[BL]
“I
need to get into a safe deposit box,” she said, unable to shake the
nerves of anticipation.
“Right
over there,” the woman said, pointing to a desk at the end of the
row of tellers. “Marcie can help you out.”
“Thanks,”
Vega said, giving the woman one last lingering look before crossing
the room.
Marcie,
a dinosaur at fortyish compared with all the other tellers, looked up
from where she was tapping away at a computer behind the desk. Her
gray eyes looked up over a pair of gaudy green-framed reading glasses
with an inquisitional stare. Vega wondered what kind of punishment
she could be in for if it turned out this was the wrong bank or if
the box rental was no longer properly paid up.
Vega
held up the key Grandma had left like an admission ticket. “Need
to get into a safe box.”
“Certainly,”
Marcie said, her voice and demeanor suddenly a great deal less
intimidating as she hopped up from her seat. “Number?”
“One
ninety-eight,” Vega said, handing over the key to the woman’s
outstretched hand.
“Right
this way.” Marcie led her back behind the desk and through a nondescript door beyond which was a second, heavily armored door
swung wide open. Beyond, in a more dimly lit room, were several
hundred safe boxes lining the walls of the walk-in safe.
Unhesitatingly, the woman walked to about halfway through the room,
withdrew a second key from under her shirtsleeve where it resided on
a pink, coiled bungee, and slid both keys home into one of the
medium-sized boxes. With practiced ease, she opened the door and
withdrew a closed metal box about the size her new running shoes had
come in and placed it on the island counter in the middle of the
room.
“Let
me know when you’re done and I’ll close it back up for you,”
Marcie said with a polite smile and took her leave.
Moment
of truth, Vega thought to herself as she stared down at the cold,
steel box. What secrets had Grandma hidden away inside this
unassuming little container? It had no latch, only a simple hinged
lid, and it opened smooth and quiet.
Inside
the box were two items – a rolled up old plastic grocery bag and a
weathered manila envelope suitably sized for legal documents. Vega
picked up the plastic bag and could tell there was something about
the size of a Twinkie inside, firm but not heavy. She carefully
unrolled the bag and withdrew what appeared to be little more than a
wad of dried grass and leaves, tightly bound with longer strips of
grass and reed. It had a slightly herbal scent to it, but she was at
a loss to explain what it was.
Hoping
for more answers, she returned the grassy object back into the bag
and withdrew the envelope. This felt like it contained at least a
hundred sheets of paper judging by the thickness and way it flexed.
She unwound the string binding it closed and let a well-worn book
slide out into her hands. It looked for all the world like one of
the old church fundraising cookbooks her mom collected, with its
orange card-stock covers and amateur plastic spiral binding. The
title was clearly done with an old typewriter, but the words were
utter gibberish.
Affixed
to the cover was a stickie note: “Vega or Isabelle, burn the herbs
and inhale before trying to read. Love, Grandma.”
Who
the fuck is Isabelle?
[MP]
The
two-block walk to First Bank of Baltimore was an interminable blur.
She was sure there was a good explanation for Gramps’s
disappearance, but even the good explanations sent waves of dread
cascading through her. At her worst moments, she was sure the
bastards next door had taken him, were going to torture him, and his
bloated, decaying corpse would soon wash up in the Chesapeake,
courtesy of the Patapsco River. More probably, he had thumped his
way down to the drug store for his weekly supply of Immodiam AD and
Preparation H. But until she saw him, she’d never be able to
relax.
And
then there was that strange letter from Grandma. What exactly was
Gramps into? Why would Grandma think he would need help? What kind
of help could she possibly be if Gramps was “in over his head”?
And what would she be finding in the safe deposit box? A gun? Why
keep it in the safe deposit box rather than at home, especially in
their neighborhood? For a moment, she grinned, thinking of Grandma
stashing Marvin the Martian’s Illudium Q-36 Explosive
Space Modulator, but the levity quickly faded.
Maybe
it would be some sort of paperwork. Gramps had owned the rowhouse at
one point, but their paltry savings wasn’t enough to cover even the
cost of Grandma’s bargain basement funeral services, and he had had
to refinance. Maybe she had been worried about that. But as quickly
as the idea occurred to her, she rejected it – considering the way
she died, Grandma couldn’t have been talking about the refi of the
house. How would she have known he would need to do it?
The
more she thought about it, everything about Grandma’s final
communiqué was odd. She must have prepared it ahead of time, but if
so, why not talk to Vega about it instead of leaving some inscrutable
message? Hadn’t Grandma trusted her?
The
way she had had it delivered was odd, too. Two months after Grandma
passed a knock had come at her door. A courier was there with a
letter, saying it had been held at his store with directions that it
should be delivered if one month had gone by and they had received no
communication from Mrs. Elenor Bond. Apparently she had been writing
to them once a month for two years to keep that letter from being
delivered.
The
final straw as far as Vega was concerned was the bank itself. While
First Bank of Baltimore was close to the house, Gramps and Grandma
had always had their accounts at Baltimore County Savings Bank, or as
Gramps still called it, “The Building and Loan.” In fact, she
even remembered their disapproval when she decided to keep the
account her parents had opened for her at FBB instead of moving her
assets over to Baltimore County. Why would Grandma have kept the
safe deposit box at FBB?
Was she hiding it from Gramps? And if so, how was it still being
paid for after three years, especially since Grandpa balanced his
checkbook to the penny every month; there would be no way for FBB to
be automatically drawing money from Baltimore County without it
sending Gramps into a tirade.
As she opened the doors to First Bank of Baltimore, Vega sighed a
breath of relief as the cool air flowed over her. While it wasn’t
truly into the heat of the day yet, she could tell that it was going
to be a scorcher.
The bank was laid out in a giant circle, with an entire half-wall
taken up with a counter manned by a platoon of tellers. In the
middle hulked a large information kiosk surrounding a petite young
woman of about 23. She wore a khaki-colored skirt that was cut
tastefully above the knee and whose design hid, yet accentuated her
shapely legs. Her full crimson blouse matched her well-kept nails,
and she beamed a professional smile at Vega as she entered the bank.
“Welcome to First Bank of Baltimore,” she said. “What can I do
for you today?”
She’s pretty, thought Vega, feeling herself respond to the
sight of the receptionist’s lush bosom. Too bad I only date
sistas.
