“Would you like me to look at it for you?” I asked.

“No. I’m fine.” Eventually his eye filled with tears and he stopped rubbing. “Now where were we?”

“You had just said something ridiculously untrue.”

“To the contrary, Ms. Yoder. My security guards are top notch, trained with the best-Israeli profiling methods, in fact. I’m afraid you have no case.”

“Case, shmase,” I said. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m here to help you discover the identity of those three men, and in order to do that, I need to review the security tape.”

“Uh-I’m afraid that’s impossible, Miss Yoder.”

“Why?”

“Well, uh-security reasons-yes, that’s it.”

“What? That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

“Really, Miss Yoder, I’m not at liberty to talk about this further. But my final answer is no. N-O, no.”

I am a modest, God- fearing Mennonite woman, but it has recently occurred to me that the Good Lord in His wisdom had a plan when He created women with external mammary glands that are visible-and generally pleasing to the eye-the year around. We are, in fact, the only species of animal in which this phenomenon is found naturally. Even the cow has to be “freshened” (give birth) in order to have her nice, full udder. (Think about it: you don’t see virgin cats and dogs walking around with boobies, now do you?) My conclusion therefore is that human breasts were meant to be alluring, a definite asset in attracting a mate.

But since they didn’t come with owners’ manuals, one might be given a little latitude when it comes to using them, especially if the end justifies the means. That said, I undid the button at my throat-okay, I undid the next button as well. Even then one still couldn’t see the twin sisters, but my collar slumped a bit, causing a crease to form across the curvature of the left sister and drawing attention to its comely, although well-covered shape. One could argue that the effect was akin to showing an ankle back in “the day,” and that effect, I’m told, was exceedingly strong.

At any rate, desperate is as desperate does, so I waggled my bosoms at Pernicious Yoder III. Of course my sturdy Christian underwear prevented me from performing a truly Democratic liberal waggle; what transpired was more like a Republican joust.

“What’s wrong, Miss Yoder? Are you having a back spasm?”

This time I tried a provocative thrust of my bosom.

“Heart attack? I don’t know CPR, but I can get Ken from accounting.”

“Isn’t he the one who made it into the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most cold sores at one time?”

“No, it turns out that Guinness wasn’t willing to create that category.”

I buttoned my blouse all the way. “I have a right to see that tape since I’m on it.”

“Get out of my office, you tramp! Get out now, or this tape”-he pointed to the camera behind my head-“is going to be on the six o’clock news.”

Of course I hied my hinnie from the bank, but not without first making a couple of detours. Tramps are, after all, noted for their restless, wandering natures.

“Psst, Amy-over here. Behind the sickly ficus tree.”

She paid no attention to me.

I hefted the tree. It wasn’t sick at all; it was merely a very poorly made replica. Since there were still no customers to be seen, I picked up the faux ficus and walked it within whispering distance of the teller’s counter.

“Psst, Amy, it’s a miracle. Behold, thy tree speaketh.”

At least she had wit enough to giggle. “Miss Yoder, you’re going to get me into big trouble.”

“I’m not here, Amy. And if you get called on the carpet for speaking to a tree, then sue the bank for discrimination.”

“Just so you know, I’m not allowed to talk about the robbery.”

“Why, shiver me timbers! I haven’t even mentioned that. Who put you up to this?”

The poor girl glanced furtively around. “No one put me up to this-it’s just ever since the robbery, I’ve been under investigation, and I’m not allowed to talk about it. That’s all.”

“Who exactly gave that order? The police? The FBI?”

If I hadn’t been watching Amy’s face closely through the fake-ficus foliage, I would have missed the twitch in her left eyebrow that was just as informative, to anyone who knew her, as a red-lettered campaign poster.

“Your boss?” I mouthed silently.

“Bingo,” she answered.

Then again, if Amy was any less skilled in the silent-clue department than I, she might have thought I was asking if Kate Moss was the one giving orders. In that case, she might have decided to give me a nonsensical answer, such as the name of an Australian wild dog. Before I could retest her, one of the security guards approached.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Nothing,” Amy said. It was a wise answer, one used by millions of teenagers every day. To be sure, some of them get away with it, so why not Amy?

“What’s this tree doing so close to the counter?” he said.

“Uh-well, sir, since I’m stuck inside all day, I kinda miss greenery, but when I look at this tree-even if it is fake-I feel better.”

“That ain’t a good excuse to be moving things around. Someone with bad intentions could sneak right up on you, and you wouldn’t see them coming. On account of that, this here tree is what we call an ‘unsafe situation.’ ”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now I’m going to move this tree back to the corner where it belongs, but before I do, I want you to tell me what I just said. What kind of situation do we call this?”

“An ‘unsafe situation,’ ” Amy said in a loud parrotlike voice.

“Good. Now let’s not let it happen again.”

“No, sir-I mean, yes, sir. Whatever, sir.”

As the guard picked up the tree, I jumped up and put my weight on the pot. I only did so because I didn’t know how fast he’d walk, and I didn’t want him to bowl me over with the canopy of cheap silk and badly formed leaves.

“Ugh,” he grunted, “this thing weighs a ton.”

“How rude!” I thought. Of course I said nothing.

“You know,” he said, obviously to himself, “this thing stinks. I really ought to take this piece of crap outside and give it a good hosing off.”

Believe me, it wasn’t the cheap tree that reeked, or even my purse; it was Johnny, the guard. I could see his name tag through the branches, all three of his chins, and the dark brown, almost black, ring around his collar. Both Johnny Ashton and his clothes needed a bath something awful.

Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain. “Johnny, dear,” I heard myself say, “a good scrub in a tub wouldn’t hurt you either.”

“Ma! Ma, is that you?”

What in tarnation? Could this man possibly be more simple-minded than me? I’ve been known to hear the Good Lord’s voice emanating from all manner of objects, and I once mistook my sister for an angel, but this poor soul appeared to think that his mother’s voice was coming from a tree-really not much more than a large bush-with a middle-aged Mennonite woman clinging to one side of it.

“Yes, dear, it’s me,” I cooed, trying my best to throw my voice, although I knew darn well that ventriloquists don’t actually throw them, since voices aren’t objects one can physically grasp. Instead, it’s all about illusion, and focusing the attention on the dummy’s lips. In this case Johnny was the dummy.

“Oh, Johnny, you have a cold sore,” I said.

“I do?”

“I know you can’t see it, but your ouchy-ouch must really hurt.”

There isn’t a man alive who doesn’t like to have his ouchyouches and boo-boos validated by a sympathetic woman. It doesn’t even matter if he has them or not; he can always store up the sympathy for a later date, because he can never have enough sympathy.

Johnny traced his lips with his middle and ring fingers and then halfway around his mouth seemed to find a tender spot. “Yeah, it hurts like the dickens, but what can I do? I gotta come in to work, so I got no choice but to suck it up.”