name?”
“Barrington.”
“Just a moment.” She dialed a number, spoke briefly, and hung up. “Go in, please,” she said, pointing at the office door, which was open.
Stone rapped lightly on the door and entered. “Mr. Marshall?”
“Mr. Barrington,” the man said, rising and offering his hand. “Please have a seat; what can I do for you?”
Stone handed him the check and sat down. “I’d like to cash this,” he said.
Marshall examined the check. “Do you have some identification?” he asked.
Stone handed over his New York driver’s license.
Marshall looked at Stone’s photograph, compared it with the original face, wrote the license number on the back of the check and handed it back. “May I ask how you happen to have a check on the account of Centurion Studios for twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“It’s a paycheck; I had a role in a Centurion film this week.”
“Ah, an actor.”
Stone didn’t disabuse him of the notion. “I live in New York, you see; I’m just out here for the Job.”
“Can we open an account for you? That’s a lot of cash to be walking around with.”
“No, I’m going back to New York shortly, but you’re right, it is a lot of money. Why don’t you give me a cashier’s check for fifteen thousand, and the rest in hundreds?”
“As you wish.” He buzzed for his secretary, then signed a form and handed it to her. “Have a cashier’s check drawn in that amount, please, payable to Mr. Stone Barrington, and bring me that and ten thousand dollars in hundreds.” He turned the check over. “You’ll need to endorse it,” he said to Stone.
Stone signed the check and sat back to wait for his money. “You’ve a handsome bank here,” he said.
“Thank you; all of our offices are designed with something of the nautical in them. Mr. Ippolito is something of a yachtsman.”
“Mr. Ippolito?”
“Our chairman,” Marshall replied.
“What does he sail?”
“He has a small armada,” the bank manager said. “A large sailing yacht, a large motor yacht, a sports fisherman, and several runabouts.”
“Business must be good,” Stone said.
“Oh, yes; we’re the fastest-growing bank in Southern California. We’ve got fourteen offices in the greater L.A. and San Diego areas, and by this time next year we’ll have closer to twenty. We’re expanding into San Francisco.”
“Might you have a copy of your most recent annual report?” Stone asked. “I’m going to need to invest some of this paycheck.”
“Of course,” Marshall replied. He reached into a cabinet next to his desk and produced a thick, handsomely designed brochure.
“Thank you,” Stone said. “I’ll read myself to sleep tonight.”
“I think you’ll find us a good investment; our stock has doubled in the past two years.”
“Sounds interesting,” Stone said.
The secretary returned with the cashier’s check and Stone’s cash. Marshall signed the check with a flourish and handed it over, along with a thick stack of hundreds, held together with a paper band. “Better count it,” he said.
Stone stood up and tucked the check and the cash into his inside pockets. “I trust you, Mr. Marshall,” he said. “Thanks very much for your help.”
They shook hands, and Stone left the building. He didn’t know a hell of a lot about banking, he thought as he crossed the street to his waiting car, but Safe Harbor seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds. He wondered what was fueling the growth.
Once in the car, he opened the annual report and flipped through it, stopping at a list of the bank’s officers. Ippolito was indeed chairman, and Louis Regenstein and David Sturmack were listed as directors. His portable phone rang.
He dug the little Motorola StarTac from an inside pocket and flipped it open. “Stone Barrington.”
“It’s Rick Grant. I’ve got a report on Arrington’s car.”
“That was fast. Where was it spotted?”
“Driving away from Spago Beverly Hills less
“Barrington.”
“Just a moment.” She dialed a number, spoke briefly, and hung up. “Go in, please,” she said, pointing at the office door, which was open.
Stone rapped lightly on the door and entered. “Mr. Marshall?”
“Mr. Barrington,” the man said, rising and offering his hand. “Please have a seat; what can I do for you?”
Stone handed him the check and sat down. “I’d like to cash this,” he said.
Marshall examined the check. “Do you have some identification?” he asked.
Stone handed over his New York driver’s license.
Marshall looked at Stone’s photograph, compared it with the original face, wrote the license number on the back of the check and handed it back. “May I ask how you happen to have a check on the account of Centurion Studios for twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“It’s a paycheck; I had a role in a Centurion film this week.”
“Ah, an actor.”
Stone didn’t disabuse him of the notion. “I live in New York, you see; I’m just out here for the Job.”
“Can we open an account for you? That’s a lot of cash to be walking around with.”
“No, I’m going back to New York shortly, but you’re right, it is a lot of money. Why don’t you give me a cashier’s check for fifteen thousand, and the rest in hundreds?”
“As you wish.” He buzzed for his secretary, then signed a form and handed it to her. “Have a cashier’s check drawn in that amount, please, payable to Mr. Stone Barrington, and bring me that and ten thousand dollars in hundreds.” He turned the check over. “You’ll need to endorse it,” he said to Stone.
Stone signed the check and sat back to wait for his money. “You’ve a handsome bank here,” he said.
“Thank you; all of our offices are designed with something of the nautical in them. Mr. Ippolito is something of a yachtsman.”
“Mr. Ippolito?”
“Our chairman,” Marshall replied.
“What does he sail?”
“He has a small armada,” the bank manager said. “A large sailing yacht, a large motor yacht, a sports fisherman, and several runabouts.”
“Business must be good,” Stone said.
“Oh, yes; we’re the fastest-growing bank in Southern California. We’ve got fourteen offices in the greater L.A. and San Diego areas, and by this time next year we’ll have closer to twenty. We’re expanding into San Francisco.”
“Might you have a copy of your most recent annual report?” Stone asked. “I’m going to need to invest some of this paycheck.”
“Of course,” Marshall replied. He reached into a cabinet next to his desk and produced a thick, handsomely designed brochure.
“Thank you,” Stone said. “I’ll read myself to sleep tonight.”
“I think you’ll find us a good investment; our stock has doubled in the past two years.”
“Sounds interesting,” Stone said.
The secretary returned with the cashier’s check and Stone’s cash. Marshall signed the check with a flourish and handed it over, along with a thick stack of hundreds, held together with a paper band. “Better count it,” he said.
Stone stood up and tucked the check and the cash into his inside pockets. “I trust you, Mr. Marshall,” he said. “Thanks very much for your help.”
They shook hands, and Stone left the building. He didn’t know a hell of a lot about banking, he thought as he crossed the street to his waiting car, but Safe Harbor seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds. He wondered what was fueling the growth.
Once in the car, he opened the annual report and flipped through it, stopping at a list of the bank’s officers. Ippolito was indeed chairman, and Louis Regenstein and David Sturmack were listed as directors. His portable phone rang.
He dug the little Motorola StarTac from an inside pocket and flipped it open. “Stone Barrington.”
“It’s Rick Grant. I’ve got a report on Arrington’s car.”
“That was fast. Where was it spotted?”
“Driving away from Spago Beverly Hills less
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