Andre Gillian was in the kitchen making preparations for spaghetti alla carbonara, a large Italian salad, and a pear torte when he heard a loud, ominous popping sound, and a moment later the comfortable hum of the central air conditioner trailed off into silence.
Andre stamped his foot and said, “Merde! Not the night of the game.”
He hurried to the utility closet where the breaker box was located and flicked the electrical switches, one by one. Nothing happened.
Oh, Mr. Pope was going to be furious. Simply furious! Andre knew how much his employer looked forward to his weekly Friday-night poker game. It was a tradition that had been going on for years, and it was always with the same elite group of players. Without air-conditioning, the house would be unbearable. Simply unbearable! New Orleans in September was only for the uncivilized. Even after the sun went down, there was no relief from the heat and humidity.
Andre returned to the kitchen and consulted the kitchen clock. Four o'clock. The guests would be arriving at 8:00. Andre thought about telephoning Mr. Pope and telling him the problem, but then he remembered that the lawyer had said he was going to be tied up in court all day. The dear man was so busy. He needed his relaxation. And now this!
Andre took a small black telephone book from a kitchen drawer, looked up a number, and dialed.
After three rings, a metallic voice intoned, “You have reached the Eskimo Air-Conditioning Service. Our technicians are not available at this time. If you will leave your name and number and a brief message, we will get back to you as soon as possible. Please wait for the beep.”
Foutre! Only in America were you forced to hold a conversation with a machine.
A shrill, annoying beep sounded in Andre's ear. He spoke into the mouthpiece: “This is the residence of Monsieur Perry Pope, Forty-two Charles Street. Our air-conditioning has ceased to function. You must send someone here as quickly as possible. Vite!”
He slammed down the receiver. Of course no one was available. Air-conditioning was probably going off all over this dreadful city. It was impossible for air conditioners to cope with the damnable heat and humidity. Well, someone had better come soon. Mr. Pope had a temper. A nasty temper.
In the three years Andre Gillian had worked as a cook for the attorney, he had learned how influential his employer was. It was amazing. All that brilliance in one so young. Perry Pope knew simply everybody. When he snapped his fingers, people jumped.
It seemed to Andre Gillian that the house was already feeling warmer. Зa va chier dur. If something is not done quickly, the shit's going to hit the fan.
As Andre went back to cutting paper-thin slices of salami and provolone cheese for the salad, he could not shake the terrible feeling that the evening was fated to be a disaster.
When the doorbell rang thirty minutes later, Andre's clothes were soaked with perspiration, and the kitchen was like an oven. Gillian hurried to open the back door.
Two workmen in overalls stood in the doorway, carrying toolboxes. One of them was a tall black man. His companion was white, several inches shorter, with a sleepy, bored look on his face. In the rear driveway stood their service truck.
“Gotta problem with your air-conditioning?” the black man asked.
“Oui! Thank heaven you're here. You've just got to get it working right away. There'll be guests arriving soon.”
The black man walked over to the oven, sniffed the baking torte, and said, “Smells good.”
“Please!” Gillian urged. “Do something!”
“Let's take a look in the furnace room,” the short man said. “Where is it?”
“This way.”
Andre hurried them down a corridor to a utility room, where the air-conditioning unit stood.
“This is a good unit, Ralph,” the black man said to his companion.
“Yeah, Al. They don't make 'em like this anymore.”
“Then for heaven's sake why isn't it working?” Gillian demanded.
They both turned to stare at him.
“We just got here,” Ralph said reprovingly. He knelt down and opened a small door at the bottom of the unit, took out a flashlight, got down on his stomach, and peered inside. After a moment, he rose to his feet. “The problem's not here.”
“Where is it, then?” Andre asked.
“Must be a short in one of the outlets. Probably shorted out the whole system. How many air-conditioning vents do you have?”
“Each room has one. Let's see. That must be at least nine.”
“That's probably the problem. Transduction overload. Let's go take a look.”
The three of them trooped back down the hall. As they passed the living room, Al said, “This is sure a beautiful place Mr. Pope has got here.”
The living room was exquisitely furnished, filled with signed antiques worth a fortune. The floors were covered with muted-colored Persian rugs. To the left of the living room was a large, formal dining room, and to the right a den, with a large green baize-covered gaming table in the center. In one corner of the room was a round table, already set up for supper. The two servicemen walked into the den, and Al shone his flashlight into the air-conditioning vent high on the wall.
“Hmm,” he muttered. He looked up at the ceiling over the card table. “What's above this room?”
“The attic.”
“Let's take a look.”
The workmen followed Andre up to the attic, a long, low-ceilinged room, dusty and spattered with cobwebs.
Al walked over to an electrical box set in the wall. He inspected the tangle of wires. “Ha!”
“Did you find something?” Andre asked anxiously.
“Condenser problem. It's the humidity. We musta had a hundred calls this week. It's shorted out. We'll have to replace the condenser.”
“Oh, my God! Will it take long?”
“Naw. We got a new condenser out in the truck.”
“Please hurry,” Andre begged them. “Mr. Pope is going to be home soon.”
“You leave everything to us,” Al said.
Back in the kitchen, Andre confided, “I must finish preparing my salad dressing. Can you find your way back up to the attic?”
Al raised a hand: “No sweat, pal. You just go on about your business, and we'll go on about ours.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you.”
Andre watched the men go out to the truck and return with two large canvas bags. “If you need anything,” he told them, “just call me.”
“You betcha!”
The workmen went up the stairs, and Andre returned to his kitchen.
When Ralph and Al reached the attic, they opened their canvas bags and removed a small folding camp chair, a drill with a steel bit, a tray of sandwiches, two cans of beer, a pair of 12 by 40 Zeiss binoculars for viewing distant objects in a dim light, and two live hamsters that had been injected with three quarters of a milligram of acetyl promazine.
The two men went to work.
“Ol Ernestine is gonna be proud of me,” Al chortled as they started.
In the beginning, Al had stubbornly resisted the idea.
“You must be outta your mind, woman. I ain't gonna fuck around with no Perry Pope. That dude'll come down on my ass so hard I'll never see daylight again.”
“You don't gotta worry about him. He won't never be botherin' no one again.”
They were naked on the water bed in Ernestine's apartment.
“What you gettin' out of this deal, anyway, honey” Al demanded.
“He's a prick.”
“Hey, baby, the world's full of pricks, but you don't spend your life goin' around cuttin' off their balls.”
“All right. I'm doin' it for a friend.”
“Tracy?”
“That's right.”
Al liked Tracy. They had all had dinner together the day she got out of prison.
“She's a classy dame,” Al admitted. “But why we stickin' our necks out for her?”
“Because if we don't he'p her, she's gonna have to settle for someone who ain't half as good as you, and if she gets caught, they'll cart her ass right back to the joint.”
Al sat up in bed and looked at Ernestine curiously. “Does it mean that much to you, baby?”
“Yeah, hon.”
She would never be able to make him understand it, but the truth was simply that Ernestine could not stand the thought of Tracy back in prison at the mercy of Big Bertha. It was not only Tracy whom Ernestine was concerned about: It was herself. She had made herself Tracy's protector, and if Big Bertha got her hands on her, it would be a defeat for Ernestine.
So all she said now was, “Yeah. It means a lot to me, honey. You gonna, do it?”
“I damn sure can't do it alone,” Al grumbled.
And Ernestine knew she had won. She started nibbling her way down his long, lean body. And she murmured, “Wasn't ole Ralph due to be released a few days ago…?”
It was 6:30 before the two men returned to Andre's kitchen, grimy with sweat and dust.
“Is it fixed?” Andre asked anxiously.
“It was a real bitch,” Al informed him. “You see, what you got here is a condenser with an AC/DC cutoff that —”
“Never mind that,” Andre interrupted impatiently. “Did you fix it?”
“Yeah. It's all set. In five minutes we'll have it goin' again as good as new.”
“Formidable! If you'll just leave your bill on the kitchen table —”
Ralph shook his head. “Don't worry about it. The company'll bill you.”
“Bless you both. Au 'voir.”
Andre watched the two men leave by the back door, carrying their canvas bags. Out of his sight, they walked around to the yard and opened the casing that housed the outside condenser of the air-conditioning unit. Ralph held the flashlight while Al reconnected the wires he had loosened a couple hours earlier. The air-conditioning unit immediately sprang into life.
Al copied down the telephone number on the service tag attached to the condenser. When he telephoned the number a short time later and reached the recorded voice of the Eskimo Air-Conditioning Company, Al said, “This is Perry Pope's residence at Forty-two Charles Street. Our air-conditioning is workin' fine now. Don't bother to send anyone. Have a nice day.”
The weekly Friday-night poker game at Perry Pope's house was an event to which all the players eagerly looked forward. It was always the same carefully selected group: Anthony Orsatti, Joe Romano, Judge Henry Lawrence, an alderman, a state senator, and of course their host. The stakes were high, the food was great, and the company was raw power.
Perry Pope was in his bedroom changing into white silk slacks and matching sport shirt. He hummed happily, thinking of the evening ahead. He had been on a winning streak lately. In fact, my whole life is just one big winning streak, he thought.
If anyone needed a legal favor in New Orleans, Perry Pope was the attorney to see. His power came from his connections with the Orsatti Family. He was known as The Arranger, and could fix anything from a traffic ticket to a drug-dealing charge to a murder rap. Life was good.
When Anthony Orsatti arrived, he brought a guest with him. “Joe Romano won't be playin' anymore,” Orsatti announced. “You all know Inspector Newhouse.”
The men shook hands all around.
“Drinks are on the sideboard, gentlemen,” Perry Pope said.
“We'll have supper later. Why don't we start a little action going?”
The men took their accustomed chairs around the green felt table in the den. Orsatti pointed to Joe Romano's vacant chair and said to Inspector Newhouse, “That'll be your seat from now on, Mel.”
While one of the men opened fresh decks of cards, Pope began distributing poker chips. He explained to Inspector Newhouse, “The black chips are five dollars, red chips ten dollars, blue chips fifty dollars, white chips a hundred. Each man starts out buying five hundred dollars' worth of chips. We play table stakes, three raises, dealer's choice.”
“Sounds good to me,” the inspector said.
Anthony Orsatti was in a bad mood. “Come on. Let's get started.” His voice was a strangled whisper. Not a good sign.
Perry Pope would have given a great deal to learn what had happened to Joe Romano, but the lawyer knew better than to bring up the subject. Orsatti would discuss it with him when he was ready.
Orsatti's thoughts were black: I been like a father to Joe Romano. I trusted him, made him my chief lieutenant. And the son of a bitch stabbed me in the back. If that dizzy French dame hadn't telephoned, he might have gotten away with it, too. Well, he won't ever get away with nothin' again. Not where he is. If he's so clever, let him fuck around with the fish down there.
“Tony, are you in or out?”
Anthony Orsatti turned his attention back to the game. Huge sums of money had been won and lost at this table. It always upset Anthony Orsatti to lose, and it had nothing to do with money. He could not bear to be on the losing end of anything. He thought of himself as a natural-born winner. Only winners rose to his position in fife. For the last six weeks, Perry Pope had been on some kind of crazy winning streak, and tonight Anthony Orsatti was determined to break it.
Since they played dealer's choice, each dealer chose the game in which he felt the strongest. Hands were dealt for five-card stud, seven-card stud, low ball, draw poker — but tonight, no matter which game was chosen, Anthony Orsatti kept finding himself on the losing end. He began to increase his bets, playing recklessly, trying to recoup his losses. By midnight when they stopped to have the meal Andre had prepared, Orsatti was out $50,000, with Perry Pope the big winner.
The food was delicious. Usually Orsatti enjoyed the free midnight snack, but this evening he was impatient to get back to the table.
“You're not eating, Tony,” Perry Pope said.
“I'm not hungry.” Orsatti reached for the silver coffee urn at his side, poured coffee into a Victoria-patterned Herend-china cup, and sat down at the poker table. He watched the others eat and wished they would hurry. He was impatient to win his money back. As he started to stir his coffee, a small particle fell into his cup. Distastefully, Orsatti removed the particle with a spoon and examined it. It appeared to be a piece of plaster. He looked up at the ceiling, and something hit him on the forehead. He suddenly became aware of a scurrying noise overhead.
“What the hell's goin' on upstairs?” Anthony Orsatti asked.
Perry Pope was in the middle of telling an anecdote to Inspector Newhouse. “I'm sorry, what did you say, Tony?”
The scurrying noise was more noticeable now. Bits of plaster began to trickle onto the green felt.
“It sounds to me like you have mice,” the senator said.
“Not in this house.” Perry Pope was indignant.
“Well, you sure as hell got somethin',” Orsatti growled. A larger piece of plaster fell on the green felt table.
“I'll have Andre take care of it,” Pope said. “If we're finished eating, why don't we get back to the game?”
Anthony Orsatti was staring up at a small hole in the ceiling directly above his head. “Hold it. Let's go take a look up there.”
“What for, Tony? Andre can —”
Orsatti had already risen and started for the stairway. The others looked at one another, then hurried after him.
“A squirrel probably got into the attic,” Perry Pope guessed. “This time of year they're all over the place: Probably hiding his nuts for the winter.” He laughed at his little joke.
When they reached the door to the attic, Orsatti pushed it open, and Perry Pope turned on the light. They caught a glimpse of two white hamsters frantically racing around the room.
“Jesus!” Perry Pope said. “I've got rats!”
Anthony Orsatti was not listening. He was staring at the room. In the middle of the attic was a camp chair with a packet of sandwiches on top of it and two open cans of beer. On the floor next to the chair was a pair of binoculars.
Orsatti walked over to them, picked up the objects one by one, and examined them. Then he got down on his knees on the dusty floor and moved the tiny wooden cylinder that concealed a peephole that had been drilled into the ceiling. Orsatti put his eye to the peephole. Directly beneath him the card table was clearly visible.
Perry Pope was standing in the middle of the attic, dumbfounded. “Who the hell put all this junk up here? I'm going to raise hell with Andre about this.”
Orsatti rose slowly to his feet and brushed the dust from his trousers.
Perry Pope glanced down at the floor. “Look!” he exclaimed. “They left a goddamned hole in the ceiling. Workmen today aren't worth a shit.”
He crouched down and took a look through the hole, and his face suddenly lost its color. He stood up and looked around, wildly, to find all the men staring at him.
“Hey!” Perry Pope said. “You don't think I —? Come on, fellas, this is me. I don't know anything about this. I wouldn't cheat you. My God, we're friends!” His hand flew to his mouth, and he began biting furiously at his cuticles.
Orsatti patted him on the arm. “Don't worry about it.” His voice was almost inaudible.
Perry Pope kept gnawing desperately at the raw flesh of his right thumb.
“That's two down, Tracy,” Ernestine Littlechap chortled. “The word on the street is that your lawyer friend Perry Pope ain't practicin' law no more. He had a real bad accident.”
They were having cafй au lait and beignets at a small sidewalk cafй off Royal Street.
Ernestine gave a high giggle. “You got a brain, girl. You wouldn't like to go into business with me, would you?”
“Thanks, Ernestine. I have other plans.”
Ernestine asked eagerly, “Who's next?”
“Lawrence. Judge Henry Lawrence.”
Henry Lawrence had begun his career as a small-town lawyer in Leesville, Louisiana. He had very little aptitude for the law, but he had two very important attributes: He was impressive-looking, and he was morally flexible. His philosophy was that the law was a frail rod, meant to be bent to suit the needs of his clients. With that in mind, it was not surprising that shortly after he moved to New Orleans, Henry Lawrence's law practice began to flourish with a special group of clients. He went from handling misdemeanors and traffic accidents to handling felonies and capital crimes, and by the time he reached the big leagues, he was an expert at suborning juries, discrediting witnesses, and bribing anyone who could help his case. In short, he was Anthony Orsatti's kind of man, and it was inevitable that the paths of the two should cross. It was a marriage made in Mafia heaven. Lawrence became the mouthpiece for the Orsatti Family, and when the timing was right, Orsatti had him elevated to a judgeship.
“I don't know how you kin nail the judge,” Ernestine said. “He's rich an' powerful an' untouchable.”
“He's rich and powerful,” Tracy corrected her, “but he's not untouchable.”
Tracy had worked out her plan, but when she telephoned Judge Lawrence's chambers, she knew, immediately, that she would have to change it.
“I'd like to speak to Judge Lawrence, please.”
A secretary said, “I'm sorry, Judge Lawrence is not in.”
“When do you expect him?” Tracy asked.
“I really couldn't say.”
“It's very important. Will he be in tomorrow morning?”
“No. Judge Lawrence is out of town.”
“Oh. Perhaps I can reach him somewhere?”
“I'm afraid that would be impossible. His Honor is out of the country.”
Tracy carefully kept the disappointment from her voice. “I see. May I ask where?” .
“His Honor is in Europe, attending an international judiciary symposium.”
“What a shame,” Tracy said.
“Who's calling, please?”
Tracy's mind was racing. “This is Elizabeth Rowane Dastin, chairwoman of the southern division of the American Trial Lawyers' Association. We're having our annual awards dinner in New Orleans on the twentieth of this month, and we've chosen Judge Henry Lawrence to be our man of the year.”
“That's lovely,” the judge's secretary said, “but I'm afraid His Honor won't be back by then.”
“What a pity. We were all so looking forward to hearing one of his famous speeches. Judge Lawrence was the unanimous choice of our selection committee.”
“He'll be disappointed to miss it.”
“Yes. I'm sure you know what a great honor this is. Some of our country's most prominent judges have been chosen in the past. Wait a minute! I have an idea. Do you suppose the judge might tape a brief acceptance speech for us — a few words of thanks, perhaps?”
“Well, I — I really can't say. He has a very busy schedule —”
“There'll be a great deal of national television and newspaper coverage.”
There was a silence. Judge Lawrence's secretary knew how much His Honor enjoyed media coverage. In fact, as far as she could see, the tour he was presently on seemed to be mainly for that purpose.
She said, “Perhaps he might find time to record a few words for you. I could ask him.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Tracy enthused. “It would really make the whole evening.”
“Would you like His Honor to address his remarks toward anything specific?”
“Oh, definitely. We'd like him to talk about —” She hesitated. “I'm afraid it's a bit complicated. It would be better if I could explain it to him directly.”
There was a momentary silence. The secretary faced a dilemma. She had orders not to reveal her boss's itinerary. On the other hand, it would be just like him to blame her if he missed receiving an award as important as this.
She said, “I'm really not supposed to give out any information, but I'm sure he would want me to make an exception for something as prestigious as this. You can reach him in Moscow, at the Rossia Hotel. He'll be there for the next five days, and after that —”
“Wonderful. I'll get in touch with him right away. Thank you so much.”
“Thank you, Miss Dastin.”
The cables were addressed to Judge Henry Lawrence, Rossia Hotel, Moscow. The first cable read:
NEXT JUDICIARY COUNCIL MEETING CAN NOW BE ARRANGED.
CONFIRM CONVENIENT DATE AS SPACE MUST BE REQUESTED.
BORIS.
The second cable, which arrived the next day, read:
ADVISE PROBLEM TRAVEL PLANS.
YOUR SISTER'S PLANE ARRIVED LATE
BUT LANDED SAFELY. LOST PASSPORT AND MONEY.
SHE WILL BE PLACED IN FIRST-CLASS SWISS HOTEL.
WILL SETTLE ACCOUNT LATER.
BORIS.
The last cable read:
YOUR SISTER WILL TRY AMERICAN EMBASSY
TO OBTAIN TEMPORARY PASSPORT.
NO INFORMATION AVAILABLE YET ON NEW VISA
SWISS MAKE RUSSIANS SEEM SAINTS.
WILL SHIP SISTER TO YOU SOONEST.
BORIS.
The NKVD sat back and waited to see if there were any further cables. When no more were forthcoming, they arrested Judge Lawrence.
The interrogation lasted for ten days and nights.
“To whom did you send the information?”
“What information? I don't know what you're talking about.”
“We're talking about the plans. Who gave you the plans?”
“What plans?”
“The plans for the Soviet atomic submarine.”
“You must be crazy. What do I know about Soviet submarines?”
“That's what we intend to find out. Who were your secret meetings with?”
“What secret meetings? I have no secrets.”
“Good. Then you can tell us who Boris is.”
“Boris, who?”
“The man who deposited money in your Swiss account.”
“What Swiss account?”
They were furious. “You're a stubborn fool,” they told him. “We're going to make an example of you and all the other American spies trying to undermine our great motherland.”
By the time the American ambassador was permitted to visit him, Judge Henry Lawrence had lost fifteen pounds. He could not remember the last time his captors had allowed him to sleep, and he was a trembling wreck of a man.
“Why are they doing this to me?” the judge croaked. “I'm an American citizen. I'm a judge. For God's sake, get me out of here!”
“I'm doing everything I can,” the ambassador assured him. He was shocked by Lawrence's appearance. The ambassador had greeted Judge Lawrence and the other members of the Judiciary Committee when they had arrived two weeks earlier. The man the ambassador met then bore no resemblance to the cringing, terrified creature who groveled before him now.
What the hell are the Russians up to this time? the ambassador wondered. The judge is no more a spy than I am. Then he thought wryly, I suppose I could have chosen a better example.
The ambassador demanded to see the president of the Politburo, and when the request was refused, he settled for one of the ministers.
“I must make a formal protest,” the ambassador angrily declared. “Your country's behavior in the treatment of Judge Henry Lawrence is inexcusable. To call a man of his stature a spy is ridiculous.”
“If you're quite finished,” the minister said coldly, “you will please take a look at these.”
He handed copies of the cables to the ambassador.
The ambassador read them and looked up, bewildered. “What's wrong with them? They're perfectly innocent.”
“Really? Perhaps you had better read them again. Decoded.” He handed the ambassador another copy of the cables. Every fourth word had been underlined.
NEXT JUDICIARY COUNCIL MEETING CAN NOW BE ARRANGED.
CONFIRM CONVENIENT DATE AS SPACE MUST BE REQUESTED.
BORIS
ADVISE PROBLEM TRAVEL PLANS.
YOUR SISTER'S PLANE ARRIVED LATE
BUT LANDED SAFELY. LOST PASSPORT AND MONEY.
SHE WILL BE PLACED IN FIRST-CLASS SWISS HOTEL.
WILL SETTLE ACCOUNT LATER.
BORIS
YOUR SISTER WILL TRY AMERICAN EMBASSY
TO OBTAIN TEMPORARY PASSPORT.
NO INFORMATION AVAILABLE YET ON NEW VISA.
SWISS MAKE RUSSIANS SEEM SAINTS.
WILL SHIP SISTER TO YOU SOONEST.
BORIS
I'll be a son of a bitch, the ambassador thought.
The press and public were barred from the trial. The prisoper remained stubborn to the last, continuing to deny he was in the Soviet Union on a spying mission. The prosecution promised him leniency if he would divulge who his bosses were, and Judge Lawrence would have given his soul to have been able to do so, but alas, he could not.
The day after the trial there was a brief mention in Pravda that the notorious American spy Judge Henry Lawrence had been convicted of espionage and sentenced to Siberia for fourteen years of hard labor.
The American intelligence community was baffled by the Lawrence case. Rumors buzzed among the CIA, the FBI, the Secret Service, and the Treasury Department.
“He's not one of ours,” the CIA said. “He probably belongs to Treasury.”
The Treasury Department disclaimed any knowledge of the case. “No, Sir. Lawrence isn't our baby. Probably the fucking FBI butting into our territory again.”
“Never heard of him,” the FBI said. “He was probably run by State, or the Defense Intelligence Agency.”
The Defense Intelligence Agency, as much in the dark as the others, cannily said, “No comment.”
Each agency was sure that Judge Henry Lawrence had been sent abroad by one of the others.
“Well, you've got to admire his guts,” the head of the CIA said. “He's tough. He hasn't confessed and he hasn't named names. To tell you the truth, I wish we had a lot more like him.”
Things were not going well for Anthony Orsatti, and the capo was unable to figure out why. For the first time in his life, his luck was going bad. It had started with Joe Romano's defection, then Perry Pope, and now the judge was gone, mixed up in some crazy spy deal. They had all been an intrinsic part of Orsatti's machine — people he had relied on.
Joe Romano had been the linchpin in the Family organization, and Orsatti had not found anyone to take his place. The business was being run sloppily, and complaints were coming in from people who had never dared complain before. The word was out that Tony Orsatti was getting old, that he couldn't keep his men in line, that his organization was coming apart.
The final straw was a telephone call from New Jersey.
“We hear you're in a little trouble back there; Tony. We'd like to help you out.”
“I ain't in no trouble,” Orsatti bristled. “Sure, I've had a couple a problems lately, but they're all straightened out.”
“That's not what we hear, Tony. The word's out that your town's goin' a little wild; there's no one controlling it.”
“I'm controlling it.”
“Maybe it's too much for you. Could be you're working too hard. Maybe you need a little rest.”
“This is my town. No one's takin' it away from me.”
“Hey, Tony, who said anything about taking it away from you? We just want to help. The Families back east got together and decided to send a few of our people down there to give you a little hand. There's nothing wrong with that between old friends, is there?”
Anthony Orsatti felt a deep chill go through him. There was only one thing wrong with it: The little hand was going to become a big hand, and it was going to snowball.
Ernestine had prepared shrimp gumbo for dinner, and it was simmering on the stove while she and Tracy waited for Al to arrive. The September heat wave had burned itself deeply into everyone's nerves, and when Al finally walked into the small apartment, Ernestine screamed, “Where the hell you been? The fuckin' dinner's burning, and so am I”
But Al's spirits were too euphoric to be affected. “I been busy diggin' the scam, woman. An' wait'll you hear what I got.” He turned to Tracy. “The mob's puttin' the arm on Tony Orsatti. The Family from New Jersey's comin' in to take over.” His face split into a broad grin. “You got the son of a bitch!” He looked into Tracy's eyes, and his smile died. “Ain't you happy, Tracy?”
What a strange word, Tracy thought. Happy. She had forgotten what it meant. She wondered whether she would ever be happy again, whether she would ever feel any normal emotions again. For so long now, her every waking thought had been to avenge what had been done to her mother and herself. And now that it was almost finished, there was only an emptiness inside her.
The following morning Tracy stopped at a florist. “I want some flowers delivered to Anthony Orsatti. A funeral wreath of white carnations on a stand, with a wide ribbon. I want the ribbon to read: 'REST IN PEACE.' ” She wrote out a card. It said, FROM DORIS WHITNEY'S DAUGHTER.
Philadelphia
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 7 — 4:00 P.M.
It was time to deal with Charles Stanhope III. The others had been strangers. Charles had been her lover, the father of her unborn child, and he had turned his back on both of them.
Ernestine and Al had been at the New Orleans Airport to see Tracy off.
“I'm gonna miss you,” Ernestine had said. “You sure set this town on its ass. They oughta run you for people's mayor.”
“Whatcha gonna do in Philly?” Al had asked.
She had told them half the truth. “Go back to my old job at the bank.”
Ernestine and Al had exchanged a glance. “They — er — know you're comin'?”
“No. But the vice-president likes me. There won't be a problem. Good computer operators are hard to find.”
“Well, good luck. Keep in touch, ya hear? And stay out of trouble, girl.”
Thirty minutes later Tracy had been in the air, bound for Philadelphia.
She checked into the Hilton Hotel and steamed out her one good dress over the hot tub. At 11:00 the following morning she walked into the bank and approached Clarence Desmond's secretary.
“Hello, Mae.”
The girl stared at Tracy as though she were seeing a ghost. “Tracy!” She did not know where to look. “I — how are you?”
“Fine. Is Mr. Desmond in?”
“I — I don't know. Let me see. Excuse me.” She rose from her chair, flustered, and hurried into the vice-president's office.
She came out a few moments later. “You may go in.” She edged away as Tracy walked toward the door.
What's the matter with her? Tracy wondered.
Clarence Desmond was standing next to his desk.
“Hello, Mr. Desmond. Well, I've come back,” Tracy said brightly.
“What for?” His tone was unfriendly. Definitely unfriendly.
It caught Tracy by surprise. She pressed on. “Well, you said I was the best computer operator you had ever seen, and I thought —”
“You thought I'd give you back your old job?”
“Well, yes, sir. I haven't forgotten any of my skills. I can still —”
“Miss Whitney.” It was no longer Tracy. “I'm sorry, but what you're asking is quite out of the question. I'm sure you can understand that our customers would not wish to deal with someone who served time in the penitentiary for armed robbery and attempted murder. That would hardly fit in with our high ethical image. I think it unlikely that given your background, any bank would hire you. I would suggest that you try to find employment more suitable to your circumstances. I hope you understand there is nothing personal in this.”
Tracy listened to his words, first with shock and then with growing anger. He made her sound like an outcast, a leper. We wouldn't want to lose you. You're one of our most valuable employees.
“Was there anything else, Miss Whitney?” It was a dismissal.
There were a hundred things Tracy wanted to say, but she knew they would do no good. “No. I think you've said it all.” Tracy turned and walked out the office door, her face burning. All the bank employees seemed to be staring at her. Mae had spread the word: The convict had come back. Tracy moved toward the exit, head held high, dying inside. I can't let them do this to me. My pride is all I have left, and no one is going to take that away from me.
Tracy stayed in her room all day, miserable. How could she have been naive enough to believe that they would welcome her back with open arms? She was notorious now. “You're the headline in the Philadelphia Daily News.” Well, to hell with Philadelphia, Tracy thought. She had some unfinished business there, but when that was done, she would leave. She would go to New York, where she would be anonymous. The decision made her feel better.
That evening, Tracy treated herself to dinner at the Cafй Royal. After the sordid meeting with Clarence Desmond that morning, she needed the reassuring atmosphere of soft lights, elegant surroundings, and soothing music. She ordered a vodka martini, and as the waiter brought it to her table, Tracy glanced up, and her heart suddenly skipped a beat. Seated in a booth across the room were Charles and his wife. They had not yet seen her. Tracy's first impulse was to get up and leave. She was not ready to face Charles, not until she had a chance to put her plan into action.
“Would you like to order now?” the captain was asking.
“I'll — I'll wait, thank you.” She had to decide whether she was going to stay.
She looked over at Charles again, and an astonishing phenomenon occurred: It was as though she were looking at a stranger. She was seeing a sallow, drawn-looking, middle-aged, balding man, with stooped shoulders and an air of ineffable boredom on his face. It was impossible to believe that she had once thought she loved this man, that she had slept with him, planned to spend the rest of her life with him. Tracy glanced at his wife. She wore the same bored expression as Charles. They gave the impression of two people trapped together for eternity, frozen in time. They simply sat there, speaking not one word to each other. Tracy could visualize the endless, tedious years ahead of the two of them. No love. No joy. That is Charles's punishment, Tracy thought, and she felt a sudden surge of release, a freedom from the deep, dark, emotional chains that had bound her.
Tracy signaled to the captain and said, “I'm ready to order now.”
It was over. The past was finally buried.
It was not until Tracy returned to her hotel room that evening that she remembered she was owed money from the bank's employees' fund. She sat down and calculated the amount. It came to $1,375.65.
She composed a letter to Clarence Desmond, and two days later she received a reply from Mae.
Dear Miss Whitney:
In response to your request, Mr. Desmond has asked me to inform you that because of the morals policy in the employees' financial plan, your share has reverted to the general fund. He wants to assure you that he bears no personal ill will toward you.
Sincerely,
Mae Trenton
Secretary to the Senior Vice-president
Tracy could not believe it. They were stealing her money, and doing it under the pretext of protecting the morals of the bank! She was outraged. I'm not going to let them cheat me, she vowed. No one is ever going to cheat me again.
Tracy stood outside the familiar entrance to the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank. She wore a long black wig and heavy, dark makeup, with a raw red scar on her chin. If anything went wrong, it would be the scar they remembered. Despite her disguise, Tracy felt naked, for she had worked in this bank for five years, and it was staffed with people who knew her well: She would have to be very careful not to give herself away.
She removed a bottle cap from her purse, placed it in her shoe, and limped into the bank. The bank was crowded with customers, for Tracy had carefully chosen a time when the bank would be doing peak business. She limped over to one of the customer-service desks, and the man seated behind it finished a phone call and said, “Yes?”
It was Jon Creighton, the bank bigot. He hated Jews, blacks, and Puerto Ricans, but not necessarily in that order. He had been an irritant to Tracy during the years she had worked there. Now there was no sign of recognition on his face.
“Buenos dнas, seсor. I would like to open a checking account, ahora,” Tracy said. Her accent was Mexican, the accent she had heard for all those months from her cell mate Paulita.
There was a look of disdain on Creighton's face. “Name?”
“Rita Gonzales.”
“And how much would you like to put in your account?”
“Ten dollars.”
His voice was a sneer. “Will that be by check or cash?”
“Cash, I theenk.”
She carefully took a crumpled, half-torn ten-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to him. He shoved a white form toward her.
“Fill this out —”
Tracy had no intention of putting anything in her handwriting. She frowned. “I'm sorry, senor. I hurt mi mano — my hand — in an accident. Would you min' writin' it for me, si se puede?”
Creighton snorted. These illiterate wetbacks! “Rita Gonzales, you said?”
“Si.”
“Your address?”
She gave him the address and telephone number of her hotel.
“Your mother's maiden name?”
“Gonzales. My mother, she married her uncle.”
“And your date of birth?”
“December twentieth, 1958.”
“Place of birth?”
“Ciudad de Mexico.”
“Mexico City. Sign here.”
“I weel have to use my left hand,” Tracy said. She picked up a pen and clumsily scrawled out an illegible signature. Jon Creighton wrote out a deposit slip.
“I'll give you a temporary checkbook. Your printed checks will be mailed to you in three or four weeks.”
“Bueno. Muchas gracias, seсor.”
“Yeah.”
He watched her walk out of the bank. Fuckin' spic.
There are numerous illegal ways to gain entry to a computer, and Tracy was an expert. She had helped set up the security system at the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank, and now she was about to circumvent it.
Her first step was to find a computer store, where she could use a terminal to tap into the bank's computer. The store, several blocks from the bank, was almost empty.
An eager salesman approached Tracy. “May I help you, miss?”
“Eso sн que no, seсor. I am just looking.”
His eye was caught by a teen-ager playing a computer game. “Excuse me.” He hurried away.
Tracy turned to the desk-model computer in front of her, which was connected to a telephone. Getting into the system would be easy, but without the proper access code, she was stymied, and the access code was changed daily. Tracy had been at the meeting when the original authorization code had been decided on.
“We must keep changing it,” Clarence Desmond had said, “so no one can break in; yet we want to keep it simple enough for people who are authorized to use it.”
The code they had finally settled on used the four seasons of the year and the current day's date.
Tracy turned on the terminal and tapped out the code for the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank. She heard a high-pitched whine and placed the telephone receiver into the terminal modem. A sign flashed on the small screen: YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
Today was the tenth.
FALL 10, Tracy tapped out.
THAT IS AN IMPROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. The computer screen went blank.
Had they changed the code? Out of the corner of her eye, Tracy saw the salesman coming toward her again. She moved over to another computer, gave it a casual glance, and ambled slang the aisle. The salesman checked his stride. A looker, he decided. He hurried forward to greet a prosperous-looking couple coming in the door. Tracy returned to the desk-model computer.
She tried to put herself into Clarence Desmond's mind. He was a creature of habit, and Tracy was sure he would not have varied the code too much. He had probably kept the original concept of the seasons and the numbers, but how had he changed them? It would have been too complicated to reverse all the numbers, so he had probably shifted the seasons around.
Tracy tried again.
YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
WINTER 10.
THAT IS AN IMPROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. The blank screen again.
It's not going to work, Tracy thought despairingly. I'll give it one more try.
YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
SPRING 10.
The screen went blank for a moment, and then the message appeared: PLEASE PROCEED.
So he had switched the seasons. She quickly typed out: DOMESTIC MONEY TRANSACTION.
Instantly, the bank menu, the category of available transactions, flashed onto the screen:
DO YOU WISH TO
A DEPOSIT MONEY
B TRANSFER MONEY
C WITHDRAW MONEY FROM SAVINGS ACCOUNT
D INTERBRANCH TRANSFER
E WITHDRAW MONEY FROM CHECKING ACCOUNT
PLEASE ENTER YOUR CHOICE
Tracy chose B. The screen went blank and a new menu appeared.
AMOUNT OF TRANSFER?
WHERE TO?
WHERE FROM?
She typed in: FROM GENERAL RESERVE FUND TO RITA GONZALES. When she came to the amount, she hesitated for an instant. Tempting, Tracy thought. Since she had access, there was no limit to the amount the now subservient computer would give her. She could have taken millions. But she was no thief. All she wanted was what was rightfully owed her.
She typed in $1,375.65, and added Rita Gonzales's account number.
The screen flashed: TRANSACTION COMPLETED. DO YOU WISH OTHER TRANSACTIONS?
NO.
SESSION COMPLETED. THANK YOU.
The money would automatically be transferred by CHIPS, the Clearing House Interbank Payment System that kept track of the $220 billion shifted from bank to bank every day.
The store clerk was approaching Tracy again, frowning. Tracy hurriedly pressed a key, and the screen went blank.
“Are you interested in purchasing this machine, miss?”
“No, gracias,” Tracy apologized. “I don' understan' these computers.”
She telephoned the bank from a corner drug store and asked to speak to the head cashier.
“Hola. Thees is Rita Gonzales. I would like to have my checkin' account transferred to the main branch of the First Hanover Bank of New York City, por favor.”
“Your account number, Miss Gonzales?”
Tracy gave it to her.
An hour later Tracy had checked out of the Hilton and was on her way to New York City.
When the First Hanover Bank of New York opened at 10:00 the following morning, Rita Gonzales was there to withdraw s8 the,money from her account.
“How much ees in it?” she asked.
The teller checked. “Thirteen hundred eighty-five dollars and sixty-five cents.”
“Sн, that ees correct.”
“Would you like a certified check for that, Miss Gonzales?”
“No, gracias,” Tracy said. “I don' trust banks. I weel take the cash.”
Tracy had received the standard two hundred dollars from the state prison upon her release, plus the small amount of money she had earned taking care of Amy, but even with her money from the bank fund, she had no financial security. It was imperative she get a job as quickly as possible.
She checked into an inexpensive hotel on Lexington Avenue and began sending out applications to New York banks, applying for a job as a computer expert. But Tracy found that the computer had suddenly become her enemy. Her life was no longer private. The computer banks held her life's story, and readily told it to everyone who pressed the right buttons. The moment Tracy's criminal record was revealed, her application was automatically rejected.
I think it unlikely that given your background, any bank would hire you. Clarence Desmond had been right.
Tracy sent in more job applications to insurance companies and dozens of other computer-oriented businesses. The replies were always the same: negative.
Very well, Tracy thought, I can always do something else. She bought a copy of The New York Times and began searching the want ads.
There was a position listed as secretary in an export firm.
The moment Tracy walked in the door, the personnel manager said, “Hey, I seen you on television. You saved a kid in prison, didn't you?”
Tracy turned and fled.
The following day she was hired as a saleswoman in the children's department at Saks Fifth Avenue. The salary was a great deal less than she had been used to, but at least it was enough to support herself.
On her second day, a hysterical customer recognized her and informed the floor manager that she refused to be waited on by a murderess who had drowned a small child. Tracy was given no chance to explain. She was discharged immediately.
It seemed to Tracy that the men upon whom she had exacted vengeance had had the last word after all. They had turned her into a public criminal, an outcast. The unfairness of what was happening to her was corrosive. She had no idea how she was going to live, and for the first time she began to have a feeling of desperation. That night she looked through her purse to see how much money remained, and tucked away in a corner of her wallet she came across the slip of paper that Betty Franciscus had given her in prison. CONRAD MORGAN, JEWELER, 640 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY. He's into criminal reform. He likes to give a hand to people who've been in prison.
Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers was an elegant establishment, with a liveried doorman on the outside and an armed guard on the inside. The shop itself was tastefully understated, but the jewels were exquisite and expensive.
Tracy told the receptionist inside, “I'd like to see Mr. Conrad Morgan, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. A — a mutual friend suggested that I see him.”
“Your name?”
“Tracy Whitney.”
“Just a moment, please.”
The receptionist picked up a telephone and murmured something into it that Tracy could not hear. She replaced the receiver. “Mr. Morgan is occupied just now. He wonders if you could come back at six o'clock.”
“Yes, thank you,” Tracy said.
She walked out of the shop and stood on the sidewalk, uncertainly. Coming to New York had been a mistake. There was probably nothing Conrad Morgan could do for her. And why should he? She was a complete stranger to him. He'll give me a lecture and a handout. Well, I don't need either. Not from him or anyone else. I'm a survivor. Somehow I'm going to make it. To hell with Conrad Morgan. I won't go back to see him.
Tracy wandered the streets aimlessly, passing the glittering salons of Fifth Avenue, the guarded apartment buildings on Park Avenue, the bustling shops on Lexington and Third. She walked the streets of New York mindlessly, seeing nothing, filled with a bitter frustration.
At 6:00 she found herself back on Fifth Avenue, in front of Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers. The doorman was gone, and the door was locked. Tracy pounded on the door in a gesture of defiance and then turned away, but to her surprise, the door suddenly opened.
An avuncular-looking man stood there looking at her. He was bald, with ragged tufts of gray hair above his ears, and he had a jolly, rubicund face and twinkling blue eyes. He looked like a cheery little gnome. “You must be Miss Whitney?”
“Yes….”
“I'm Conrad Morgan. Please, do come in, won't you?”
Tracy entered the deserted store.
“I've been waiting for you,” Conrad Morgan said. “Let's go into my office where we can talk.”
He led her through the store to a closed door, which he unlocked with a key. His office was elegantly furnished, and it looked more like an apartment than a place of business, with no desk, just couches, chairs, and tables artfully placed. The walls were covered with old masters.
“Would you care for a drink?” Conrad Morgan offered. “Whiskey, cognac, or perhaps sherry?”
“No, nothing, thank you.”
Tracy was suddenly nervous. She had dismissed the idea that this man would do anything to help her, yet at the same time she found herself desperately hoping that he could.
“Betty Franciscus suggested that I look you up, Mr. Morgan. She said you — you helped people who have been in… trouble.” She could not bring herself to say prison.
Conrad Morgan clasped his hands together, and Tracy noticed how beautifully manicured they were.
“Poor Betty. Such a lovely lady. She was unlucky, you know.”
“Unlucky?”
“Yes. She got caught.”
“I — I don't understand.”
“It's really quite simple, Miss Whitney. Betty used to work for me. She was well protected. Then the poor dear fell in love with a chauffeur from New Orleans and went off on her own. And, well… they caught her.”
Tracy was confused. “She worked for you here as a saleslady?”
Conrad Morgan sat back and laughed until his eyes filled with tears. “No, my dear,” he said, wiping the tears away. “Obviously, Betty didn't explain everything to you.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I have a very profitable little sideline, Miss Whitney, and I take great pleasure in sharing those profits with my colleagues. I have been most successful employing people like yourself — if you'll forgive me — who have served time in prison.”
Tracy studied his face, more puzzled that ever.
“I'm in a unique position, you see. I have an extremely wealthy clientele. My clients become my friends. They confide in me.” He tapped his fingers together delicately. “I know when my customers take trips. Very few people travel with jewelry in these parlous times, so their jewels are locked away at home. I recommend to them the security measures they should take to protect them. I know exactly what jewels they own because they purchased them from me. They —”
Tracy found herself on her feet. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Morgan.”
“Surely you're not leaving already?”
“If you're saying what I think you're saying —”
“Yes. Indeed, I am.”
She could feel her cheeks burning. “I'm not a criminal. I came here looking for a job.”
“And I'm offering you one, my dear. It will take an hour or two of your time, and I can promise you twenty-five thousand dollars.” He smiled impishly. “Tax free, of course.”
Tracy was fighting hard to control her anger. “I'm not interested. Would you let me out, please?”
“Certainly, if that is what you wish.” He rose to his feet and showed her to the door. “You must understand, Miss Whitney, that if there were the slightest danger of anyone's being caught, I would not be involved in this. I have my reputation to protect.”
“I promise you I won't say anything about it,” Tracy said coldly.
He grinned. “There's really nothing you could say, my dear, is there? I mean, who would believe you? I am Conrad Morgan.”
As they reached the front entrance of the store, Morgan said, “You will let me know if you change your mind, won't you? The best time to telephone me is after six o'clock in the evening. I'll wait for your call.”
“Don't,” Tracy said curtly, and she walked out into the approaching night. When she reached her room, she was still trembling.
She sent the hotel's one bellboy out for a sandwich and coffee. She did not feel like facing anyone. The meeting with Conrad Morgan had made her feel unclean. He had lumped her with all the sad, confused, and beaten criminals she had been surrounded by at the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women. She was not one of them. She was Tracy Whitney, a computer expert, a decent, law-abiding citizen.
Whom no one would hire.
Tracy lay awake all night thinking about her future. She had no job, and very little money left. She made two resolutions: In the morning she would move to a cheaper place and she would find a job. Any kind of job.
The cheaper place turned out to be a dreary fourth-floor walkup, one-room apartment on the Lower East Side. From her room, through the paper-thin walls, Tracy could hear her neighbors screaming at one another in foreign languages. The windows and doors of the small stores that lined the streets were heavily barred, and Tracy could understand why. The neighborhood seemed to be populated by drunks, prostitutes, and bag ladies.
On her way to the market to shop, Tracy was accosted three times — twice by men and once by a woman.
I can stand it. I won't be here long, Tracy assured herself.
She went to a small employment agency a few blocks from her apartment. It was run by a Mrs. Murphy, a matronly looking, heavy-set lady. She put down Tracy's resumй and studied her quizzically. “I don't know what you need me for. There must be a dozen companies that'd give their eyeteeth to get someone like you.”
Tracy took a deep breath. “I have a problem,” she said. She explained as Mrs. Murphy sat listening quietly, and when Tracy was finished, Mrs. Murphy said flatly, “You can forget about looking for a computer job.”
“But you said —”
“Companies are jumpy these days about computer crimes. They're not gonna hire anybody with a record.”
“But I need a job. I —”
“There are other kinds of jobs. Have you thought about working as a saleslady?”
Tracy remembered her experience at the department store. She could not bear to go through that again. “Is there anything else?”
The woman hesitated. Tracy Whitney was obviously over-qualified for the job Mrs. Murphy had in mind. “Look,” she said. “I know this isn't up your alley, but there's a waitress job open at Jackson Hole. It's a hamburger place on the Upper East Side.”
“A waitress job?”
“Yeah. If you take it, I won't charge you any commission. I just happened to hear about it.”
Tracy sat there, debating. She had waited on tables in college. Then it had been fun. Now it was a question of surviving.
“I'll try it,” she said.
Jackson Hole was bedlam, packed with noisy and impatient customers, and harassed, irritable fry cooks. The food was good and the prices reasonable, and the place was always jammed. The waitresses worked at a frantic pace with no time to relax, and by the end of the first day Tracy was exhausted. But she was earning money.
At noon on the second day, as Tracy was serving a table filled with salesmen, one of the men ran his hand up her skirt, and Tracy dropped a bowl of chili on his head. That was the end of the job.
She returned to Mrs. Murphy and reported what had happened.
“I may have some good news,” Mrs. Murphy said. “The Wellington Arms needs an assistant housekeeper. I'm going to send you over there.”
The Wellington Arms was a small, elegant hotel on Park Avenue that catered to the rich and famous. Tracy was interviewed by the housekeeper and hired. The work was not difficult, the staff was pleasant, and the hours reasonable.
A week after she started, Tracy was summoned to the housekeeper's office. The assistant manager was also there.
“Did you check Suite eight-twenty-seven today?” the housekeeper asked Tracy. The suite was occupied by Jennifer Marlowe, a Hollywood actress. Part of Tracy's job was to inspect each suite and see that the maids had done their work properly.
“Why, yes,” she said.
“What time?”
“At two o'clock. Is something wrong?”
The assistant manager spoke up. “At three o'clock Miss Marlowe returned and discovered that a valuable diamond ring was missing.”
Tracy could feel her body grow tense.
“Did you go into the bedroom, Tracy?”
“Yes. I checked every room.”
“When you were in the bedroom, did you see any jewelry lying around?”
“Why… no. I don't think so.”
The assistant manager pounced on it. “You don't think so? You're not sure?”
“I wasn't looking for jewelry,” Tracy said. “I was checking the beds and towels.”
“Miss Marlowe insists that her ring was on the dressing table when she left the suite.”
“I don't know anything about it.”
“No one else has access to that room. The maids have been with us for many years.”
“I didn't take it.”
The assistant manager sighed. “We're going to have to call in the police to investigate.”
“It had to be someone else,” Tracy cried. “Or perhaps Miss Marlowe misplaced it.”
“With your record —” the assistant manager said.
And there it was, out in the open. With your record…
“I'll have to ask you to please wait in the security office until the police get here.”
Tracy felt her face flush. “Yes, sir.”
She was accompanied to the office by one of the security guards, and she felt as though she were back in prison again. She had read of convicts being hounded because they had prison records, but it had never occurred to her that this kind of thing could happen to her. They had stuck a label on her, and they expected her to live up to it. Or down to it, Tracy thought bitterly.
Thirty minutes later the assistant manager walked into the office, smiling. “Well!” he said. “Miss Marlowe found her ring. She had misplaced it, after all. It was just a little mistake.”
“Wonderful,” Tracy said.
She walked out of the office and headed for Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers.
“It's ridiculously simple,” Conrad Morgan was saying. “A client of mine, Lois Bellamy, has gone to Europe. Her house is in Sea Cliff, on Long Island. On weekends the servants are off, so there's no one there. A private patrol makes a check evey four hours. You can be in and out of the house in a few minutes.”
They were seated in Conrad Morgan's office.
“I know the alarm system, and I have the combination to the safe. All you have to do, my dear, is walk in, pick up the jewels, and walk out again. You bring the jewels to me, I take them out of their settings, recut the larger ones, and sell them again.”
“If it's so simple, why don't you do it yourself?” Tracy asked bluntly.
His blue eyes twinkled. “Because I'm going to be out of town on business. Whenever one of these little 'incidents' occurs, I'm always out of town on business.”
“I see.”
“If you have any scruples about the robbery hurting Mrs. Bellamy, you needn't have. She's really quite a horrible woman, who has houses all over the world filled with expensive goodies. Besides, she's insured for twice the amount the jewels are worth. Naturally, I did all the appraisals.”
Tracy sat there looking at Conrad Morgan, thinking, l must be crazy. I'm sitting here calmly discussing a jewel robbery with this man.
“I don't want to go back to prison, Mr. Morgan.”
“There's no danger of that. Not one of my people has ever been caught. Not while they were working for me. Well… what do you say?”
That was obvious. She was going to say no. The whole idea was insane.
“You said twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“Cash on delivery.”
It was a fortune, enough to take care of her until she could figure out what to do with her life. She thought of the dreary little room she lived in, of the screaming tenants, and the customer yelling, “I don't want a murderess waiting on me,” and the assistant manager saying, “We're going to have to call in the police to investigate.”
But Tracy stilt could not bring herself to say yes.
“I would suggest this Saturday night,” Conrad Morgan said. “The staff leaves at noon on Saturdays. I'll arrange a driver's license and a credit card for you in a false name. You'll rent a car here in Manhattan and drive out to Long Island, arriving at eleven o'clock. You'll pick up the jewelry, drive back to New York, and return the car…. You do drive, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. There's a train leaving for St. Louis at seven-forty-five A.M. I'll reserve a compartment for you. I'll meet you at the station in St. Louis, you'll turn over the jewels, and I'll give you your twenty-five thousand.”
He made it all sound so simple.
This was the moment to say no, to get up and walk out. Walk out to where?
“I'll need a blond wig,” Tracy said slowly.
When Tracy had left, Conrad Morgan sat in the dark in his office, thinking about her. A beautiful woman. Very beautiful, indeed. It was a shame. Perhaps he should have warned her that he was not really that familiar with that particular burglar-alarm system.