already have on file.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said, wishing I could be the one to do this instead of Tom. Eli and I had learned to write each other’s signatures years ago, a skill that had come in handy considering the flow of papers that came through our office. Of course, I couldn’t exactly march into the bank now and claim to be “Eli Gold”—even if I could make the signatures match.
“I mean, you can give it a shot,” Harriet said. “Ask for the box by number, and if they say ‘we need to see some ID,’ tell them you don’t have any with you but you’ll go get it and come back. Then hightail it out of there fast. Banks don’t look kindly on fraud. If they figure out you’re trying to get into a box that’s not your own, they just might call the police.”
“All right, Harriet,” I replied, looking out at the flat Florida landscape. I could hardly believe only three days ago I had been relaxing deep in the Smoky Mountains. “Thanks for the advice.”
“You okay, hon?”
“Yeah. I’ll call you when I have some time to talk.”
“I’ll be holdin’ my breath ’til then, you know.”
I disconnected the call and told Tom all that Harriet had said. The drive took nearly an hour, and we tossed out different options all the way there. Tom had some banking connections, of course, so there was always a chance he could pull some strings. But despite the influential names in his smartphone, he was doubtful any of them could give him access into another person’s safety deposit box—at least not without causing a big stir.
I knew we could always go the police route and do this legally, but that would take too long—not to mention that then the police would confiscate the contents of the box and I would never get to see them at all.
In the end we both decided that the quickest, easiest way to get into Eli’s safety deposit box was to take that ten percent chance the bank wouldn’t ask for ID. If our plan didn’t work, we would follow Harriet’s directive to “hightail” it out of there.
Then we would decide on a Plan B.
Once we reached downtown Orlando, the bank was easy to find. We parked on the street at a meter and then spent some time in the car with paper and pen as I tried to teach Tom how to write Eli’s signature. When he had the hang of it, we got out of the car and crossed the street to the bank.
“It’s showtime,” he whispered as he held the door open for me.
We walked across the lobby together, our footsteps clicking on the shiny marble floor. Shoulders high, Tom approached a bank representative confidently and announced that he would like to have box 1569 please. Then he glanced at his watch, insinuating he was in a hurry.
“Of course,” the woman replied, and she walked immediately to a filing cabinet. As she turned to go, I noticed the red blush along her hairline, a common response to Tom and his handsome presence.
I looked around the bank as we waited for her to pull the file, noting the beautiful ornate moldings that lined the ceiling. This was an older building, filled with elaborate architectural details, dignified whispers, and the distinctive smell of money.
“I just need for you to sign your name right here on this line,” she said softly, returning to place a card on the counter in front of him. Smoothly, he pulled a pen from his pocket. I was about to distract the woman by commenting on the lovely building when she spoke again.
“And, of course, I’ll need to see some ID, Mr. Gold.”
Tom hesitated and I stepped forward, my pulse surging.
“Oh, we were afraid of that,” I said. “He lost his wallet last night at the restaurant. Isn’t the signature enough?”
I could feel Tom’s foot pressing against mine, and I knew I wasn’t following our plan. But we were so close to getting to that box! I simply couldn’t help myself.
“It’s for your own protection,” the woman explained. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course we
“Oh, that’s right,” I said, wishing I could be the one to do this instead of Tom. Eli and I had learned to write each other’s signatures years ago, a skill that had come in handy considering the flow of papers that came through our office. Of course, I couldn’t exactly march into the bank now and claim to be “Eli Gold”—even if I could make the signatures match.
“I mean, you can give it a shot,” Harriet said. “Ask for the box by number, and if they say ‘we need to see some ID,’ tell them you don’t have any with you but you’ll go get it and come back. Then hightail it out of there fast. Banks don’t look kindly on fraud. If they figure out you’re trying to get into a box that’s not your own, they just might call the police.”
“All right, Harriet,” I replied, looking out at the flat Florida landscape. I could hardly believe only three days ago I had been relaxing deep in the Smoky Mountains. “Thanks for the advice.”
“You okay, hon?”
“Yeah. I’ll call you when I have some time to talk.”
“I’ll be holdin’ my breath ’til then, you know.”
I disconnected the call and told Tom all that Harriet had said. The drive took nearly an hour, and we tossed out different options all the way there. Tom had some banking connections, of course, so there was always a chance he could pull some strings. But despite the influential names in his smartphone, he was doubtful any of them could give him access into another person’s safety deposit box—at least not without causing a big stir.
I knew we could always go the police route and do this legally, but that would take too long—not to mention that then the police would confiscate the contents of the box and I would never get to see them at all.
In the end we both decided that the quickest, easiest way to get into Eli’s safety deposit box was to take that ten percent chance the bank wouldn’t ask for ID. If our plan didn’t work, we would follow Harriet’s directive to “hightail” it out of there.
Then we would decide on a Plan B.
Once we reached downtown Orlando, the bank was easy to find. We parked on the street at a meter and then spent some time in the car with paper and pen as I tried to teach Tom how to write Eli’s signature. When he had the hang of it, we got out of the car and crossed the street to the bank.
“It’s showtime,” he whispered as he held the door open for me.
We walked across the lobby together, our footsteps clicking on the shiny marble floor. Shoulders high, Tom approached a bank representative confidently and announced that he would like to have box 1569 please. Then he glanced at his watch, insinuating he was in a hurry.
“Of course,” the woman replied, and she walked immediately to a filing cabinet. As she turned to go, I noticed the red blush along her hairline, a common response to Tom and his handsome presence.
I looked around the bank as we waited for her to pull the file, noting the beautiful ornate moldings that lined the ceiling. This was an older building, filled with elaborate architectural details, dignified whispers, and the distinctive smell of money.
“I just need for you to sign your name right here on this line,” she said softly, returning to place a card on the counter in front of him. Smoothly, he pulled a pen from his pocket. I was about to distract the woman by commenting on the lovely building when she spoke again.
“And, of course, I’ll need to see some ID, Mr. Gold.”
Tom hesitated and I stepped forward, my pulse surging.
“Oh, we were afraid of that,” I said. “He lost his wallet last night at the restaurant. Isn’t the signature enough?”
I could feel Tom’s foot pressing against mine, and I knew I wasn’t following our plan. But we were so close to getting to that box! I simply couldn’t help myself.
“It’s for your own protection,” the woman explained. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course we
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