"Yes, sir," Doak said.
The cashier was just getting ready to close when Doak came to the window. "Week-end trip," Doak said. "Secret."
"How much?"
Doak faced him squarely. "Two thousand."
The cashier seemed to wince but Doak's gaze didn't relent. He was only three years behind in his taxes now and this extra moola on the swindle-sheet could bring him two months closer. Anyone who was only two years behind on his taxes was considered a very solid citizen.
The cashier reached down to pull up four packets of twenties. "Well," he said quietly, "it's not my money." He tossed the two thousand out to Doak and yawned. "Remind me about it Monday if I forget, will you? I'm not much good the end of the week."
Or any other part of the week, Doak thought. He said, "If I'm back, Monday. If I'm not I'll scream for more."
"You do that well," the cashier said and reached up to turn off the light overhead.
It was hot outside. The sun seemed to be imprisoned in the white corridor that stretched for miles between the government buildings and the ashment of the parking lot glittered like broken glass.