Michael Malone - Weebly

ehavior so aberrant that the banker simply rejected the
reality of the news. Something else was on his mind. An
image was still stuck there that had for no reason
pushed its way into a conversation he'd had earlier that
evening with Dr. Otto Scaper at the golf course.
Scaper had come shambling toward Ransom's golf
cart from the small practice green where on sporadic
afternoons the bearish old physician took what he
claimed to be all the exercise his body would put up
with. Ransom had stood politely by, his very good
leather golf bag shouldered over his perfectly fitting knit
shirt, while Scaper lumbered interminably closer in
baggy suit pants, wearing a soiled white shirt with its
sleeves rolled tightly up his huge arms and an
unfashionable tie flapping loosely around his enormous
neck.
"Ern, a second, hey," he had puffed out around his
cigar. "Got a minute?"
Of course Ransom had.
"Something's pestering me," the old doctor growled.
"I want to come see you at the bank, tomorrow maybe,
see what you think. I know there's no sense bringing it