32
Chris Gallagher consulted his watch. The time said five-thirty. "Well, that's it," he said to his colleague from Phoenix, Jim Potts.
Colleagues often joked that he and Jim were twins separated at birth. They wore the same kind of office clothes. Sported the same kind of middle-age spread pushing out of a shirt. And the same kind of sweat rings around the armpits.
"No bank's open past half-five,” Gallagher said. “And I haven't seen Collins rushing out to pay the loan."
"Internet transfer?" Jim said. "He's got 'til midnight as I recall.”
"Nah," Gallagher said, pulling his pants up by the belt. "He ain't got it. He admitted as much himself."
"So where does that leave us?" Jim said, as the two men watched their crews set up large beige tents and blue portable lavatories.
"The crews a
