“Frankly, I want you to help me perform a small robbery.”
Wes chortled. “Son, that’s what banks are for. And you’ve come to the right banker.”
Beau took the bonds from a very old and battered big envelope which bore his name and in which for years he had kept unpaid bills. It looked exactly like something that had lain in a vault a long while, holding bonds. He threw the parchment-stiff, aging paper on Wesley Martinson’s desk. “Want to borrow on these.”
Wes picked them up, studied them and said, “They don’t look counterfeit.”
Beau chuckled. “Nope. Something I stashed before the tax rate knifed us. Trouble is, I don’t want the little woman to realize I’m borrowing on them.”
The other man frowned. “I see.”
“The hell you do see! However, I’ll let you in on the sight, one of these days. She has”—Beau made curves with his hands. “All blonde, and when I say all, I mean all.”
Wes unconsciously ran his tongue along the underside of his long top lip. “Isn’t that kind of skidding around, for the cashier of Sloan?”
“With her you don’t skid, son. She’s safely married.”
As Beau knew, the invention suited his own need for cover as well as the other man’s mind. Wes chuckled. “I guess Owen National can help you maintain your little relationship. Security’s okay. You know the rates.”