He shoved back hard from the table, his napkin dropping to the floor. "What is this?" he shouted. The whole restaurant stopped. The music seemed to cut off mid-phrase.
Forks were set down at nearby tables. Declan wasn't registering any of it. He was well past caring about the room. He held the bill up in the air. My father is confused.
His voice carried a hard mocking edge. He's having one of his episodes. He forgot how to sign a check. I apologized to everyone. He produced a brief hollow laugh.
Then his hand went into his jacket and came back with his wallet. He pulled out a card. Black heavy, the JPMorgan Reserve card. the kind of thing that opens every door it's pointed at. It was also a supplementary card tied directly to my primary investment account.
He held it out toward the waiter with a flick of his wrist. "Run this," he said. "Bring me a receipt. We're done here." The waiter carried the card to the payment terminal near the bar.
I stayed on my stool, motionless. I watched him swipe. I counted to myself. 1 2 3. The machine beeped and flashed a red light.
The waiter frowned, pulled the card out, cleaned the chip, and tried again. Inserted it. Waited. Beep. I took another sip of water.
It tasted almost sweet. The waiter looked stricken. He went back to the main table and leaned in close to murmur in Declan's ear. Declan's face changed as though he'd absorbed a sudden blow. Declined, he said loud enough to carry.
"That's impossible. Do you know what's on that card? Run it again." "I've already run it twice, sir," the waiter said, barely holding his composure.
"It's showing refer to issuer. The account has been frozen." Declan laughed again, but a sheen of perspiration had appeared at his temple. The bank flagged it because of the amount. Their security algorithms, they're useless.
He was already pulling out another card. A Mastercard World Elite also routed through my accounts. Try this one, he said. And be quick. The waiter went back to the terminal.