“Can I ask you a question?”

Time. It was the one thing I didn’t have a lot of today. To be bothered in the first place by Britton Savings and Loan about a transaction that should’ve cleared more than a week ago? It wasn’t the highlight of my day.

“Can it wait, Rochelle? I’m heading down to the bank right now.” If I left now, it would take about four minutes, with a slight breeze and almost 80 degrees in Missouri. It was the right time to take a walk. Even though I had another client in thirty minutes. Just enough time to take care of the transaction, get back, and review the new client’s file.

Rochelle stared at me. Max hired her, though I’m not sure when. One day I came in, and she was sitting at a new desk, right inside the front door. Right where we should’ve had a receptionist. But didn’t. I must’ve been asleep when I agreed to her salary. Or hiring her in the first place.

She blinked twice. “Okay, Mr. Sandhill.” As ditzy as she may appear, she got the job done and then some. Rochelle answered every call. Fifteen in three days, and she got them all. Neat, scripted cursive. Brown skin. Full lips. Auburn hair. From Jamaica, maybe Indonesia, or at least I assumed. I was still trying to figure out when Max hired her. Better yet, where he hired her.

“How long will you be out?” she asked.

“Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen, depending on the bank. I just need to clear up an accounting issue.”

“You know, I know all about numbers, Mr. Sandhill. Maybe I should come with you,” she said, grabbing her purse from the filing cabinet sitting behind her. She stood up, smoothing her red dress. “I know a lot of the accounting.” Rochelle popped her gum.

She walked out in front of me, waiting for me to lock the office door. I never thought to put a closed sign in the picture window. Rochelle did, even flipping it to closed just before we left.

The sun was warmer than I thought it’d be, starting to cook me through my white button-down long-sleeved shirt. I started to roll up my sleeves as we walked, Rochelle carrying her purse like a small animal tucked under her arm. Her brown skin glistened in the sun. I wondered if she was warmer than I was, then I remembered her red sundress. It was nice, but not formal.

“I don’t know all that much about you, Mr. Sandhill,” she said, still chewing her gum, popping it.

I looked back at her. “I don’t know all that much about you either, Rochelle. I didn’t know you had an accounting background.”

“I know a little,” she smiled. “I guess it’s enough to be dangerous, but not enough school to be a real accountant. So, I guess you could say I’m more of a bookkeeper.”

“Gotcha.”

“But I know things, I really do. And I can help, Mr. Sandhill.” She turned around long enough to look me in the eyes.

My mind was on the transaction, but I did notice the white van sitting in front of our office when we walked out. I think the driver was still inside, either smoking a cigarette. Or was he eating a Subway sandwich? I couldn’t remember. And didn’t care. I was getting a little hot and angry. How did Max let this one slide? He didn’t tell me about the mistakes at the bank. I suppose that’s my fault, handling it all when I took him on as a partner.

I held the door open at the bank, noticing another white van two blocks away, on the same side of the street as the bank. Three men got out, carrying a couple of ladders and some drop cloths, and wearing painting attire: stark white coveralls, white painter’s hats, and white tennis shoes. My mind was still on the bank. It was a minor transactional mistake. Something that could’ve been dealt with online. One transfer would resolve it. But the bank said they needed to see me. Why? I didn’t know.

“Did you remember to bring the transaction records?” she asked, as we crossed the threshold of the bank.

“Shouldn’t need them. One conversation and we’re done.” I looked at my watch. It took us six minutes to get here. Well, six minutes less Rochelle getting her purse and me locking the front door. So we’ll count it as four, plus two.

“I’m sure it’s not that big of a deal,” Rochelle said as she touched my arm, and I looked at her. “Sorry, Mr. Sandhill.”

I just looked at her.

Rochelle and I barely made it through the front doors when an assistant met us, carrying a stack of manila folders. “Mr. Sandhill. Please. Follow me.”

Chester J. Barlowski, Branch Manager. We walked past the teller windows, and there, behind a frosted glass door with his name stenciled on it. Chet’s office was in the back of the bank building. College was a long time ago, but we remained friends. Somewhat. But I always gave him a hard time about the J between Chester and Barlowski. He said it stood for James. I didn’t believe him.

She opened the door, announcing me. Rochelle followed me inside. “Sandhill! Dude. What brings you up here today?” He stood up when he saw me, came around the desk with his hand out. Same wide smile. Thick neck. Same o’l Chet. Forty pounds heavier than the last time I saw him. Not exactly something you want to say to someone who could’ve easily bench pressed you.

The second he saw Rochelle, his smile was gone, his face turning pale. “About this transaction,” he motioned for me to sit down, staring at Rochelle.

“I should’ve caught it, Chet. I didn’t.”

Chet pulled up something on his screen and started walking me through it. “Sandhill, you zigged when you should’ve zagged. It was like that running play I tried to explain to you.” He did his best to explain it again, but it didn’t work now. Just like it didn’t then. Numbers? I recognized all of them. Plus a date that didn’t add up, to a routing number that didn’t match any account I’d authorized a transfer to. I leaned forward. This was more than a clerical error. This was a transfer I never made.

“Chet. I didn’t authorize this.”

“Yeah.” He said it quietly. Not surprised. Just quiet.

I looked at him.

He glanced past my shoulder toward Rochelle, who was now standing near the door, purse still tucked under her arm, still chewing her gum. Patient. Like she was waiting for a bus.

Then the sound hit the lobby. Not loud. Just wrong. The front doors, footsteps on tile, a voice giving a single instruction in a tone that didn’t belong in a bank on a Tuesday afternoon.

I stood up.

Chet said, “Don’t.”

I peeked out the door, looking into the lobby. Three men. White coveralls. Two at the teller windows. One at the door. Ladders gone. Drop cloths on the floor, but not for painting.

I looked behind me to see where Rochelle was.

She was already behind the counter.

When? One second she was at the door of Chet’s office. Then she was on the other side of the glass, calm as a woman who had been there before, because she had, because she’d planned every second of the four minutes and the two minutes and the closed sign and the red dress and the transaction that brought me here in the first place.

Max.

The routing number. The account I didn’t recognize. The receptionist who appeared one morning at a desk we never ordered.

What do you really know about Max?

She never got to ask me. I never got to answer. Standing there in the lobby of Britton Savings and Loan with my sleeves rolled up and my watch telling me I had nineteen minutes before my next client, I finally understood the question.

I didn’t know anything about Max.

Not one thing.