As Halsey Stuart waited for George Thompson to finish placating an indignant woman in a pinstriped suit, he looked around City National bank.

Being in someone else's bank was like a chef dining out. He viewed the place with a critical eye.

The ambience at City National was definitely a step down from the way Stu's Fortune Beach Bank presented itself. But you couldn't always judge a bank by the quality of the marble on the floor, a hard lesson he'd learned in recent weeks. He was glad his line of credit was safely in place at City National.

But right now he was in a hurry to make use of it, and George, the branch manager of City National, was taking longer than he should with the irate woman. That was the underside of George's unfailing politeness, and one reason, at thirty-five, George was at the pinnacle of his career. Any aspirations beyond bank manager he might secretly be harboring were just not in the cards. Stu glanced at his watch in a way George Thompson was sure to grasp, and within seconds the branch manager hastened to end his business with the woman.

George always walked as if someone were holding a stopwatch on him, but as he approached Stu his bounce was subdued. Hope it's because he kept me waiting, Stu thought. Not because maybe he's heard rumors about Fortune Beach Bank

Even if word had reached George, there was still no reason he'd have automatically frozen Stu's line of credit. Surely, he'd wait to find out what happened and whether he was leaving the area. As George stood in front of him, he just seemed nervous about having kept Stu waiting.

"Hey, Mr. Stuart, sorry for holding you up. Ms. Oakes, the one leaning against the deposit counter, is one adamant, sly old fox. She can't understand the early withdrawal penalty on her CD after she beat me out of one penalty already. I tried explaining again even though I know she understands the rules. You know how it is, someone always trying to beat the system. Anyway, how are things up your way?"

"Fine, George. Everything's just fine. I just stopped in to draw some money on my line of credit. Do you know how much I have left?"

"Give me a few seconds to pull your file up on the screen."

George race-walked back toward his desk and pressed the computer keys with precision.

"You've used exactly half the line. How much of the $50,000 remaining would you like?"

"I'm going out of town for awhile so I may need it all." "Shall I have it transferred to your account, then?"

Stu pretended to consider that. "Better wire the funds less five thousand dollars to my father's bank in New Jersey."

He took a card from the morocco holder he'd seen George admire before and jotted quickly. "Here's my account number and routing information Take the five thousand with me today."

"That'll be fine, Mr. Stuart."

George rapidly prepared the note for Stu's signature and slid it across the desk.

Stu took out his Mont Blanc pen—a going away gift from his father when Stu had accepted the job in Fortune Beach five years earlier—and bent to sign off on the money. A loud bang yanked his head around. The glass door leading into the lobby slammed against the wall, glass shattering in every direction.

Two men strode in, nylon stockings shielding their faces, guns drawn.

"Anybody does anything but breathe, it'll be your last goddamn breath," the taller man ordered. "Do I make myself clear?"

I'll say, Stu thought. He had no intention of playing hero, and suddenly he didn't give a damn about the money, but keeping calm was something else. All he wanted was to get out alive.

He commanded himself to stop shaking. There were only a handful of people in the lobby. Slowly, he scanned their faces for who might do or say the wrong thing. Fortunately, Ms. Oakes had gone. Among the current customers no one looked stupid enough to argue with the gunmen, but one never knew how terror could change a person. There was one elderly man, second in line at a teller's window, whose fear was visibly clear across the lobby as a wet spot formed on the front of the his pants and spread down his leg. Poor bastard! Hope he doesn't have a heart attack.

"Hey, you! Yeah, you!" The second gunman pointed his gun at George. "Get your skinny ass over here! Now!"

George, of course, did exactly as he was told, approaching the two gunmen as quickly as his rubbery legs would carry him. He kept his eyes lowered, an unnecessary caution given the stockings pulled over their faces. They also wore matching dark blue windbreakers, absent any identifying insignia, with the collars turned up.

Just then, a woman came through the front door of the bank. She spotted one of the robbers and tried to tiptoe back out, but one of the gunmen noticed her too. He pointed his gun. "You're in now, bitch. Just keep on walking in."

Panicking, the woman made a run for the door. Three shots thundered and the woman lurched forward, crashing through the glass panel door. Half of her body was hanging out the front door, a thick piece of jagged glass protruding through her abdomen.

Stu's entire body clenched as he waited for more shots to be fired, but the gunmen had made their point. Everyone was rooted in place. For a few seconds, there was a deafening silence.

The taller gunman grabbed George by the hair, put his .357 Magnum to the quivering man's throat, and cocked the hammer ever so slowly with his thumb. "I'd be very careful if I were you and do exactly like you're told." George nodded quickly and repeatedly.

"Atta boy," the gunman said.

"Everybody else, on the floor!" the other ordered. "Let's go! Face down, everybody, heads facing away from the teller counter! Quick! Unless someone here is dying to be next." He chuckled, then growled, "Don't take my little joke seriously. We don't give a shit if all of youse want to die now—we're in this to the end."

Stu was already on the marble floor, which felt very cold against his cheek. The gunmen were loudly opening zippered bags, slamming drawers open and shut. The thought of the money flying into the bags. The faster the better, he thought. Just let there be enough to satisfy them.

There must have been, because one of the robbers laughed again. Footsteps echoed as they left, and something clunked to the floor. Then there was only a hissing noise, smoke, choking, eyes burning. Tear gas!

Outside, cycles fired up and roared away. In the stillness following the sounds of departure, people got up off the floor and scrambled for the double doors, passing the lifeless body and gasping for fresh air. Stu looked around, his reflexive sense of responsibility kicking in. Everyone seemed to be out except the dead woman and George. He wiped his stinging eyes with his shirt and, with the head teller, went back into the bank to find him. It didn't take long.

George lay on the floor under a deposit counter, out cold, blood running down the side of his head. An ugly blow had landed above his right ear, not lethal from the look of it.

Stu and one of the male customers dragged him outside. Within minutes George came to.

By then a crowd had started to form. Sirens were approaching, although they sounded a few blocks off. Stu looked at George. "George, are you okay?"

The manager looked up at Stu, the blood caking on the side of his face. "Okay? I don't know.... I don't know how any of us got the hell out of there alive."

"The thing to concentrate on, George, is that you're out of there. It's over. Look, I have to get going. I can't explain, but this isn't a morning I can get hung up giving a statement to the police. I have a plane to catch. Are you following me, George? Can you remember something?"

"I'll never be able to forget this." George replied. "You'll be fine. Listen, George. Take the five thousand and put it in my account. I'll use my ATM card to access any money that I need the next couple of days. I'm sorry to leave, but I know you'll be able to handle things from here on in."

George nodded. "Thanks for saying that. I'll have to, won't I? I can't thank you enough for getting me out of there. God knows how much worse off I'd be if you hadn't gotten me out into the air. I'll make sure you're kept out of this. Just tell me what to do about that poor woman in the doorway?"

"Nothing," Stu said. "The police will take care of it. They'll be here any second." Stu rose, rushed to his car and drove off, his hands clenched white as paper on the steering wheel.

He tried to concentrate on being glad to be alive. He'd be more glad when he was actually out of Florida, but he had promised to see Des first, and he was a man of his word. Today, he was hoping Des would be a man of few words, because he couldn't stay long. He'd given Des five years. Fifteen minutes more wouldn't hurt, and then it was Stu's time. He suspected he'd need every bit of it to pick up the pieces and try to put his life back together. Again.