"Name?" Christopher asked, his fingers hovering over his mechanical keyboard with clinical detachment.
"Arthur Vance."
Christopher typed the name into his computer. A moment later, a red warning icon flashed subtly in the corner of his screen. "Ah. Mr. Vance. An existing personal checking account registered at our Dorchester sub-branch." Christopher raised an eyebrow. "Your current balance is negative four dollars and fifty-two cents due to a recurring maintenance charge. Do you have cash to cover the overdraft?"
"No," Arthur replied calmly. He opened the leather portfolio, took out the check, and placed it face-down on the counter, sliding it toward the teller. "I have this."
Christopher picked up the check using only two fingers. He flipped it over. He looked at the legal amount printed in bold, dark ink across the face of the document.
Ten Dollars.
A low, involuntary snort escaped Christopher’s throat. He looked at the check again, then slowly raised his eyes to meet Arthur’s gaze. A smirking smile began to spread across his face, entirely breaking his polished professional facade.
"Is there something incorrect about the document?" Arthur asked, his voice flat.
"Oh, no. No, not at all, Mr. Vance," Christopher said, his tone dripping with condescension. He tilted the check sideways so Sarah could see it. "Look at this, Sarah. Mr. Vance here is making a... very substantial estate deposit today."
Sarah glanced at the number, buried her face in her hand, and let out a suppressed squeak of laughter.
"Mr. Vance," Christopher continued, turning back to Arthur with an amused grin. "This is a ten-dollar cashier's check. You brought an official cashier's check to a private wealth branch to cover a four-dollar overdraft? You know we have self-service ATMs on the street corner for... small-scale transactions like this?"
The sound of their laughter cut through the quiet grandeur of the banking hall. It was a familiar sound to Arthur. It was the exact sound of dismissal his father had endured for half a century—the laughter of those who assumed that a man in grease-stained work clothes was incapable of holding anything of value.
Something inside Arthur hardened into steel. The exhaustion that had weighed on his shoulders all morning vanished, replaced by a cold, absolute focus.
"Stop laughing," Arthur said.
Christopher stopped chuckling, though the arrogant smirk remained on his lips. "Excuse me?"
"I said, stop laughing," Arthur repeated, leaning forward over the granite counter. His voice was not loud, but it possessed a sharp, cutting authority that made Sarah instantly straighten up. "And call your branch manager."
Christopher scoffed, crossing his arms. "Sir, Branch Manager Sterling does not meet with walk-in retail customers, especially those processing ten-dollar transactions. I can clear your overdraft right here, give you your five dollars and forty-eight cents in change, and you can be on your way."
"I am not asking you what you are capable of doing, Christopher," Arthur said, reading the nametag with deliberate precision. "I am telling you to call James Sterling. Tell him Arthur Vance is standing at Station Three with his father's final estate documentation."
Christopher’s smirk faltered slightly. The absolute lack of hesitation in Arthur’s eyes unnerved him. Reluctantly, Christopher picked up his desk phone, dialed a three-digit extension, and spoke in a hushed, annoyed whisper.
"Mr. Sterling? I apologize for the interruption, sir, but I have a customer at Station Three who is refusing to leave without seeing you. A Mr. Arthur Vance... He’s holding a ten-dollar estate check—"
Christopher went silent. The voice on the other end of the line was loud enough for Arthur to hear a sharp, sudden intake of breath, followed by a harsh, rapid directive.
Christopher slowly put the receiver down. The color had visibly drained from his face, leaving his cheeks a pale, sallow grey.
Before Christopher could speak, the heavy oak door leading to the executive suite at the rear of the hall swung open. James Sterling—the senior branch director and father of Croft Jr.—walked out onto the marble floor. He was a man in his sixties, with perfectly coiffed silver hair and a sharp tailored suit. He ignored the wealthy clients sitting in the lounge, walking directly toward Station Three with a look of intense, suppressed anxiety.
"Mr. Vance!" Sterling said smoothly, his voice echoing off the high ceilings as he extended a hand across the counter. "My apologies for the delay. My son called me from the legal offices just five minutes ago. Please, step into my office. We shouldn't be discussing your family’s affairs out here on the floor."
Arthur did not shake Sterling's hand immediately. He picked up his father's check, looked Christopher straight in the eyes, and placed it back into the leather portfolio.