A few moments later, he stood in my room, towering over my bed like a mythical creature carved of muscle and bone. A quarter-inch beard covered his jaw, making him look part lumberjack.
“I need a favor. I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t have anyone else.” My cheeks burned, and beads of sweat formed on my skin.
“Name it.” He held up his arm, showing a purple band that matched mine. “Since we’re practically family.”
I pointed to the wall. “Get my purse.” While he waited, I scribbled careful instructions on a notepad, then handed him my license and checkbook. “Routing number and contact information is on this. That goes on the slip. I need you to go to a bank and transfer from my checking to that account number.”
“Don’t they have apps for that sort of thing?”
“I don’t trust online banking.” The truth was I changed banks too often to keep up with websites and anything but my most recent account.
He nodded. “Me neither. How much do you want transferred?”
I bit my lip. “Everything in there. Please, it has to be done by two o’clock or the payment won’t be in on time.”
“Everything.” He frowned, narrowing his eyes. “What are you—”
“Let me worry about that. I’ve been doing this for years. Please.” I took his hand, wrapping my fingers over his scarred palms. “It’s for my daughter’s care center. Please.”
It wasn’t like I had a choice. It wasn’t like he didn’t. But Aunt Emelia had been right. Sometimes you had to trust someone.
He dropped my hand and stalked out of the room without a word.
Eighteen
BRYNNER
I didn’t like the implications of Grace’s request, not leaving money for even basic necessities. But she was an adult, and I had no say in her decisions. I took her paper and drove to a bank with every intention of doing what I was told. At least if Grace felt well enough to order me around, she had to be getting better.
Banks irritated me. Their dry, boring nature just cried out for something fun to happen, like a fire, or an earthquake. Something to brighten up those peoples’ day. First, I stood in line to speak to a teller. Who told me she couldn’t help. I needed to stand in line for a branch representative. Which I did.
While the tellers looked like smiling would kill them, the branch manager reminded me of a guy in a hostage situation who had someone holding a gun to his head, threatening to blow his brains out if he stopped smiling.
“How can I help you, Mr. . . . Carson, is it?” He shook my hand with a greasy palm.
“My friend is in the hospital and asked me to make a wire transfer for her. I’ve got the account details right here.” I handed him the paper with Grace’s numbers.
He grinned to the point where it had to hurt. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you transfer funds out of someone else’s account.”
“I have her signature and her license.” I handed over Grace’s license and her checkbook.
He shook his head. “You could have written that yourself.”
“Really? How many men do you know who write like that? All bubbly? It might as well be written in glitter ink and have strawberry scratch-n-sniff on it. Do you have any idea who I am?” About then, it occurred to me that shaving so I matched my press photographs might have been a good idea.
“You’re Brynner Carson. I’m such a fan of that movie they made about your dad. But that doesn’t change bank policy.” Somehow, he still managed to show each and every last one of his teeth through that smile. “Nothing changes bank policy. Now, shall I have security escort you out?”
He glanced to the door, where a bored rent-a-cop slouched in cheap polyester. The guard walked over, his head almost coming up to my shoulder, and put one hand on his gun. “I’ll have to ask you to leave, sir.”
“I just want to transfer some money. That’s all I want to do.”
The branch manager pointed to the door. “You asked me to commit fraud. I’ve asked you to leave politely. Because I’m polite.”
Both of them stepped back when I stood. “Meat-skins are easier to deal with.” I looked over to the guard. “If you value your fingers, you’ll keep them to yourself. Pull that gun on me and you’ll need an enema to reload it.”
I walked out, crossing Smiley’s branch off my list of places where I’d be welcome.