Forty-One Thousand Dollars and a Yellow Paper Envelope
The clerk checked the stamp twice and handed me a green slip.
“Box Nine,” he said.
“Room B.” He wrote the time on the slip in small block numbers.
Arthur was waiting outside the vault room with two paper cups of coffee.
“I haven’t been inside a bank vault since 1979,” he said.
“I expected more gold.” He had already drunk one coffee in the lobby and left the empty cup by the gate.
“Watch your knees,” I said.
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