Detective

order to get paid. Not too bad. The second wasn’t a bill at all, just an appeal from some charity. I threw it in the wastebasket. The last one was the killer. It was the Master Charge bill. Shit! I’d forgotten all about it. The Master Charge bill always came a little bit after all the other monthly bills, and I’d forgotten it hadn’t come yet this month. They only gave you ten days to pay, too. This was going to put a big hole in the account. I sighed and ripped it open.
    It wasn’t a bill. It was a letter. Stripped of its delicate phrasing and cheerful terminology, what it actually said was this: because I was fully charged to the limit on my account and had been for some time, because I was a poor schmuck who could never afford to reduce the principal of the debt, but dutifully every month forked over the exorbitant interest charge, because I was in every aspect exactly the sort of sucker these people made their enormous profit from, they were delighted to inform me that they were raising my credit limit from $1500 to $2000.

10.
    M Y P LANE S ET D OWN IN Miami at 12:45. I rented a car at the airport, followed the stream of traffic, and headed for what I presumed was downtown Miami. I’d never been to Miami before, and I had no idea at all what the city was like. I stopped at the first stationery store I came to and bought a Hagstrom map, god love ’em. More than a few times a Hagstrom map had bailed me out when I couldn’t find a client’s address. I checked the address on my bank card, and found I was heading in only slightly the wrong direction. I made a couple of turns, and ten minutes later I was driving by the First National Bank of Miami, big as life.
    I looked around for a parking space, but the bank was in a metropolitan area where signs were proclaiming no parking under penalty of death. I cruised around for about ten minutes trying to find a meter. I must have passed a dozen garages and parking lots on the way. I told myself I was doing this to save money. Bullshit, myself answered back. You’re just stalling because you don’t want to go into the bank, just like you’re afraid of any new situation. I had just about sold myself on giving in and entering a garage when I found a parking meter not two blocks from the bank. I pulled in, and put a quarter in the meter. It was a one-hour meter, and I wondered if that would be enough. Asshole, I told myself. If it goes well, you’ll be out in no time. If it doesn’t go well, you’ll be arrested for forgery, extortion, and attempted grand larceny so why are you sweating a parking ticket?
    I straightened my tie, took out my briefcase, and walked to the bank.
    I couldn’t see very well through the window, just enough to tell that it was big and it was busy, both of which were good. I went inside and found it was a bank, similar to the banks in New York. A long line of people were queueing up and making their way through a labyrinth of ropes as they waited for the tellers, three-quarters of whose windows had signs that said “CLOSED.” To the right of them was a fenced-off area where bank officials of various ages, sexes, and races sat behind desks with name plaques on them. The bank officials were talking on the telephone, talking with each other, eating sandwiches, reading periodicals, and for the most part doing their best to ignore the somewhat shorter line of people waiting to do business with them.
    At the far end of the bank was a glass door on which the gold letters, “SAFE DEPOSIT” were emblazoned. I went to the door and looked in. Unfortunately, the blank wall of a small hallway to the left was all I could see. This was too bad. I would have liked some reassurance—for instance, a room with four or five people manning the desk. This was not just paranoia. Albrect must have rented the box within the last couple of months. I had to hope the guy I was about to talk to wouldn’t be the guy who rented it to him, wouldn’t know damn well who Martin Albrect was, and know damn well I wasn’t him.
    There was a button on the wall next to the door. I took a deep breath and pressed it. Seconds later, a buzzer sounded. I pulled the door open and went in.
    About ten feet down the corridor was a small alcove where a lone, elderly man with bifocals and a stubby cigar sat at a counter.
    “Yeah,” he grunted.
    I slid the I.D. card and the key across the counter. He slid the key back at once, a gesture that eloquently told me he was dealing