James Grippando: When Darkness Falls

“Hey, I almost forgot to tell you,” said Theo as they crossed the lobby. “Katrina has a friend she wants to fix you up with.”

Katrina was Theo’s on-again, off-again girlfriend, a tough and sexy Latina with a Russian accent who had once laid Jack out on the sidewalk with an awesome left hook-no exaggeration. “I’m really not interested in any blind dates.”

“Katrina says she’s hot.”

“A woman will always say her friend is hot.”

“No. A woman will always say her friend is pretty, which probably means she’s not. But if she says her friend is hot, trust me, dude, she’s hot.”

“That was almost poetic,” said Jack.

“It did kind of rhyme, didn’t it?”

“Like Eminem, without the profanity.”

It was midmorning, and perhaps a half-dozen customers were in the bank, not counting Jack and Theo. In the personal banking center to the left, a dozen or more bank officers were at their desks, busy on the telephone. With customers all over the world, the Greater Bahamian Bank amp; Trust Company transcended time zones.

“Interesting place for a homeless guy to do business,” said Theo.

“Depends on the business,” said Jack.

The court hearing had played out exactly as Jack had predicted. Falcon entered a plea of not guilty, and the judge set bail at ten thousand dollars. Before leaving the jail, Jack retrieved a bit of Falcon’s personal property from lockup. It was a necklace made of metal beads, which Falcon had worn around his neck for years. Attached to the necklace was a small key. Jack had Falcon’s key in his pocket as he headed toward the sign marked SAFE DEPOSIT BOXES.

The boxes were located in a windowless wing of the private banking section. Jack left his name with the receptionist and took a seat on the couch. The well-dressed man seated beside him was reading the stock quotes. An elderly woman on her cell phone was speaking Portuguese. Lasers of light flashed from a three-carat diamond ring with each wave of her hand. Jack tried to imagine someone like Falcon walking in and stinking up the place. It didn’t compute.

“Mr. Swyteck?” a woman said, standing in the doorway. Jack answered, and she introduced herself as Ms. Friedman, vice president. It seemed like everyone in a bank was a vice president. Jack and Theo followed her to a small office behind the reception desk.

Jack presented her with the original power of attorney and his passport. Ms. Friedman inspected both. She then excused herself, explaining that she needed to verify the signature once again, and left the room. Jack sat in silence, waiting. Theo grabbed a magazine from the rack and started flipping through the pages. He never really read anything, save for a menu, and he seemed bitterly disappointed to discover that this month’s issue of Bahamian Banker was short on photographs. Jack needed to find something to talk about before his friend tore the place apart in search of Sports Illustrated.

“So, why does she want to meet me?” said Jack.

“Why does who wanna meet you?”

“Katrina’s friend-the blind date you were talking about.”

Theo smiled. “Ah, so you are interested.”

“No. I’m just curious. Why does Katrina think we’d be a good match?”

“I’m told that she likes a man with a sense of humor.”

“Right. All women just love a man with a sense of humor. But as it turns out, they’re usually referring to the humor of Jude Law, Will Smith, or George Clooney. Apparently, those guys are a stitch.”

The bank officer returned. “Gentlemen, come with me, please.”

They followed her to the end of the hall and stopped at the security checkpoint. Another armed guard was posted at the door.

“How goes it, bro’?” said Theo.

This time the guard said nothing, no pleasant smile. This was the bank’s inner sanctum, the place where things got serious, where security was equal to Theo Knight.

The guard unlocked the glass door to allow Jack and Theo to enter. Ms. Friedman was right behind them. The door closed, and the guard relocked it. The safe deposit boxes were arranged from floor to ceiling, as in a locker room. Everywhere Jack looked was another box with a brushed-metal face. The larger ones were on the bottom. Smaller ones were on top. Ms. Friedman led Jack to box 266, one of the larger ones. It had two locks on the face. She inserted her key into one lock and turned it.

“Your key is for the other lock,” she said. “I’ll leave you in privacy now. If you need me, check with the guard. There is a convenience room in back with a table and chairs. You can take the whole box with you and open it there, if you wish. No one else will be allowed in this area until you’ve finished.”

Jack thanked her, and she gave him a little smile as she left the room. He kept an eye on the keyhole as he reached inside his pocket for the key. “What’s your guess, Theo? You think there’s really ten thousand dollars inside that box?”

“Five minutes ago I would have said no way. But who knows? Everything has checked out so far.”

Jack inserted the key. The tumblers clicked as he turned it clockwise. With a steady pull, he removed the box from its sleeve. It was longer than he had expected-about two feet from front to back. It was heavy, too. He laid it on the bench behind him.

“And the answer is…” he said like a game show host as he flipped the latch and removed the lid.

Jack was suddenly speechless.

Andrew Jackson was staring back at them, many times over. Crisp twenty-dollar bills were stacked neatly side by side. Jack removed the top bundle. There were more beneath it. The box was stuffed with cash, top to bottom, front to back.

“There must be a couple hundred thousand dollars in here,” said Jack.

“At least,” said Theo. “Which certainly makes you wonder.”

“Why would a guy live in an abandoned car if he’s got all this money in the bank?”

“Maybe for the same reason he wants to jump off a bridge,” said Theo. “Or maybe he just wants to be homeless.”

Jack laid a hand atop the money, thinking. “Or both.”

W hen Vincent Paulo was a little boy, he was afraid of the dark. He and his older brother shared a bedroom. The lower bunk was for Danny, who never had trouble falling asleep. Vince had the top bunk, which was part of his mother’s strategy. She knew that no matter how frightened he became, little Vince wouldn’t dare crawl down from the top bunk in the middle of the night. He couldn’t risk waking his big brother, unless he wanted a certain bloody nose. Vince would lay awake for the longest time-for hours, it seemed, the covers pulled over his head, afraid to make a move. “Just close your eyes and go to sleep,” his mother would say. But Vince couldn’t do it. The room, at least, had a night-light. Closing his eyes would mean total darkness, and it was in that black, empty world that monsters prowled.

Ironic, he thought, that he now lived in that world-and that it was indeed a monster who had put him there.

Vince tried not to think about the day he’d lost his sight, or at least not to dwell on it. Hindsight could eat you up, even on the small stuff. If only I’d remembered that Elm Street was a speed trap. If only I’d sold that stock last month. But how many people could say, “If only I hadn’t opened that door, I would never have lost my eyesight”? Of those, how many could actually live with the result-truly live with it, as in live a happy life. Vince tried to be one of those people. He refused to be doted on or smothered by those of good intentions. He refused to change careers. He refused to stop living. There would be major changes and adjustments, to be sure. Teaching at the police academy wasn’t exactly active duty, but it was important work. It was certainly better than taking disability and fading into oblivion. Hopefully there would be more cases like Falcon on the bridge, where Vince could play a role in a real-life hostage situation. But even if that didn’t happen, he would go on with his life, and he would be happy. That was a good place to be, emotionally, and it had taken him many months to get there.