The trip to the bank took the form of a power walk. It had to. Rookie status during off-season meant no limo service and cab fares in Toss Vague-Ass were severe in the hour leading up to lunch. So up the boulevard they paraded, elbows swinging, single-minded in the ambition to discover why Hoot Gaas was off in nowhereland - along with the band's advance.
"We'd like to speak to the manager, please," Rivqua told the robot clerk manning the enquiries and loans and investments and safety deposit box desk. He looked the part.
"And what is the nature of your request, Miss?"
"A missing person and a fat load of money," Zana said, leaning on the counter.
"The money, whose would it be, if you don't mind my asking?" Hope glinted in the bot's eyes.
"No we don't mind," Rivqua said. "It would be ours."
The spark dwindled. "I see. And this missing person, does he have your money? You might be better served by the police station in the next block-"
"Yes he does have our money! And chances are he's in a meeting with your manager right now."
"Excuse me?"
"And then they're popping off to lunch together," Zana said. "Like regular sweethearts. Call him up and see."
The robot processed this for a second, then moved to press a button. "Sorry, your names are...?"
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