Old Tom had no idea he'd just dodged a bullet. After snapping a few ID-style photos of Henry against a blank white wall click click he escorted him straight to the local bank.
First National Bank of Alaska. One of the most recognizable banks in the state, and a five-star-rated institution nationwide. Solid, reputable, boring in all the best ways.
It was founded back in 1922 by a guy named Winfield Ervin Sr., riding the railroad boom through Alaska's frontier days. Since then, the bank had become a cornerstone of the community. Reliable. Discreet. Adaptable.
So when Tom walked Henry through the door, the bank manager slick suit, practiced smile was out of his office before they'd even reached the front desk.
"Tom! As sharp as ever, I see," he greeted, offering a handshake.
Tom didn't bother sugarcoating his response. "Franklin's still Franklin. Won't change in a hundred years. Right?"
The manager chuckled politely. "He's been with us since day one, so I suppose he's earned his permanence."
He then turned to Henry. "And this would be...?"
"Henry. Crewman on Old George's boat. He's here to cash a check."
"Welcome! You've come to the right place. Our bank prides itself on the fastest, most trustworthy service in the country. Will you be depositing to an outside account, or would you like to open a new one with us?"
"He wants cash," Tom cut in. "Straight up."
"Ah, I see." The manager's expression didn't falter. "Cash withdrawals carry a 0.6% fee. Standard processing for checks is usually 0.4%, but if you open an account, we can drop that to 0.2%. Would you consider opening one today?"
Tom added delicately, "He's missing a few documents. If you're willing to be flexible, maybe we can discuss other options."
Then he turned to Henry. "Your call."
Tom wasn't about to make the decision for him. Some guys get picky over a few bucks' difference in fees—but more importantly, he'd subtly let the manager know that this transaction might not check all the regulatory boxes. Best to be prepared.
Henry didn't hesitate. "I'll take the cash."
The manager got the message loud and clear. He didn't press. Sure, working around red tape might earn him a quiet commission on the side but if the client didn't want to dance, better to stick to the script.
Still smiling, the manager slid a polished wooden tray across the desk.
"Please place the check here. I'll get the transaction started."
Henry blinked. That was fast. He'd half expected to get stonewalled for asking for a pile of physical cash. Wasn't that usually how it went in movies?
Tom saw the look on his face and smirked. "Crab season. Lotta newbies take their pay and vanish. Banks around here prep for that, keep plenty of cash on hand. Nothing unusual."
That explained why, despite being in a small town, the bank had more armed guards than Henry had seen in some airports.
Not that robbing the place ever crossed his mind. He wasn't about to screw things up when he was finally making honest money. He placed George's signed check onto the tray.
The manager glanced at the numbers and confirmed, "Cashing this for eighty grand, correct?"
"Yep."
"Very well. One moment."
He took the tray and headed out.
Just then, a sharply dressed assistant with legs for days walked into the room and offered politely, "Coffee or tea, gentlemen?"
No hot chocolate? No whiskey? Henry grumbled internally. Out loud, he said, "Coffee, thanks."
Tom waved her off. Instead, he helped himself to the manager's liquor cabinet and poured a healthy glass of whiskey.
"You even legal to drink yet?" he asked.
Henry shrugged. "Depends. What's the age in this world?"
"Twenty-one."
"Then nope. I'll stick to coffee. Too bad they don't have milk."
Tom took a sip, grimaced slightly. "Kid, you're missing half of life's pleasures."
He kicked back on the couch and got comfortable. "So... how'd you end up on George's boat?"
Henry raised an eyebrow. "What, you do background checks now? You with the CIA or something?"
"We've got time to kill," Tom said. "You want to just sit here and stare at each other? Or admire this fine, completely tasteless office décor? I can guarantee you—none of this art cost more than a hundred bucks."
Henry glanced around. Yeah, cheap framed prints, a fake plant, and a faux-leather sofa that had definitely seen better days. Still, he wasn't here for the interior design.
"I met a guy they call 'the Pole' at a bar up north. Old John's place. You know it?"
"Ah, that crusty WWII vet still kickin'? Whole family's full of patriots. He's the only one left now."
Henry didn't rise to the bait. Tom might be rough around the edges, but he didn't seem malicious.
Tom took another sip. "That still doesn't explain how you got George's attention. He doesn't usually give a damn about rookies. You must've done something."
"There was a situation on the boat. I handled it. Helped out where I could. I pick things up fast. Work hard. The rest... you'll have to ask George."
"Fair enough," Tom said, letting the matter drop.
Their conversation paused as the bank manager returned, now carrying a larger tray stacked with neat bundles of cash. He placed it in front of Henry with a practiced flourish.
"After deducting the $480 cash-handling fee, that leaves $79,520. That's seven full stacks of hundreds—one hundred bills per bundle—and the remainder's been exchanged into smaller denominations. Please verify."
The assistant reappeared, this time wheeling in a counting machine. She moved with precise efficiency, feeding the bills through the counter, tallying the total on a calculator, and confirming it matched to the cent.
Henry watched but didn't re-count. He picked up a couple bundles, the thick, rubber-banded stacks feeling almost surreal in his hands.
The manager noticed his dazed expression and signaled to the assistant, who returned with a small branded tote bag.
"This one's on the house," the manager said with a grin.
Henry took the bag, stuffing the bundles inside, still slightly stunned.
Eighty grand in cold, hard cash.
It was real now.
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