Two from the Heart(33)

He heads down the street, looking like one of the Three Amigos.

Inside the bank, manager Domingo Sanchez is filing papers. His teller, Maria, is filing her nails, bored out of her mind. It’s just the two of them. No customers yet.

Sanchez is looking prosperous. For him, banking is serious business, and he makes it a point to dress the part in a dark blue three-piece suit—even on days like this, when the heat makes him sweat through all three pieces.

Sanchez looks up as Bron walks through the door. The manager jumps up, suddenly energized. He snaps his fingers at Maria, who quickly drops the nail file into a pencil cup and sits up straight in her teller’s chair. Sanchez tugs his vest hem down over his belly and turns on his most welcoming smile.

“Buenos días. Good morning, sir! Domingo Sanchez, bank manager. How may I be of service today?”

Bron whips off the goofy sombrero and looks around. Two standard Steelcase desks. A few file cabinets. And a vault that says (no kidding), ACME SAFE COMPANY. But a bank is a bank, right? A bank can connect with other banks. Money can be wired. And money can put Bron right back where he’s used to being—in charge.

“Yes. Good morning. I need to access my accounts, please.”

Sanchez dabs a patch of sweat from his high forehead with a handkerchief. He beams. “Of course, of course, sir. And your accounts are currently located… where?”

“At Chase Bank. In Massachusetts.”

“Massachusetts. You’re quite a ways from home, then. Vacation?”

“Right,” says Bron, “let’s go with that.”

“Well, that’s fine, fine. No problem at all, Mister…?”

“Bron. Tyler Bron.” He wonders for a millisecond if his name might ring a bell. But nothing.

Sanchez motions toward a chair in front of his tidy desk. “Mister Bron. Please.”

Bron sits. Sanchez takes a seat behind the desk and straightens two thick pens in front of him, ready for business.

“All right then, Mr. Bron. First things first. All I need are two forms of ID.”

ID? Oh, shit.





Chapter 8


SOMEWHERE, THOUSANDS of miles away, there are bank and brokerage accounts in Tyler Bron’s name, with ten juicy digits in the balance columns. Billions, just sitting there. But here, Bron is experiencing something he’s never felt in his life. The feeling of being a nobody.

It’s not a great feeling.

Bron steps out of the bank into the blinding sun, trying to adjust to the notion of being practically penniless. He spots Gonzalo riding his battered two-wheeler down the middle of the street. Gonzalo spots Bron and skids to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust. He reads Bron’s expression.

“?Qué pasa?” says Gonzalo. “?No dinero?”

Bron jerks his thumb back toward the bank. “You know Mister Sanchez?”

“Se?or Sanchez? Sí.”

“Well, he’s a real stickler for rules.”

Bron tugs out the lining of his pockets like a clown. At least he’s trying to keep a sense of humor about it. If he expected a challenge, Crane has definitely delivered. But what now? He can’t hike out of here. He’d be buzzard meat within an hour. So, what now?

“You need a place to stay—no money?” asks Gonzalo.

Bron thinks for a second. “You know a place?”

Gonzalo pops a wheelie and circles his hand in the air, like Lawrence of Arabia leading a charge.

“Se?or! This way!”

The town motel is located a block beyond the gas station, tucked behind a small warehouse. It’s just a one-room office with seven tiny units lined up across a tiled courtyard. Decades of desert sun have faded the colors to pale pastels. A wooden walkway runs in front of the units, widening in the center to a common deck with a few lounge chairs and umbrellas.

The Four Seasons, it’s not.

Gonzalo lays his bike down and waits for Bron to catch up. Bron rounds the corner and looks up at a blinking neon sign, Motel Alvarez. Below it is a wooden panel with a single word: VACANCY.

Gonzalo holds the door open. Bron walks into the dimly lit office. The manager is at the front desk, leaning casually on a dog-eared leather register.

Of course. It figures.

Hello again… Grandpa.





Chapter 9


OH, MY God!”

Who knew a simple shower could feel this good? Bron turns slowly under the flow as sweat and sand wash out of his hair and every remote nook and cranny of his body. The pipes creak and the water never gets past lukewarm, but no matter. Right now, lukewarm is heaven. Worth every penny of the forty-dollar-per-night room fee, reluctantly waived by Grandpa—but only until Bron can dig up some actual cash. Worry about that later. For now, this is bliss.

As Bron steps out of the shower, there’s a knock on the door. He wraps a towel around his waist and peeks out through the peephole. It’s Gonzalo, bearing gifts.

“?Hola, Se?or Tyler!”

Through the half-open door, Gonzalo hands Bron a pair of faded cargo shorts and a few STP T-shirts. Then a pair of rubber sandals.

“Hope they fit,” says Gonzalo.

“Thanks, Gonzalo. They’ll be fine. Really. Thank you.”

“Give me your clothes,” says Gonzalo. “I’ll get them cleaned for you.”