“Our branch manager?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“What is your business with him?”
Arthur’s voice remained polite.
“I have several things I would like to discuss.”
Sarah studied him.
She did not ask what those things were.
Instead, she reached for the intercom.
Inside a glass office overlooking the lobby sat David Keller, the branch manager.
David was forty-seven and had spent twenty-one years in banking. He had begun as a teller, moved into lending, then commercial accounts, and finally management.
His career had made him proud.
Perhaps too proud.
The downtown Franklin Metropolitan branch was considered one of the bank’s flagship locations. Its client list included medical practices, real-estate firms, technology executives, law partnerships, and several families whose names appeared on buildings around the city.
David liked being associated with those people.
He liked being recognized at charity dinners.
He liked telling friends that his branch managed billions in client assets.
Somewhere during his rise, he had started believing that serving wealthy customers made him part of their world.
Sarah’s intercom lit.
David answered without taking his eyes from a portfolio report.
“What is it?”
“There’s an elderly gentleman here asking to meet with you.”
“Name?”
“Arthur. I don’t have a last name yet.”
David looked through the glass.
He immediately found the man because Arthur was the only customer dressed as if he might have walked in from a neighborhood hardware store.
“That gentleman?”
“Yes.”
“Is he one of our private-banking clients?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Commercial?”
“I don’t know.”
David sighed.
“What does he want?”
“He says there’s a problem with an old account.”
“Then customer service can handle it.”
“He specifically asked for you.”
David watched Arthur through the glass.
Old jacket.
Cane.
Worn shoes.
No assistant.
No appointment.
No signs of wealth.
“Have him sit down.”
“For how long?”
“Until I’m free.”
Sarah hesitated.
“You have Mr. Davenport at eleven thirty and the Latham meeting at noon.”
“Exactly.”
“What should I tell him?”
“That I’ll see him when I can.”
David lowered his voice.
“He’ll probably get tired of waiting and leave.”
Sarah looked toward Arthur.
“All right.”
She disconnected the intercom.
Arthur was still standing where she had left him.
“The manager is busy,” Sarah said. “You can wait over there.”
She pointed toward a corner seating area farthest from the private-banking offices.
Arthur looked at the row of chairs.
“Will he know I’m waiting?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
He picked up his cane and walked over.
The chair was low and softer than he preferred.
He sat carefully.
Placed both hands over the top of his cane.
And waited.
People continued staring.
A young man in a blue suit whispered to another customer:
“Did somebody bring their grandfather to the wrong branch?”
The other man laughed.
Arthur heard them.
A woman near the private-client desk glanced at him and said quietly:
“Security should probably ask what he wants.”
Another customer responded:
“He might be homeless.”
Arthur looked down at his shoes.
He had owned those shoes for twelve years.
His wife had bought them for him.
They were comfortable.
That was why he wore them.
The fact that strangers now considered them evidence of poverty almost amused him.
Almost.
He had come to the bank dressed that way intentionally, though not as part of some elaborate test.
He had spent the previous weekend at his old property outside Lancaster, helping oversee repairs to a farmhouse that had belonged to his parents. The jacket in question had hung on a hook there for decades. On Tuesday morning, rather than return home to change, he drove directly into Philadelphia.