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the traffic of downtown Hamilton, J.J. yanks me out of that happy reverie.
    â€œSo you saw the body, huh?”
    I look at him.
    He says, “I heard it was you found it and called the police.”
    â€œYeah, something like that.”
    â€œThat true about the eyes, how they’d been pulled out?”
    â€œWhere did you hear that? It wasn’t in the paper.”
    â€œSmall place. Everyone’s heard by now,” he says. “It true?”
    â€œYeah, the guy’s eyes were gone.”
    J.J. lets out air, shakes his head.
    â€œMan, oh man,” he says. “Just like before.”
    â€œWhat do you mean like before?”
    J.J. looks at me, then back at the road. He adjusts his hands on the wheel.
    â€œMust have been six or seven years ago,” he says. “They found two bodies, a couple of scuba divers, washed up like that one you found. Eyes in them were missing, too.”
    â€œWho were they?”
    J.J. thinks about it.
    â€œThe way I remember, one of them was an Englishman. The other, I think he was American.”
    â€œAnd no one ever figured out who did it or what it was all about?”
    J.J. shakes his head.
    â€œNah, I mean, there was all kinds of theories, some of them pretty wild, most of them having to do with how the two of them had stumbled across a shipwreck that no one seemed to know was out there. There was talk about treasure and all that sort of foolishness. But after a while nothing came of it and people stopped talking about it,” he says. “But this what happened yesterday? It has got them talking again.”
    â€œWhat are people saying about it?”
    J.J. shrugs.
    â€œSame thing they’ve always said. Those dead men saw something they wasn’t supposed to see. And that’s what happened to them.”
    We drive the rest of the way in silence. We head down King Street to Front Street, pass the Cabinet Building to our right, the cruise shipdocks on our left. There are two ships in port. They loom over Front Street, blocking our view of the harbor.
    J.J. hangs a right on Parliament Street then a quick left on Reid Street. He pulls to a stop, points out the window to Richfield Bank, and says: “That’s your place right there.”

10
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    Ten minutes later, I am sitting across the desk from a young banker named Mr. Highsmith who has succeeded in turning my world upside down.
    â€œThere must be some mistake,” I say.
    â€œI assure you, Mr. Chasteen, Richfield Bank does not make such mistakes,” says Mr. Highsmith. “Here, have a look for yourself.”
    He swivels his computer monitor so I can see the screen. It is full of columns and figures, but I am only interested in the bottom line.
    I stare at the numbers, not wanting to believe what I see.
    Then I look at Mr. Highsmith. That’s how he introduced himself. Not Charles Highsmith or Robert Highsmith or Joe Highsmith, but Mr. Highsmith. Even though he is just a kid, barely out of his twenties.
    He wears banker clothes—dark suit, white shirt, unremarkable tie.
    I look back at the computer screen. Nothing has changed from the first time I looked at it. It is all there plain enough. A two, followed by three zeroes, then a decimal point and two more zeroes.
    Two thousand dollars.
    Mr. Highsmith says, “That’s the minimum amount required to maintain an account such as yours.”
    â€œThat’s bullshit is what that is,” I say. “Total bullshit.”
    I am not a quiet guy. My voice carries across the bank lobby. Peoplesitting at nearby desks turn to look at us. Mr. Highsmith leans toward me and speaks low.
    â€œMr. Chasteen, please,” he says. “Perhaps you’d like to discuss this with our manager.”
    â€œYou bet your ass I would.”
    Mr. Highsmith steps away. I watch him walk across the lobby and disappear down a hallway.
    I study the computer screen some more. The top of the page lists the name of my