Chapter 3 - The Pharmacy Line
The mountain air outside the St. Jude Community Pharmacy was crisp, carrying the scent of pine needles and impending snow. Inside, the heat was turned up too high, causing the air to smell of cheap peppermint lozenges and rubbing alcohol.
Arthur Vance stood at the front of the pharmacy line, his long wool coat unbuttoned to reveal a gold-plated pocket watch chain looping across his vest. His silver hair was combed back perfectly, untouched by the wind. Behind him stood three local residents—an old woman holding a prescription for insulin, a young father with a coughing toddler, and a snow-plow driver waiting for his pain patches.
"That will be one hundred and eighty-four dollars and sixty cents, Mr. Vance," the young woman behind the counter said. Her name tag read Chloe, and she had lived in the valley long enough to know that Arthur did not like to be kept waiting. She handed him the white paper bag containing his maintenance cardiovascular drugs.
Arthur didn't look at her. He reached into his leather billfold, pulled out the heavy, matte-black Visa card I had provided for him three years ago, and flicked it onto the glass counter with a soft, metallic clink.
"Put it on the usual account, Chloe," Arthur said, his voice carrying that booming, theatrical resonance he used in public spaces to ensure everyone knew he was the most important man in the room. "And add two packs of the Cohiba robustos from the back case."
Chloe swiped the card through the old terminal. The machine whirred, its digital screen blinking twice before emitting a sharp, triple beep that sounded like a small bird caught in a trap.
DECLINED: CONTACT ISSUING BANK
Chloe blinked, her cheeks turning slightly pink. She looked up at Arthur, then back down at the screen. "Um, Mr. Vance? It looks like there’s a glitch with the machine. Let me try running it manually."
Arthur frowned, his thick eyebrows knitting together into a single, severe line. "The machine is fine, girl. You probably swiped it too fast. Try it again, and do it properly this time."
The young father behind him shifted his coughing child from one shoulder to the other, checking his watch. Arthur shot him a glance that could have froze water.
Chloe carefully typed the sixteen-digit number into the keypad, her fingers trembling slightly. She hit the green enter key. The terminal paused, connecting through the regional dial-up network, before throwing the exact same code across the screen.
DECLINED: ACCOUNT RESTRICTED BY PRIMARY HOLDER
"I’m so sorry, Mr. Vance," Chloe whispered, her voice dropping so the people in line wouldn't hear. "The card isn't going through. It says it’s been restricted by the primary account holder. Is there another card you'd like to use? Or perhaps cash?"
Arthur’s face went from an arrogant pink to a dull, ash-gray within five seconds. His hand, still resting on the glass counter, stiffened until the liver spots on the back of his skin stood out like small bruises.
"The primary holder?" Arthur repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. "That card is under my name."
"The master account belongs to a Clara Vance, sir," Chloe said, looking at her internal system monitor. "It looks like the authorized user access was terminated at 6:42 this morning."
A collective silence descended over the pharmacy line. The snow-plow driver behind Arthur let out a low, breathy whistle through his teeth. Everyone in the valley knew Arthur’s daughter was the one who flew in from Chicago to fix the roof on his estate, the one who drove him to his specialist appointments in her German SUV, the one who funded his entire retirement while his son Nelson spent his inheritance on bad real estate deals in the south valley.
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Arthur reached out and snatched the black card back from the counter, his fingers shaking so hard he nearly dropped his wallet. "This is an error," he muttered, his grand posture collapsing slightly as he backed away from the register without the white paper bag. "A technical error. My daughter will have this corrected within five minutes."
He stormed out of the pharmacy, the bell above the door ringing with frantic energy. He didn't see the looks the people in line exchanged behind his back—looks that were a mixture of long-overdue amusement and profound satisfaction. The king of the mountain had just been told his crown was made of plastic, and the bill had finally come due.
