Inside the Bank of Gandee, the sun ran a streak of light from a lofty window forming a golden spot on the polished tile floor. Muted music floated through the air like an organ in a cathedral. Jack remembered how, when he was a boy, all sounds were hushed in the bank. Even as they approached the building, his father would begin to speak in subdued tones. Banks intimidated him, even now when he could have owned one. On the other hand, he had never walked into a locker room he didn't like.
Henry Ullman, the bank manager, was a trim dapper man in his mid-fifties--perfectly barbered, neat pencil-thin moustache, every gray hair on his head properly set. If ever a man could command respect for the diligence of his grooming, Henry Ullman was such a man. Those who knew him best admitted that he cared little about anything else-- except, of course, the affairs of the bank. Compared to Jack, in casual jeans, sport shoes, blue-gray Gortex jacket, Ullman seemed like a model for a Beverly Hills mortuary. But if Jack had been worried whether his five million dollars was safely there, all such concerns were dispelled by Ullman's greeting. Even the moustache was twitching with excitement. "What a pleasure to see you, my boy! We've all been concerned about your misfortune. I must say, though: those bruises do add to your image."
"A pleasure to see you, Mr. Ullman."
"When you pitched in the Babe Ruth League, you fanned my son twice in one game. Neither he nor I will ever forget that. Even then, your fast ball would dance a bit. Even then!"