I stepped up to the brass railing and slid my driver’s license across the polished marble.

“I need to check the available balance on my primary checking account,” I said.

Brenda typed six quick keystrokes on her black computer terminal.

Her gray fingernails made a steady clicking sound against the plastic keys.

She stopped typing and stared at the screen.

Then she pulled her blue cardigan tight across her chest and looked up at my face.

“Is there a problem with the transfer?” I asked.