"Mr. Davis Tyler?" Sandy said, picking up on the name.
"Davis Tyler," O'Brien answered, still chuckling. "But, boy, you go down there, your ass is grass."
"I've got important business," Sandy said. "Where will I find this Mr. Davis Tyler?"
"The First Merchants Trust Building, right on Calvert Street," O'Brien replied. He had already started thinking how funny it would be when they started screaming at this uppity nigger down at the main office, so he told Sandy exactly where Mr. Tyler's office was located. Armed with this floor plan, Sandy sauntered right past all sorts of guards, right past the Christmas Club department and right up the stairs to the executive offices on the mezzanine—where, just as Jimmy O'Brien had said, the frosted glass read L. DAVIS TYLER, President and Chairman of the Board. The door was open, and an elderly white gentleman was sitting in the anteroom.
"Mr. Tyler?" Sandy inquired.
Before the man answered, Sandy heard a voice behind him saying, "May I help you?" He turned around and there was Mr. Tyler's private secretary, Miss Mary Pratt, who was a bossy old lady with a facial tic and a penchant for chain-smoking three packs of Hit Parade cigarettes a day.
"I'd like to see Mr. Davis Tyler," Sandy said, and then he remembered he still had his porkpie hat on, and sheepishly he pulled it off his head.
"Do you have an appointment?" Miss Mary said, knowing full well he didn't, and moving the left corner of her lip in such a way that Sandy was frightened a little.
"No ma'am. This just come up this morning."
"Well, Mr. Tyler is a very busy man," Miss Mary said. "Perhaps if you tell me the nature of your business, we can arrange an appointment with someone in the bank at some future time."