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Tracy stood outside the familiar entrance to the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank. She wore a long black wig and heavy,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], dark makeup, with a raw red scar on her chin. If anything went wrong,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], it would be the scar they remembered. Despite her disguise, Tracy felt naked, for she had worked in this bank for five years, and it was staffed with people who knew her well: She would have to be very careful not to give herself away.
She removed a bottle cap from her purse,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], placed it in her shoe, and limped into the bank. The bank was crowded with customers, for Tracy had carefully chosen a time when the bank would be doing peak business. She limped over to one of the customer-service desks, and the man seated behind it finished a phone call and said, "Yes?"
It was Jon Creighton, the bank bigot. He hated Jews, blacks, and Puerto Ricans, but not necessarily in that order. He had been an irritant to Tracy during the years she had worked there. Now there was no sign of recognition on his face.
"Buenos d��as,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych],[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], se?or. I would like to open a checking account, ahora," Tracy said. Her accent was Mexican, the accent she had heard for all those months from her cell mate Paulita.
There was a look of disdain on Creighton's face. "Name?"
"Rita Gonzales."
"And how much would you like to put in your account?"
"Ten dollars."
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"Cash,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], I theenk."