The Fourth Watcher

5

The little man from the bank steps out into the heat of the evening. He pauses in the shade of the bank’s door, pulls out a cell phone, and dials the number he knows best. One

ring. Two rings. Three rings, and his stomach dips all the way to his

feet. “Hello?” his wife says. “Oh,” he says without thinking. “Oh, thank you.” “Why? What did I do?” She sounds pleased. “You’re there,” he says. “I don’t tell you enough how much it means

to me that you’re there.” They have been married nine years, and he is not a demonstrative

man. His wife says, “Are you all right?” “I’m fine,” he says. He waits, eyes closed, listening to his heart pound. “And that’s why you called? To tell me you’re glad I’m here?” “Well,” he says, and then a hand lands on his shoulder. Another

takes the phone from his hand and snaps it closed. The teller smells cheap cologne. He has to fight the urge to bolt.

“Give it to me,” the man says. He is tall for an Asian, with a broad, pale face and very tightly cut eyes on either side of a wide nose that has been broken, perhaps several times. The body beneath the tight jacket is bulky with muscle.

The bank teller reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a fat envelope. The man takes it, gives it an experimental heft, and doesn’t seem to like what he feels. Cologne rolls off him in heavy waves, a scent many flowers died to create. The tight eyes come up to the bank teller’s face, flat as burned matches. “How much?”

“One hundred eighty thousand.”

“Not enough.” His Thai is strongly accented. He slaps the envelope against his hand in disgust.

“Slow day,” the bank teller says. His own voice sounds thick and distant.

The man pulls another envelope from beneath his belt and hands it to the teller. Like the first, the new envelope is heavy manila, with the date scrawled across it. “Have a better day Monday,” he says. “Or maybe no one will answer the phone next time.”