He was getting confused. I wasn't a friend of his sister's. Didn't even know her. He'd told me about her, was all. He was standing there with the razor. We were looking at each other in the mirror. Like with Finlay in the coffee shop.
"It's not a thousand dollars a year," he whispered. Then he bent close to my ear. "It's a thousand dollars a week."
He started stomping around, chuckling like a demon. He filled the sink and dabbed off the spare lather. Patted my face down with a hot wet cloth. Then he whipped the towel off my shoulders like a conjurer doing a trick.
"That's why we don't need no customers," he cackled.
I paid him and got out. The guy was crazy.
"Say hello to my sister," he called after me.
Chapter Seventeen
THE TRIP TO ATLANTA WAS THE BEST PART OF FIFTY MILES. Took nearly an hour. The highway swept me right into the city. I headed for the tallest buildings. Soon as I started to see marble foyers I dumped the car and walked to the nearest corner and asked a cop for the commercial district.
He gave me a half mile walk after which I found one bank after another. Sunrise International had its own building. It was a big glass tower set back behind a piazza with a fountain. That part looked like Milan, but the entranceway at the base of the tower was clad in heavy stone, trying to look like Frankfurt or London. Trying to look like a big heavy-duty bank. Foyer full of dark carpet and leather. Receptionist behind a mahogany counter. Could have been a quiet hotel.
I asked for Paul Hubble's office and the receptionist flipped through a directory. She said she was sorry, but she was new in the job and she didn't recognize me, so would I wait while she got clearance for my visit? She dialed a number and started a low conversation. Then she covered the phone with her hand.
"May I say what it's in connection with?"
"I'm a friend," I said.
She resumed the phone call and then directed me to an elevator. I had to go to reception on the seventeenth floor. I got in the elevator and tapped the button. Stood there while it carried me up.
The seventeenth floor looked even more like a gentleman's club than the entrance foyer had. It was carpeted and paneled and dim. Full of glowing antiques and old pictures. As I waded across the thick pile a door opened and a suit stepped out to meet me. Shook my hand and fussed me back into a little anteroom. He introduced himself as some sort of a manager and we sat down.
"So how may I help you?" he asked.
"I'm looking for Paul Hubble," I said.
"May I know why?"
"He's an old friend," I said. "I remembered him saying he works here, so I thought I'd look him up while I'm passing through."
The guy in the suit nodded. Dropped his gaze.
"Thing is, you see," he said, "Mr. Hubble doesn't work here anymore. We had to let him go, I'm afraid, about eighteen months ago."
I just nodded blankly. Then I sat there in the clubby little office and looked at the guy in the suit and waited. A bit of silence might set him talking. If I asked him questions straight out, he might clam up. He might go all confidential, like lawyers do. But I could see he was a chatty type of a guy. A lot of those managers are. They love to impress the hell out of you, given the chance. So I sat tight and waited. Then the guy started apologizing to me because I was Hubble's friend.
"No fault of his own, you understand," he said. "He did an excellent job, but it was in a field we moved out of. A strategic business decision, very unfortunate for the people concerned, but there you are."
I nodded at him like I understood.
"I haven't been in touch for a long time," I said. "I didn't know. I didn't even really know what he did here."
I smiled at him. Tried to look amiable and ignorant. Didn't take much effort, in a bank. I gave him my best receptive look. Guaranteed to set a chatty guy talking. It had worked for me plenty of times before.
"He was part of our retail operation," the guy said. "We closed it down."
I looked inquiringly at him.
"Retail?" I said.
"Over-the-counter banking," he said. "You know, cash, checks, loans, personal customers."
"And you closed that down?" I said. "Why?"
"Too expensive," he said. "Big overhead, small margin. It had to go."
"And Hubble was a part of that?" I asked him.
He nodded.
"Mr. Hubble was our currency manager," he said. "It was an important position. He was very good."
"So what was his exact role?" I asked him.
The guy didn't know how to explain it. Didn't know where to start. He made a couple of attempts and gave them up.
"Do you understand cash?" he said.
"I've got some," I said. "I don't know if I understand it, exactly."
He got to his feet and gave me a fussy gesture. Wanted me to join him at the window. We peered out together at the people on the street, seventeen floors down. He pointed at a guy in a suit, hurrying along the sidewalk.
"Take that gentleman," he said. "Let's make a few guesses, shall we? Probably lives in the outer suburbs, maybe has a vacation cabin somewhere, two big mortgages, two cars, half a dozen mutual funds, IRA provision, some blue chip stock, college plans, five or six credit cards, store cards, charge cards. Net worth about a half million, shall we say?"
"OK," I said.
"But how much cash does he have?" the guy asked me.
"No idea," I said.
"Probably about fifty dollars," he said. "About fifty dollars in a leather billfold which cost him a hundred and fifty dollars."