Michael Malone - Weebly

nostrils flared and his fingers stopped tapping.
Mom was out of her mind, he decided; Jesus God,
pretty damn humiliating for the rest of the family. Poor
old Dad. And this punk poet, this pig, this prof, he was
about to get his teeth knocked down his throat. A hell
of a nerve, an egghead like that making off with an old
lady (making out with her, too, but that part of the
picture Lance promptly threw a drop sheet over).
When he spun into Dingley Circle, Lance was so
choked up that his Jaguar spit to a stop in front of
Ransom Bank. Just as well. He'd go there first. He
leaped out of the sports car, and, three at a time, up the
stone steps he bounded, swung past the Doric columns,
and jumped into the quiet, cool interior of the bank.
Clerks looked up, their eyes pulled in his direction by
the magnetism of outdoor energy in so indoors a place.
Ernest Ransom in conversation with his secretary,
followed her glance.
"Help you, Lance?"
"Hey there, Irene; what's the word, Ern? Just got in.
Is my mom, you know, back?"
"No. I don't know. Haven't you been home?"