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some guy that looked like he worked there.
    “Yes, sir, can I help you?” he asked.
    “Where’s the bank that used to be here?”
    He looked confused.
    “The Bank of New York.”
    “Oh. You’re in the wrong building. You want to go to One Wall Street.”
    “One Wall Street?”
    “That’s the Bank of New York. Actually it’s now the Bank of New York Mellon.”
    “Mellon?”
    “They merged. A few years ago.”
    “I see. Would they have all the stuff that used to be in this building?”
    The guy shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess so.”
    “Thanks.”
    I wondered if I should call my lawyer’s office. They’re the ones who’ve kept the trust money that paid the rent on my safety deposit box all these years. Wouldn’t they have told me if my bank had changed? Maybe not. Fuckin’ lawyers.
    I left the place and started walkin’ toward Broadway. It was a minor miracle I remembered where certain streets were and what direction they were in. Some things never leave you. Manhattan’s in my blood. I lived here all my life.
    And the women. My God, the women. They sure were different. I mean, they were still women , but sweet Jesus, were they amazin’. Short dresses. Long bare legs. Some had tattoos! Blondes, brunettes, redheads. All nationalities. Young, middle-aged, old. They were all fuckin’ beautiful. I didn’t see many women in the joint. I thought I’d have a heart attack right there on the street.
    When I got to the corner and saw the really tall buildin’, it came back to me. One Wall Street used to be the Irving Trust building. But now it wasn’t. Now it was the Bank of New York Mellon. Interestin’. I just hoped to hell they had my stuff. I went inside—it looked like a bank lobby, so that was promisin’. There wasn’t much of a line in front of the tellers, so I waited patiently. I admit I was nervous. This would be my first business exchange with someone on the outside—except for the Arab taxi driver, that is.
    The teller was a young girl. She looked mighty pretty. I could barely speak to her.
    “May I help you, sir?”
    “Yeah, I, um, I used to have a safety deposit box back when the Bank of New York was at Forty-Eight Wall Street. What would have happened to it?”
    I could see the question threw her for a loop. She blinked and asked, “When was the last time you accessed it?”
    “Nineteen fifty-seven.”
    Then her eyes really bulged. “Oh, my. Have you been away somewhere?”
    “Yeah. Prison.”
    She swallowed. “Just a second. Let me get the supervisor.”
    It took a few minutes, but she eventually came back with a squirrelly lookin’ bald guy in a fancy business suit. I didn’t think it was a coincidence that a security guard accompanied him and stood in back a few feet away.
    “What seems to be the trouble, sir?” Squirrelly Man asked.
    “No trouble. I just want to access my safety deposit box. But it’s been fifty-two years since I’ve done so.” I handed over my old driver’s license, the key—which opened the old box, and the business card with my account number.
    “What’s this about prison?”
    “Why does that matter?” I asked. My temper was risin’ and I felt my heart start to pound again. “Yeah, I was in prison and I just got paroled. I came to get the stuff out of my safety deposit box. You still have it, right? It’s supposed to be safe . That’s the idea, ain’t it?”
    The fellow pursed his lips. “Let me look up your account.” He punched the keys on the computer and then checked the information with my driver’s license. “This license has expired.”
    “No kiddin’. I haven’t had time to go get a new one.”
    Finally, the guy glanced at the security guard and nodded. Everything was okay. The guard walked away but hoverednearby, just in case. Then came the kicker. “I’m sorry, all the safety deposit boxes that were once at Forty-Eight Wall Street are now at the Chase Bank branch at Forty-Five Wall Street.”
    “What?”
    He repeated