The Great Expression
Nobody would suspect at the quiet, little bank of anchorage, for as large as the city may be, the bank was unintentionally discrete. The unsuspecting bankers resumed their work without interest or care. The woman at the very end of the queue clicked her tongue in annoyance as she watched the clock with apprehension. Each second passed with particular malice, the smallest hand slowly edging its way through each minute. The line of equally irritated people inched forward once, and she sighed at the small success. She'd always hated banks. And apparently so did the dumpy little man in front of her,
"Stupid place." She heard him mutter bitterly, "I'm going to die of boredom soon. Oh, and now there's even more."
She followed his scrutinizing gaze to the bank's entrance, where stood three men. Like all of the other men in the bank they wore suits: coats over waistcoats and ties, varying in colour and style, but where as the men in the bank wore their hats balanced on the crowns of heads, these wore theirs pulled low; the rims almost totally obscuring their eyes. Strange, she thought. It was even more idiosyncratic when they moved further inside, quietly observing every inch of the bank with almost rhythmical synchronization. With their watchful, intense eyes and glove-clad hands, they somewhat out of place amongst the miniscule chrowd of inattentive civilians. Because of this, she was only mildly surprised when they reached inside of their coats and produced light machine guns.
"On the floor… now!" One suit bellowed, shooting his gun up into the air as if a cowboy rounding up his herd.
"Jesus Christ!" the dumpy man in front of her swore, throwing himself onto the floor over-dramatically, causing his wiry glasses to fall askew on his nose.
The sight would have been comical if not for the situation where she herself had to lay flat on her front; a thought which certainly did not compliment her new dress. Craning her neck upward she watched carefully, as three more gun wielding, suited men glided in, taking up professional positions around the bedraggled people, and at the bank booths. Another man followed after them, but this time with no weaponry on the show. The devilishly handsome looks, accompanied with a nonchalant swagger, deemed the man to be unmistakably familiar: John Bower, the man who was giving the government a hell of a time.
Bower said nothing as he regarded the scene passively from under the brim of his hat, which was not as low as his accomplices. He had nothing to hide. This was the man with the persuasive tongue, and seductive charms: little wonder the bureau seemed obsessed with his capture.
The armed men wasted no time in combing the bank of all that so much as resembled money. Bower took no notice of them; instead he seemed to study the ceiling like a book, with his hands behind his back, absentmindedly rocking back and forth on his heels.
She laid her head down for a moment to see who lay behind her, and was aghast to find that it was the dumpy man, his eyes practically popping out his head as he ogled. Cursing to herself she roughly pulled down the hem of her skirt, suddenly criticizing her own dress sense. Bower's head flicked around at the sound of her soft muttering, and she stayed stock still, with the ridiculous notion that if she made no movement he would not notice her. Bower chuckled once, his eyes twinkling, before crossing the room and squatting down beside her.
"Excuse me, miss." He smiled warmly. The smooth sound of his voice was accented with a southern brogue, but she could not pinpoint where. "It seems to me that you feel uncomfortable layin' there on the floor in that fine dress."
Without further word he offered his hand, eyes still shining. After a short hesitation of deliberation she took it, and he gently pulled her up.
"I'd hate to see it getting dirty." He continued, his eyes kept hers as a smile played on his lips. He seemed lost in thought for a moment as he stood there. Her hand was still in his, but she didn't attempt to pull it out. It seemed hot all of a sudden, and she began scolding herself mentally as she realised she was blushing. He chuckled again, his dark eyes still locked on hers; not even attempting to brush a few strands of his raven hair away from them. She suddenly had a mad urge to do it for him, when suddenly the armed men were back, and Bower broke his gaze to receive a nod from one of them.
"I'll be off then, miss." He murmured as he kissed her knuckles and finally let go of her hand.
There were actors; musicians; politicians, athletes. Then there was John Bower, and she knew, that even as he let her hand slipped from his and strode away with a last playful wink, he would be hers.