In The Midnight Of His Heart
By AL BRUNO III
February 24, 1993
Banks. There was something about them that always made John Sig uneasy. The false sincerity of the tellers, the lines that wrapped back over themselves like the queue to a slaughterhouse and the cameras, the cameras everywhere. That was why he preferred the simplicity of his checking account. As long as he was careful he only had to visit twice a year, and that was just so he could transfer a few thousand dollars from one of his safety deposit boxes into his account.
Phil however, kept several pots boiling at once, IRAs, offshore accounts, 501k, Christmas club, bonds and Money Markets spread over a handful of identities. To the state of New York he was Phillip Dowd, but he had licenses and passports for over a dozen states and nations. He made poor Zara jump through the same hoops as well.
As far as John was concerned it was overkill. After the terrible events of 1958 he had taken the name John Sig and in the years since he had remained John Sig. He smiled to himself, perhaps in a way he had become John Sig, become the ordinary man he was pretending to be.
“Eight windows and two fucking tellers. I hope whoever runs this bank gets fucking cancer.” Phil glared at the line ahead of him, one of Phillip Dowd’s Social Security checks tucked into his front pocket.
“It is noon.” John shrugged.
“Thanks, guess I don’t need a watch as long as I’ve got you.”
“You get yourself worked up over the littlest things.”
“Better not show me your pecker then.” A woman somewhere line behind them gasped at the remark. That seemed to cheer Phil up to no end.
“You’re making a fool of yourself.” John said as he noticed the security guard nearest to the door giving them an icy glare.
Phil raised his voice, “I’ll do a damn sight worse if the line doesn’t start moving! Are they too cheap to hire enough staff of is their manager just an idiot?”
“This isn’t going to make the line move any faster.”
“In fact-” Phil directed a shout to the security guard standing near the vault door, “where is the manager? Is he on duty or is this a golf day?”
The security guards looked like ex-cops to John, retirees probably. They still had their training but they were starting to go soft.
A woman stepped out of one of the back offices, she was middle –aged and haggard looking. The gold badge she wore named her as the assistant manager. She walked right up to Phil “Is there a problem sir?”
“I said I wanted to talk to the manager, not a friggin’ teller with the front door keys.” he spat back.
John wondered idly to himself how fast he could take both guards down. In my younger days? John thought, In my younger days they’d both be dead in seconds.
“Sir.” the assistant bank manager’s smile was holding strong but her eyes were starting to fill with venom. “We’re a little short-staffed here I admit but we’ll get to you as soon as possible.”
Phil sneered, “Tell you what cupcake, how about you get behind one of those friggin’ windows and pitch in until the lines goes down. You can count can’t you? They sure didn’t hire you for your looks!”
Now? The one nearest the vault would go down easy but by the time I was finished the one near the door would have gotten off a shot, maybe two. John let his train of thought peter out at that, going any further would just ruin his mood, and Phil was doing that quite well on his own.