when Cooper thought she must have replaced the millionth faulty drum in Richmond, Angela rushed over to the work van and slapped another work order against the glass of the driver’s window.
“I’m sorry, darlin’,” she said when Cooper opened the door to receive the paper. “I know it’s almost five, but a call came in from one of the higher-ups at the Bank of Richmond. He’s fit to be tied. Seems the man came back from vacation in Fiji to find his executive secretary’s copier broken.” Angela rolled her eyes. “Could you imagine what would happen if he ran across a real emergency? Anyhow, I had the pleasure of speakin’ to him and he was as rude as a rush-hour driver. If the bank didn’t have such a big account with us, I’d tell him to go stuff himself like a Thanksgiving turkey, but someone’s gotta tend to that machine.” She shook her head. “I feel for the poor woman who’s gotta deal with him day in and day out. There ain’t a salary on this earth worth that.”
“We can’t all have bosses as great as Mr. Farmer,” Cooper replied, knowing how much Angela adored their employer. The two had recently begun dating and now Angela’s desk resembled the inside of a florist’s refrigerator. “I doubt Mr. Bank of Richmond presented his administrative assistant with a bouquet of blue hydrangeas this morning.”
Angela clasped her hands to her generous bosom. “Isn’t Mr. Farmer dreamy?” She fluttered her false eyelashes and sashayed out of the garage, her patent leather heels clicking happily with every step.
“Dreamy?” Cooper asked her image in the rearview mirror, but her reflection was equally nonplussed. “If you’re into middle-aged men who hole up in their offices drooling over popular Mechanics and can easily double for Danny DeVito, then dreamy’s pretty accurate, I guess.”
Her amusement over the attraction between Angela and their boss didn’t last long. The executive secretary at the bank’s plush investment branch was the antithesis of Angela. A curvaceous platinum blonde favoring tight pencil skirts, snug sweaters with plunging necklines, dangerously high heels, and Bakelite jewelry, Angela greeted every person with a sincere and cheerful manner. The Bank of Richmond secretary neither smiled nor greeted Cooper, but grunted and tapped her watch the moment Cooper entered the office.
“I’m Felicia Hawkins,” the reedy, thin-lipped woman announced to Cooper and eyed the nametag on her gray uniform shirt with disdain. “Cooper? Is that a person’s name or a brand name?”
“It’s a family name,” Cooper replied politely, looking around for the copier. She spied the Canon in the hallway behind Felicia and moved to step around the stern-faced secretary so that she could complete her task quickly and call it a day.
“I assume you won’t be charging the bank for this service,” Felicia stated flatly. “Your faulty copiers have greatly inconvenienced Mr. Goldvolger.”
The image of Ian Fleming’s Goldfinger appeared in Cooper’s mind. She could picture his meaty, ringed hand stroking a white, longhaired cat while he and his cohorts cackled in villainous mirth. Looking down at Felicia’s black, squared-toed loafers, she grinned and wondered whether a blade had been built into its sole.
“Is something amusing?” Felicia growled and Cooper shook her head, hustling over to the copier. She rapidly unpacked her tools and began to unscrew the machine’s back panel. She waited for the secretary to grow disinterested and return to her desk, but the older woman leaned against the wall, crossed her arms, and watched Cooper with a strange look in her eyes.
“How did you get into this line of work?” she asked, her tone laced with disapproval. “I’ve never seen a woman service our machines before. Are you certain you’re capable of handling this assignment?”
Now Cooper understood why her coworker Ben routinely handled the Bank of Richmond account. “I’m good with machines,” she answered modestly, refusing to be drawn into an argument. “Fixing them is kind of like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. You just need to see which piece is missing or damaged or dirty.”
To Cooper’s surprise, the woman pulled a cigarette from her shirt pocket and lit it. “Well, I’m good at crosswords. Does that mean I could repair jet planes?”
Why is she baiting me? Cooper thought and then felt inspired to say, “I bet you could, if you set your mind to it.” She sat up and placed the faulty drum on one of her blue rags. Studying the other woman’s face, she detected genuine unhappiness beneath the layer of foundation and the etchings