anger was like a bus with no brakes: it would get you somewhere fast, but not where you meant to go. "You told me Tuesday real investments were for a different kind of client. I've been thinking about that. I think you believed it. I think you looked at Mr. Broussard's house and you looked at Miss Lillian's house and you saw a different kind of client, and you made sure the numbers agreed with you. Even when somebody paid four hundred and fifty dollars they didn't have to prove you wrong."
Grant opened his mouth, and closed it.
"I'm not asking you to fire him," Odessa said to Lorraine. "I want to be clear about that, too. That's your business, not mine. But you asked me why I came here instead of to Baton Rouge, and that's why. The money goes where the damage is. So here are my terms, on top of the others."
She did not tick them off on her fingers this time. She just said them.
"Every one of the sixty-one files gets a full walkthrough appraisal, paid for by the bank, not the family. The four families who paid for their own get their four hundred and fifty back, with interest. And I mean real interest. Not point-zero-one." Somebody at the table — it might have been Lorraine — made a sound that was almost a laugh. "Miss Moreau is the fund's relationship officer. Whatever title that takes, whatever training, you give it to her. She reports to you, not to this branch." She turned, at last, to look at Grant. "And for the first twenty-three files — these twenty-three — Mr. Whitfield goes along on the walkthroughs. Every one. He sits at every kitchen table. He looks at every ceiling. He doesn't make the decisions. Miss Moreau makes the recommendations, and your underwriters in Baton Rouge make the calls. He just goes, and he looks, and he listens."
"Why?" Grant said. It came out hoarse. It was not a challenge. It sounded like a real question.
Odessa considered him.
"Because you've been driving past these houses for six years with the windows up," she said. "I drove past them for twenty-nine with the door open every two blocks. It makes a difference. I'd like you to find out what kind."
Lorraine Thibodeaux took off her glasses. She looked at Grant for a long moment, and whatever was decided in that look, Odessa didn't hear it, and didn't need to. Then Lorraine turned back to the table.
"Mrs. Arceneaux," she said, "you have a deal." She held out her hand. "And for what it's worth — I'm sorry. Not on behalf of the bank. That's a different letter, and you'll get it. I mean me."