Detective

with an idiot who didn’t know the system, that he dealt with idiots who didn’t know the system often, and that if people had half the brains they were born with, his job wouldn’t be such a pain in the ass.
    He took my card, looked it over, put it in a small machine similar to a Master Card charge machine. He slid a form into the machine, pulled the handle across, and printed the information from the card onto the form. He took the card out of the machine and slid it back to me. He took the form out of the machine, picked up a pen, and made a big “X” on it where I was supposed to sign, just in case, as he suspected, I was a total idiot who couldn’t read the word “Signature.” He turned the form around and slid it over to me.
    I had practiced signing the name Martin Albrect all the way down on the plane, and had gotten pretty good at it. It was a little different doing it without bumping along through air pockets, but I managed a pretty good facsimile.
    It didn’t matter. I could have written John Doe on the form for all this guy cared. He pressed a button on his desk, and a security guard appeared from a door down the hall. For a second I thought they had me, but the old guy just handed the security guard a key, said “Box 372,” and the guard nodded and started down the hallway with me following.
    With our two keys, the guard and I unlocked #372, which proved to be a rectangular box about a foot wide, a foot high, and two feet deep.
    The guard brought the box into a private alcove. I followed with my briefcase. I half expected the guard to look at my briefcase and say, “You can’t bring that in here,” but then I remembered this was my safe deposit box and I could damn well put in or take out any goddamn thing I wanted. The guard withdrew and closed the door.
    I lifted the lid and looked in. In the box were an envelope and a package. I picked up the envelope first. It was unsealed. I pulled out the contents. It was money. One thousand dollars in crisp, new hundred-dollar bills. I counted it twice, put it back in the envelope, and stuffed the envelope in my jacket pocket.
    I took out the package. It consisted of a large manila envelope, folded in half and held with string. It was heavy, weighing, I guessed, about two pounds. I squeezed it, and the contents gave slightly It was somewhat like squeezing a bag of sugar.
    I put the package in my briefcase, closed the safe deposit box, opened the door, and summoned the guard. Together, we put the box back and locked it in place.
    The old man buzzed me through the door again, and I walked out through the bank. No sirens went off. No police appeared to handcuff me and take me away. I went out the front door and walked the two blocks to my car. I still had 40 minutes on the meter. Well, someone else could have ’em. I got in the car, drove to a Sheraton Motor Lodge, and rented a room.
    If the fact that I had no luggage other than a briefcase bothered anybody, it didn’t show. The bellhop escorted me to my room, accepted my dollar tip with the gracelessness of someone who is being paid something for nothing, and withdrew.
    The room had two double beds, a color TV a couple of dressers, and a round table with four chairs.
    I put my briefcase on the table, sat down, opened it up, and took out the package. I slid the string off, and unfolded the manila envelope, which was both clasped and sealed. I couldn’t be bothered with it. I tore the end off and slid out the contents—a large, heavy-duty, Ziploc plastic bag. I knew the bag well. My father-in-law still sold them. He didn’t manufacture them—the Ziploc bag was a patented item upon which he couldn’t infringe—so it was one of the few bags he still jobbed. He sold a lot of them in his day, but he sold ’em empty. And if I was right about the contents, this one bag was worth more than any goddamned Ziploc bag order he ever filled.
    The bag was rolled up and held by heavy-duty rubber bands. I slid them off and unrolled it. Inside were huge chunks of a white, rocky, crystalline substance. I pulled apart the top of the bag, stuck my finger in, got a few small chips on my finger, and stuck it in my mouth. It was bitter, which was a good sign, and it numbed my gums, which was another good sign, so I figured it must be coke. But then I remembered a friend of mine telling me that some of the things they use to cut cocaine, procaine for instance, had the same properties as cocaine. So this could either be