Most of this, the bank security chief explained at length to Miles Eastin. He also unfolded a basically simple plan. Miles would go to the Double-Seven Health Club, making such contacts as he could. He would try to ingratiate himself, and would also take whatever opportunities occurred to earn some money.
“Doing that will mean a risk two ways, and you’ll have to realize it,” Wainwright said. “If you do something criminal and get caught, you’ll be arrested, tried, and no one else can help you. The other risk is, even if you don’t get caught and the parole board hears rumors, that’ll put you back in prison just as surely.”
However, Wainwright continued, if neither mischance happened, Miles should try to widen his contacts, listening hard and accumulating information. At first, he should be wary of appearing curious. “You’d take it easy,” Wainwright cautioned. “Don’t hurry, be patient. Let word get around; let people come to you.”
Only after Miles was accepted, would he work harder at learning more. At that time he could begin discreet inquiries about fake credit cards, exhibiting an interest for himself and seeking to move closer to wherever they were traded. “There’s always somebody,” Wainwright advised, “who knows somebody else, who knows some other guy who has a rumble of some action. That’s the way you’d weasel in.”
Periodically, Wainwright said, Eastin would report to him. Though never directly.
The mention of reporting was a reminder to Wainwright of his obligation to explain about Vic. He did so bluntly, omitting no details. As he spoke, he saw Miles Eastin go pale and remembered the night in Eastin’s apartment, the time of the confrontation and exposure, when the younger man’s instinctive fear of physical violence showed so clearly.
“Whatever happens,” Wainwright said sternly, “I don’t want you to say or think, later on, that I didn’t warn you of the dangers.” He paused, considering. “Now, about money.”
If Miles agreed to go undercover on the bank’s behalf, the security chief stated, he would guarantee a payment of five hundred dollars a month until—one way or another—the assignment ended. The money would be paid through an intermediary.
“Would I be employed by the bank?”
“Absolutely no.”
The answer was unequivocal, emphatic, final. Wainwright elaborated: Involvement of the bank officially would be nil. If Miles Eastin agreed to assume the role suggested, he would be entirely on his own. If he ran into trouble and tried to implicate First Mercantile American, he would be disowned and disbelieved. “Since you were convicted and went to jail,” Wainwright declared, “we never even heard of you.”
Miles grimaced. “It’s one-sided.”
“Damn right! But remember this: You came here. I didn’t come to you. So what’s your answer—yes or no?”
“If you were me, which would it be?”
“I’m not you, nor likely to be. But I’ll tell you how I see it. The way things are, you don’t have many choices.”
For a moment the old Miles Eastin humor and good nature flashed. “Heads I lose; tails I lose. I guess I hit the loser’s jackpot. Let me ask one thing more.”
“What?”
“If it all works out, if I get—if you get—the evidence you need, afterward will you help me find a job at FMA?”
“I can’t promise that. I already said I didn’t write the rules.”
“But you’ve influence to bend them.”
Wainwright considered before answering. He thought: If it came to it, he could go to Alex Vandervoort and present a case on behalf of Eastin. Success would be worth it. He said aloud, “I’ll try. But that’s all I promise.”
“You’re a hard man,” Miles Eastin said. “All right, I’ll do it.”
They discussed an intermediary.
“After today,” Wainwright warned, “you and I won’t meet again directly. It’s too dangerous; either one of us may be watched. What we need is someone who can be a conduit for messages—both ways—and money; someone whom we both trust totally.”
Miles said slowly, “There’s Juanita Núñez. If she’d do it.”
Wainwright looked incredulous. “The teller who you …”
“Yes. But she forgave me.” There was a mixture of elation and excitement in his voice. “I went to see her and Heaven bless her, she forgave me!”
“I’ll be damned.”
“You ask her,” Miles Eastin said. “There’s not a single reason why she should agree. But I think … just think, she might.”
5
How sound was Lewis D’Orsey’s instinct about Supranational Corporation? How sound was Supranational? That worry continued to vex Alex Vandervoort.
It was on Saturday night that Alex and Lewis had talked about SuNatCo. Over what remained of the weekend, Alex pondered The D’Orsey Newsletter recommendation to sell Supranational shares at whatever the market would pay and Lewis’s doubts about the conglomerate’s solidity.
The entire subject was exceedingly important, even vital, to the bank. Yet it could be a delicate situation in which, Alex realized, he would need to move cautiously.
For one thing, Supranational was now a major client and any client would be righteously indignant if its own bankers circulated adverse rumors about it, particularly if false. And Alex had no illusions: Once he began asking questions widely, word of them, and their source, would travel fast.
But were the rumors false? Certainly—as Lewis D’Orsey had admitted—they were insubstantial. But then so had the original rumors been about such spectacular business failures as Penn Central, Equity Funding, Franklin National Bank, American Bank & Trust, U. S. National Bank of San Diego, and others. There was also Lockheed, which hadn’t failed, but came close to it, being bailed out by a U.S. government welfare handout. Alex remembered with disquieting clarity Lewis D’Orsey’s reference to SuNatCo’s chairman, Quartermain, shopping in Washington for a Lockheed-type loan—except that Lewis used the word “subsidy,” which wasn’t far from truth.
It was possible, of course, that Supranational was merely suffering a temporary cash shortage, which sometimes happened to the soundest of companies. Alex hoped that that—or something less—was true. However, as an officer of FMA he could not afford to sit back and hope. Fifty million dollars of bank money had been funneled into SuNatCo; also, using funds which it was the bank’s job to safeguard, the trust department had invested heavily in Supranational shares, a fact which still made Alex shiver when he thought about it.
He decided the first thing he should do, in fairness, was inform Roscoe Heyward.
On Monday morning he walked from his office, down the carpeted 36th floor corridor, to Heyward’s. Alex took with him the latest issue of The D’Orsey Newsletter which Lewis had given him on Saturday night.
Heyward was not there. With a friendly nod to the senior secretary, Mrs. Callaghan, Alex strolled in and put the newsletter directly on Heyward’s desk. He had already ringed the item about Supranational and clipped on a note which read:
Roscoe—
I thought you should see this.
A.
Then Alex returned to his own office.
Half an hour later, Heyward stormed in, his face flushed. He tossed down the newsletter. “Did you put this disgusting insult-to-intelligence on my desk?”
Alex pointed to his own handwritten note. “It rather looks like it.”
“Then do me the favor of not sending me any more drivel written by that conceited ignoramus.”
“Oh, come on! Sure, Lewis D’Orsey is conceited, and I dislike part of what he writes, just as you obviously do. But he isn’t an ignoramus, and some of his viewpoints are at least worth hearing.”
“You may think so. Others don’t. I suggest you read this.” Heyward slapped an opened magazine on top of the newsletter.
Alex looked down, surprised at the other’s vehemence. “I have read it.”
The magazine was Forbes, the two-page article in question a slashing attack on Lewis D’Orsey. Alex had found t
he piece long on spite, short on fact. But it underscored what he already knew—that attacks on The D’Orsey Newsletter by the financial establishment press were frequent. Alex pointed out, “The Wall Street Journal had something similar a year ago.”
“Then I’m amazed you don’t accept the fact that D’Orsey has absolutely no training or qualifications as an investment adviser. In a way, I’m sorry his wife works for us.”
Alex said sharply, “Edwina and Lewis D’Orsey make a point of keeping their occupations entirely separate, as I’m sure you know. As to qualifications, I’ll remind you that plenty of degree-loaded experts haven’t done well in financial forecasting. Quite frequently, Lewis D’Orsey has.”
“Not where Supranational is concerned.”
“Do you still think SuNatCo is sound?”
Alex asked the last question quietly, not from antagonism, but seeking information. But its effect on Roscoe Heyward seemed near-explosive. Heyward glared through his rimless glasses; his face suffused an even deeper red. “I’m sure that nothing would delight you more than to see a setback for SuNatCo, and thereby me.”
“No, that isn’t …”
“Let me finish!” Heyward’s facial muscles twitched as anger poured out. “I’ve observed more than enough of your petty conniving and doubt-casting, like passing around this garbage”—he motioned to The D’Orsey Newsletter—“and now I’m telling you to cease and desist. Supranational was, and is, a sound, progressive company with high earnings and good management. Getting the SuNatCo account—much as you may be jealous about it personally—was my achievement; it’s my business. Now I’m warning you: Stay out of it!”
Heyward wheeled and stalked out.
For several minutes Alex Vandervoort sat silently thoughtful, weighing what had just occurred. The outburst had amazed him. In the two and a half years that he had known and worked with Roscoe Heyward, the two of them had suffered disagreements and occasionally revealed their mutual dislike. But never before had Heyward lost control as he had this morning.
Alex thought he knew why. Underneath the bluster, Roscoe Heyward was worried. The more Alex thought about it, the more he was convinced.
Earlier, Alex had been worried himself—about Supranational. Now the question posed itself: Was Heyward worrying about SuNatCo, too? If so, what next?
As he pondered, memory stirred. A fragment from a recent conversation. Alex pressed an intercom button and told his secretary, “See if you can locate Miss Bracken.”
It took fifteen minutes before Margot’s voice said brightly, “This had better be good. You got me out of court.”
“Trust me, Bracken.” He wasted no time. “In your department store class action—the one you talked about on Saturday night—you told us you used a private investigator.”
“Yes. Vernon Jax.”
“I think Lewis knew him, or of him.”
“That’s right.”
“And Lewis said he was a good man who’d done work for the SEC.”
“I heard that, too. Probably it’s because Vernon has a degree in economics.”
Alex added the information to notes he had already made. “Is Jax discreet? Trustworthy?”
“Totally.”
“Where do I find him?”
“I’ll find him. Tell me where and when you want him.”
“In my office, Bracken. Today—without fail.”
Alex studied the untidy, balding, nondescript man seated opposite him in his office conference area. It was midafternoon.
Jax, Alex guessed, was in his early fifties. He looked like a small-town grocer, not too prosperous. His shoes were scuffed and there was a food stain on his jacket. Alex had already learned that Jax had been a staff investigator for the IRS before going into business for himself.
“I’m told you also have a degree in economics,” Alex said.
The other shrugged deprecatingly. “Night school. You know how it is. Time on your hands.” His voice tailed off, leaving the explanation incomplete.
“How about accounting? Do you have much knowledge there?”
“Some. Studying for CPA exams right now.”
“Night school, I suppose.” Alex was beginning to catch on.
“Yep.” A pale ghost of a smile.
“Mr. Jax,” Alex began.
“Most folks just call me Vernon.”
“Vernon, I’m considering having you undertake an inquiry. It will require absolute discretion and speed is essential. You’ve heard of Supranational Corporation?”
“Sure.”
“I want a financial investigation of that company. But it will have to be—I’m afraid there’s no other word for it—an outside snooping job.”
Jax smiled again. “Mr. Vandervoort”—this time his tone was crisper—“that’s precisely the business I’m in.”
It would require a month, they agreed, though an interim report would be made to Alex if it seemed warranted. Complete confidentiality concerning the bank’s investigative role would be preserved. Nothing illegal would be done. The investigator’s fee was to be fifteen thousand plus reasonable expenses, half the fee payable immediately, the balance after a final report. Alex would arrange payment from FMA operating funds. He realized he might have to justify the expense later, but would worry about it when the time came.
Late in the afternoon, when Jax had gone, Margot phoned.
“Did you hire him?”
“Yes.”
“Were you impressed?”
Alex decided he would play the game. “Not really.”
Margot laughed softly. “You will be. You’ll see.”
But Alex hoped he wouldn’t. He hoped fervently that Lewis D’Orsey’s instincts were wrong, that Vernon Jax would discover nothing, and that adverse rumors about Supranational would prove rumors—nothing more.
That night, Alex paid one of his periodic visits to Celia at the Remedial Center. He had come to dread the visits even more; he always came away deeply depressed, but continued them out of a sense of duty. Or was it guilt? He was never sure.
As usual, he was escorted by a nurse to Celia’s private room in the institution. When the nurse had gone, Alex sat talking, chatting in an inane, one-sided conversation about whatever things occurred to him, though Celia gave no sign of hearing, or even an awareness of his presence. Once, on an earlier occasion, he spoke gibberish just to see if her blankness of expression changed. It hadn’t. Afterward he felt ashamed and hadn’t done it since.
Even so, he had formed the habit during these sessions with Celia, of prattling on, scarcely listening to himself, while half his mind was wandering elsewhere. Tonight, among other things, he said, “People have all kinds of problems nowadays, Celia; problems which no one ever thought of a few years ago. Along with every clever thing mankind discovers or invents, come dozens of questions and decisions we never had to face before. Take electric can openers. If you have one—and I do in my apartment—there’s a problem of where to plug it, when to use it, how to clean it, what to do when it goes wrong; all problems nobody would have if there weren’t electric can openers and, after all, who needs them? Speaking of problems, I have several at this moment—personal and at the bank. A big one came up today. In some ways you may be better off in here …”
Alex checked himself, realizing he was talking, if not gibberish, then rubbish. No one was better off here, in this tragic twilight quarter-life.
Yet nothing else was left for Celia; in the past few months that fact had become even clearer than before. As recently as a year ago there had been traces of her former girlish, fragile beauty. Now they were gone. Her once-glorious fair hair was dull and sparse. Her skin had a grayish texture; in places eruptions showed where she had scratched herself.
Where once her curled-up fetal position had been occasional, now she adopted it most of the time. And though Celia was ten years younger than Alex, she appeared hag-like and twenty years older.
It was nearly five years since Celia had entered the
Remedial Center. In the meantime she had become totally institutionalized, and was likely to remain so.
Watching his wife, and continuing to talk, Alex felt compassion and sadness, but no sense of attachment or affection any more. Perhaps he ought to experience some of those emotions but, being honest with himself, he no longer found it possible. Yet he was tied to Celia, he recognized, by bonds he would never sever until one or the other of them died.
He remembered his conversation with Dr. McCartney, head of the Remedial Center, almost eleven months ago, the day after Ben Rosselli so dramatically announced his impending death. Answering Alex’s question about the effect on Celia of a divorce and Alex’s remarriage, the psychiatrist had said: It might drive her aver the brink into a totally demented state.
And, later, Margot had declared: What I won’t have on my conscience, or yours, is shoving what’s left of Celia’s sanity into a bottomless pit.
Tonight, Alex wondered if Celia’s sanity was in some bottomless pit already. But even if true, it didn’t change his reluctance to set in motion the final, ruthless machinery of divorce.
Nor had he gone to live permanently with Margot Bracken, or she with him. Margot remained agreeable to either arrangement, though Alex still wanted marriage—which obviously he couldn’t have without divorcing Celia. Lately, though, he had sensed Margot’s impatience at the lack of a decision.
How strange that he, accustomed at First Mercantile American to taking large decisions swiftly in stride, should wrestle with indecision in his private life!
The essence of the problem, Alex realized, was his old ambivalence about his personal guilt. Could he, years ago, by greater effort, love, and understanding, have saved his young, nervous, insecure bride from what she had become? If he had been more a devoted husband, less a devoted banker, he still suspected that he might.
It was why he came here, why he continued doing the little that he could.
When it was time to leave Celia, he rose and went toward her, intending to kiss her forehead as he did whenever she allowed him. But tonight she shrank away, curling her body even tighter, her eyes alert with sudden fear. He sighed and abandoned the attempt.