sit back and enjoy the ride.”

“Your car is older than mine, Jack,” she said sharply. “Besides, I like to do my own driving.”

“My Ford Mustang’s a classic. Your VW’s just transportation.”

“That classic of yours practically lives in the repair shop, but Abraham never gives me any trouble.”

Jack Reese smiled; a flash of white teeth in a deeply tanned face. The warmth did not always reach his pale gray eyes. Strangers found this unnerving. “Only you would call a Volkswagen ‘Abraham,’ Aunt Bea.”

“Just think how furious that would make Adolf Hitler,” she replied as she locked the car. With her AllCom in one hand and handbag in the other, she crossed the neatly mowed front yard. “I guess you’ll want supper?”

“Some of your fried chicken would hit the spot about now. Shake it in a paper bag with flour and seasoned salt?” He spoke as if he had only been out for the afternoon and come home hungry, though he had been abroad for over two years. That was typical. Jack used Bea’s home as a base when he was in town and came and went as he pleased. Their affection did not depend on propinquity.

As Bea climbed the steps to the front porch she said, “I’m fresh out of chicken, Jack. I didn’t know you were coming.”

“You must have some eggs, though; you always do. I could make an omelet for us.”

Bea tilted her head back to look up into his face. “Have you added cooking to your list of accomplishments?”

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Took a couple of courses in France, for a bachelor it’s a matter of self-preservation. A pal of mine in Belgrade married a woman because she was a terrific cook and it turned out to be the biggest mistake of his life. And put your AllCom away, you don’t have to unlock the front door. I already…”

“Went in through the back, I know.”

“Which reminds me, I brought you a present. The latest AllCom with all the bells and whistles. It has the usual functions, but it also monitors your heartbeat and blood pressure and alerts the emergency services if you need help.”

She glared at him. “You’re raising my blood pressure; I’m not some old woman who’s about to keel over.” Then her smile surfaced like sunshine after a shower. “I really am glad to see you, though. And thanks for your offer to cook, it’s been an awful day and I’m bone tired.”

“Show me where you keep the spices, then. Any fresh herbs in the garden?”

As Jack prepared supper Bea watched from a kitchen chair, sipping a restorative cup of coffee. Letting the day’s tension drain from her body. Enjoying the sight of Jack in the home of his boyhood. The old rubber tire he had used as a swing still hung in the backyard. A bold little boy, he had climbed every tree in the neighborhood and did not cry when he fell and broke his leg. All he said on the way to the hospital was, “Did you see me, Aunt Bea? Did you see how high I got?”

Jack’s mother, Florence, had been Bea’s older sister. When Florence and her husband were killed in a car crash Bea had taken their son to raise. Their home was the house she had inherited from her parents.

By the time Jack was grown Bea was middle-aged, but her nephew had no doubt there were men in her life. She obviously liked men and they liked her. For a long time Jack had suspected that one of those men was Oliver Staunton, but he was never sure. The image of the two of them together was not one he relished.

Aphrodite, a plump tabby cat of dubious morals who refused to acknowledge that Shay Mulligan had neutered her, rolled seductively on the floor to display her belly to Apollo, who ignored her. He had whiskers to clean.

Jack remarked, “I hope I never get like him.”

“It would serve you right,” said Bea.