“Well — she asked me to—”
“She here, or ain’t she?”
The clerk said with exasperation, “I’ll take care of the bill and will be responsible for the piano.”
“Five bucks,” the man said, pushing the bill out on the counter. “If she moves it without written consent it’s a serious offence.”
“We’ll guarantee there won’t be any damage and that she’ll get in touch with you at once.”
“She can’t move it. Five bucks.”
The clerk opened the cash drawer of the safe, pulled out a five-dollar bill, slapped it crisply down on the counter, and said, “A receipt, please.” He looked at Bertha Cool and said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Cool.”
Bertha didn’t move, remaining with her elbows propped on the counter, staring down at the bill. She watched the man sign a receipt, shove the receipted bill across, put the five dollars in his pocket.
“Tell her to look at her lease agreement. She can’t move any leased goods.” The clerk started to say something, checked himself, glanced with exasperation at Bertha Cool.
The man swung away from the desk, headed back across the ornate lobby to the street door.