What are you going to do now?

What do you mean?

How’s he going to handle all that money by himself? Did you ever think of that?

The bastard had a point. Once Martin cashed his check, Big Pete and every dope fiend in the city would be on him like white on rice and that twenty-one K would be gone, man, gone. They’d beat his ass, take his money, and leave him bloody and broke if not dead.

But Martin wanted his money. He might have been crazy as a crack whore, but he wasn’t so far gone he didn’t know he had been approved for disability. And Laird kept tweaking him: Where’s your money, Martin? Where’s your money?

Raymond had given the disability people the shelter as Martin’s address. He locked the big check and the monthly checks that followed in a safe and put Martin off when he asked about them by giving him a few bucks out of pocket. But Laird wouldn’t let up. He would buy Martin breakfast and ask him why he hadn’t received his money.

The checks started piling up. Laird took Martin to the disability office to complain. The disability people called and asked why we weren’t giving him his money. I told Raymond this couldn’t continue.

Raymond said he would get Martin a bank account so he could deposit his money and save it. I said, Yeah? Martin’s going to walk into a bank and set up a savings account? I’ll go with him, Raymond said. What’s to stop him from withdrawing all of it at once? I said. I’ll make it a joint account, Raymond said. He can’t withdraw anything without my signature.

I’d had other staff, formerly homeless guys like Laird, get the good Samaritan bug and try to help some of our other head cases with their money by managing it for them. But each time the money got the best of them. They’d take a bit here, a bit there. They’d start getting high again. Finally, they’d disappear and the money with them, leaving the head case howling at the moon.

If I let Raymond help Martin start a bank account, the rest of the staff would want to know why I wouldn’t let them do the same thing for the many other Martins we had. They’d have all these dollar signs dancing in their eyes and accuse me of letting Raymond get over with Martin. I’d have a small riot on my hands.

No way, I told Raymond, and explained why.

Wait, he said. I know someone who could do it for me. A bank teller. He goes to my church.

Sometimes I envied Raymond his faith. How he could read passages from the Bible and believe without question. If you ask me what I believe, I couldn’t tell you. Surviving, I guess. Not giving a shit. I wonder when I first walked around someone passed out on the sidewalk and did not think: I just walked past a body on the sidewalk. When I first got into social services, I used to check to see if they were breathing. A few times, they weren’t. I called 911 and waited around for the police or the ambulance. And whoever showed up first would always ask at some point, Why’d you check to see if they were breathing? As if that was the strangest thing to do. And maybe I finally agreed that it was. I don’t know. I stopped doing it after a while though. I mean, they were dead. It was a little late to see if they were breathing.

After I give Big Pete my change, I keep walking to the admin building, passing the convenience store on the corner of Turk and Leavenworth where guys deal crack and stray dogs nuzzle through trash and get kicked in the ass. I push the buzzer, say who I am, and listen for the door to unlock. I jog up a flight of stairs to McGraw’s office and knock on his door. It swings open and I see him hunched in front of his computer half reading aloud from a budget spreadsheet. He has on a suit and one of those thin leather ties I see billboard models wearing. He’s going bald and shaves his head, and the ceiling light’s reflection shines his scalp. McGraw adjusts his glasses and scrolls down to a column of numbers. Then he swivels around in his chair, careful not to spill files stacked ankle high around his feet, and faces me.

What’s up?

You have a minute? I ask.

Sure, he says. I wanted to talk to you anyway.

There’s a problem with Raymond and a client.

I know. Laird told me about it. That’s why I wanted to speak to you. What’s going on?

Yeah, I saw Laird on the way over.

McGraw looks back at his computer and smiles.

We’re doing really, really well, he says pointing at the spreadsheet. Too well. We’re under budget. We have to start spending more, otherwise the mayor’s office will reduce our city contracts next year.

McGraw stretches his arms and cracks his knuckles. He takes off his glasses and rubs them against his jacket. A few months back, he had me tell the different program directors to reduce spending so we’d make it to the end of the year in the black. I guess everyone cut back too much. Now, we have the reverse problem. Not much of a problem though. I can see McGraw’s already thinking how to spend the extra cash. A new computer maybe? I clear my throat. McGraw glances at me again with this oh-damn-forgot-you-were-here expression.

About Raymond, I say.

Right. Like I said, Laird came by and said Raymond lost someone’s money?

Yeah, Raymond just told me. That’s why I came to see you. It’s serious.

McGraw spins around and faces the computer, begins scrolling columns of numbers. He really doesn’t want to deal with me.

How serious?

Well, I say, Raymond helped this client by getting him on disability. And then he got him a bank account and set him up with a guy to manage his money. And the guy screwed up somehow.

Who’s this guy?

A bank teller. I had told Raymond we can’t handle a client’s money. And I thought that was that. But without telling me, Raymond goes and asks this guy he knew, this bank teller who attends Raymond’s church, to handle the client’s money. To be the cosigner, you know, on the bank account so the client couldn’t take out all his money and blow it without the teller signing off on it.

McGraw sighs and turns back to face me again. All he wants is for me to go away so he can stare at his good numbers. I can hear him mumbling, trying to figure out how he can move money from this line item to that line item. Especially if he can slip more money into admin. Line up some salary bonuses for management maybe. Raymond’s an unwanted interruption.

And then what? McGraw says.

Well, according to Raymond, it was going good for a couple of months. But then the teller got laid off. His last week on the job, the client comes in for some money. He signs the withdrawal slip, the teller fills out the rest like he always had. But this time he put in for all the money and closed the account. He gave the client his little bit of cash and kept the rest. In other words, he basically took all the money and split. Raymond hasn’t seen or heard from him since.

McGraw rests his chin in his hands and sucks in a deep breath.

You’re saying the bank teller stole the client’s money?

Yes, except for the little bit he gave the client. The teller just lost his job. I think he saw this as a chance to have a cash cushion.

When’d you know about this?

Today, I say, looking right at McGraw and willing myself not to blink. Just now.

Laird seemed to think you knew all about it from the start.

I didn’t, I say. You know how Laird is. Always looking for somebody to point the finger at.

McGraw cleans a thumbnail with a pen cap.

Yeah, that’s Laird, he says. If it’s a cloudy day he blames us. OK, what do we do about this?

I know what I have to say but choke on it and cough. I wipe my mouth, try to get rid of the bad taste on my tongue. I can’t even swallow. Just say it, I think. It’s the only way. Sorry, Raymond.

We fire Raymond, I say, speaking a little too fast.

Of course we fire Raymond, McGraw says. But what about the money that’s missing? I don’t like it, but we’re going to have to pay it back. How much we talking about?

I hesitate again. I’m not about to say, You know, McGraw, you’re right. We got to pay Martin back. But all that extra money you think you have? You don’t because we owe Martin twenty-odd grand.

McGraw would have to tell his board of directors. The mayor’s office would demand an investigation. Our city contract renewals would be fucked. I’d be out of a job so fast the door wouldn’t have time to slam my ass on the way out.

I tell McGraw: The client’s owed like five hundred dollars or something, but we don’t pay a thing. Raymond does. We tell him to sign over his last payroll check to the client. It will cover what was lost and then some. Raymond can keep the change. As part of the deal, we’ll call his firing a layoff. Raymond can get unemployment that way. He can use us as a reference. He’ll agree. He won’t have a choice, and we’ll stay out of it.

McGraw nods, picks at his chin. I don’t move. As long as Martin gets a disability check each month, he won’t understand how much is missing.