Manhattan Is My Beat

looked young enough to be a clerk at a McDonald’s, what with that wimp mustache and baby-smooth cheeks.
    It was the next morning, nine-thirty, and the branch had just opened. The lobby surrounding them was deserted.
    The vice president seemed uncomfortable with this young woman sitting in front of his desk, crying. He scanned his desktop helplessly then looked back at Rune. “He’s not getting his bank statements? Any of them?”
    “None. He’s very upset. Grandfather’s such a tense man. I’m sure that was the reason for the stroke. He’s very … what’s the word? You know.”
    “Fastidious?” the young man offered. “Meticulous?”
    “That’s it. And when he realized he’s not getting the statements, Jesus, he really had a fit.”
    “What’s his account number?”
    Rune was digging in her purse. One minute. Two. She heard Muzak pumping through the glossy white marble lobby. She stared into the pit of her purse. “I can’t seem to find it. Anyway, we probably couldn’t read it. He tried to write it down for me but he can’t control his right hand too well and that frustrates him, and I didn’t want to upset him unnecessarily.”
    “I can’t do anything without his account—”
    “His face was all red and his eyes were bulging. I thought he was going to burst a—”
    “What’s his name?” the man asked quickly. The mustache got an anemic swipe and he leaned toward his computer.
    “Vic Symington. Well, Victor.”
    He typed. The young man frowned. He typed some more, his fingers flying across the keys. He read, frowned again. “I don’t understand. You mean that your grandfather wants another copy of his
final
statement?”
    “Final statement? He’s moved, see, and the statement hasn’t come to his new address. What do you have listed as the new address?”
    “We’ve got a problem, miss.” The hamburger-slinging vice president looked up.
    Rune felt herself start to sweat, her stomach churning. She’d blown it now. He was probably pushing one of those secret buttons that alerts the guards. Shit. She asked, “Problem?”
    “Someone closed out your grandfather’s account two days ago. If he thinks he’s still got money in this bank, something’s wrong.”
    “How could he have gotten here to close his account? The poor man can’t even eat by himself.”
    “He didn’t do it in person. It says ‘POA’ next to the withdrawal. He issued a power of attorney and the attorney-in-fact closed the account.”
    “Mother! She didn’t!” Rune’s hands went to her face. “She’s always said that she’d rob Grandfather blind. How could she’ve done it?” Rune was sobbing again, dry tears pouring into her hands. “Tell me! You have to! Was it Mother? I have to know.”
    “I’m sorry, miss, it’s against our policy to give out information on customers witout written permission.”
    Oh, this sounded familiar. Remembering the movie.
    She leaned forward. “To hell with your policy. A man’s
life
is at stake.”
    “His life?” the vice president asked placidly, sitting back. “Why?”
    “Well, because …” (In the De Niro or Keitel or Connery movie the bank officer had just caved.)
    “Because why?” the man asked. He wasn’t really suspicious. He was just curious.
    “The stroke. If Mother stole his money … It could be the end for him. Another stroke, a heart attack. I’m
really
worried about him.”
    The young man sighed. Another mustache swipe. Another sigh. He looked at the computer screen. “The check was drawn to Ralph Stein, Esquire. He’s a lawyer….”
    “Oh, thank God,” Rune exclaimed. “That’s Grandfather’s lawyer. S-t-i-n-e, right?”
    “E-i-n.”
    “Oh, sure. We call him Uncle Ralph. He’s a sweetheart.” Rune stood up. “Here in Manhattan, right?”
    “Citicorp Building.”
    “That’s the one.”
    The vice president, tapping computer keys like a travel agent, said, “But does your grandfather think he still has an account here?”
    Rune walked toward the exit. “The poor man, he’s really like a child, you know?”

     
    The man placed his fingers together. They were pudgy fingers and Rune imagined that he would leave good fat fingerprints on whatever he touched, just like a clumsy felon. His nails were dirty too.
    The office where they sat was large, yellow-painted, filled with boxes and dusty legal books. A dead plant sat in the greasy window. Diplomas from schools she’d never heard of hung on one wall, next to a clock.
    It