I lifted the heavy oak frame off the hallway wall, wrapped it in an old brown paper bag from under the counter, and carried it out to the Buick.

At four o’clock I walked back into the Oak Creek Family Diner and slid into the end booth across from Gene.

The blue cashier’s check was sitting in the middle of the table again, pinned under a glass salt shaker next to his cold coffee.

“You took your sweet time,” Gene said, setting his heavy white mug down in its saucer with a hard clatter.

“The bank branch closes at five on the dot.”