Chapter 2: The Submission
Arthur had been the new bank manager for three months before he got the telegram the home office was sending a senior manager for an inspection. He sighed. It had been nice getting to know the dusty gold-mining town on his own, but he steeled himself for what was hopefully an uneventful and speedy visit.
Unsurprisingly though, the entitled bureaucrat they sent second-guessed everything Arthur did while simpering to the townsfolk coming in, using big words without saying anything. Arthur detested him.
Then trouble walked through the bank's front door. The man was dressed in a weathered black duster, scuffed cowboy hat and boots, and black bandana covering the lower half of his face. But Arthur would have recognized those eyes anywhere.
"No," Arthur said with finality. "No, no, no. You can turn around and leave."
"Oh, my, Mr. Levine!" the bank inspector sputtered, "I'm sure there must be some misunderstanding! Surely this gentleman is just here to conduct some business." He yanked Arthur's arm and hissed in his ear, "You cannot judge a customer based on their clothing attire. Surely you've heard the phrase, 'The customer is always right?'"
"Have you ever actually worked with customers before?" Arthur hissed back.
"Well, I declare, Arthur, is that any way to talk to an old friend?" Eames asked, this time in a lazy southern drawl.
Arthur glared.
"Do you… know this man?" the bank inspector asked Arthur, looking dubious.
"No."
"Why, Arthur, I am crushed!" Eames said. He still hadn't removed his bandana. "He's joking, of course."
"He… seems to know you."
Arthur scowled. "Mr. Fischer, this man is a liar and a thief, and he is not welcome in this bank."
"Darling, what a horrible thing to say. I've never lied to you, not once. Why, the last time we were… together," Eames said, stressing the innuendo until Mr. Fischer flinched, "Arthur gave me his watch fob simply because I asked for it."
"You had a gun in my face."
"A gun!?" Eames asked. "Is that what we're calling it, now?" Then he winked.
Arthur drew his own gun from behind the counter. "You're not going to rob this bank, Mr. Eames."
Eames tsked behind his bandana. "Is that the best you can do, Arthur?" He swung the rifle up from where he'd had it tucked in his duster. "You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling."