The Moneychangers (9 page)

Time after time this afternoon she had searched her recollection of every single moment of the day to find some explanation. There w
as none. She had thought back
over cash transactions at the counter during the morning and early afternoon, using the remarkable memory she knew she had, but no solution came to her. Not even the wildest possibility made any sense.

She was positive, too, that she had locked her cash drawer securely before taking it to the vault while she had lunch, and it was still locked when she returned. As to the combination, which Juanita had chosen and set herself,
she had never discussed it with
anyone else or even written it down, relying as usual on her memory.

In one way it was her memory which had added to her troubles.

Juanita knew she had not been believed, either by Mrs. D'Orsey, Mr. Tottenhoe, or Miles, who at least had been friendlier than the others, when she claimed to know, at two o'clock, the exact amount of money which was gone. They said it was impossible she could know.

But she had known. Just as she always knew how much cash she had when she was working as a teller, although she found it impossible to explain to others how or why.

She was not even sure herself how she kept the running tally in her head. It was simply there. It happened without effort, so that she was scarcely aware of the arithmetic involved. For almost as long as Juanita could remember, adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing seemed as easy as breathing, and as natural.

She did it automatically at the bank counter as she took money in from customers or paid it out. And she had learned to glance at her cash drawer, checking that the cash she had on hand was what it should be, that venous denominations of notes were in their right order, and in sufficient numbers. Even with coins, while not knowing the total so precisely, she could estimate the amount closely at any time. Occasionally, at the end of a busy day when she balanced her cash, her mental figure might prove to be in error by a few dollars, but never more. Where had the ability come from? She had no idea.

She had never excelled in school During her sketchy high school education in New York, she seldom achieved more than a low average in most subjects. Even in mathe
matic
s she had no real grasp of principles, merely an ability to calculate with lightning speed and carry figures in her head.

At last the bus arrived with a
n uneven roar and diesel
stink. With others who were waiting, Juanita climbed aboard. No seats were available and standing space was crowded. She managed to grab a handhold and continued thinking, straining to remember as the bus swayed through the city streets.

What would happen tom
orrow? Miles had told her that F
BI men were coming. The thought filled her with fresh dread and her face set tensely in a bleakness of anxiety the same expression which Edwina D'Orsey and Nolan Wainwright had mistaken for hostility.

She would say as little as possible, just as she had done today after she found that no one was believing.

As to the machine, the lie detector, she would refuse. She knew nothing of how such a machine worked, but when no one else would understand, believe, or help her, why would a machine the bank's machine be different?

It was a three-block walk from the bus to the nursery school where she had left Estela this morning on her way to work. Juanita hurried, knowing she was late.

The little girl ran toward her as she entered the small school playroom in the basement of a private house. Though the house, like others in the area, was old and dilapidated, the school rooms were dean and cheerful the reason Juanita had chosen the school in preference to others, though the cost was higher and a strain for her to pay. Estela was excited, as full of joy as always,

"Mommy
Mommyl See my painting. It's a train.. She pointed with a paint-covered finger. "There's a bagoose. That's a man inside."

She was a small child, even for three, dark like Juanita, with large liquid eyes reflecting her wonder at each new interest, at the fresh discoveries she made every day.

Juanita hugged her and corrected her gently. "Caboose, amorcito."

It was obvious from the stillness that the other children were all gone.

Miss Ferroe, who owned and ran the school, came in primly, frowning. She looked pointedly at her watch.

"Ms
. Nunez, as a special favor I agreed that E
stela could stay after the others
, but this is far too late…"

"I really am sorry, Miss Ferroe. Something happened at the bank."

"I have private responsibilities also. And other parents observe the school's closing time." "It won't happen again. I promise."

"Very well. But since
you are here, Ms
. Nunez, may I remind you that last month's bill for Estela has not been paid." "It will be on Friday. I'll have my paycheck then."

"I'm sorry to have to mention it, you understand. Estela is a sweet little girl and we're glad to have her. But I have bills to
pay…" "I do understand. It will b
e Friday for sure. I pr
omise." "That's two promises, Ms
. Nunez." "Yes, I know." "Good night then. Good night, Estela dear."

Despite her starchiness, the F
erroe woman ran an excellent nursery school and Estela was happy there. The money owing to the school, Juanita decided, would have to come out of her pay this week, as she had said, and somehow she must manage until the payday after that. She wasn't sure how. Her wage as a teller was $98 weekly; after taxes and Social Security deductions, her take-home pay was $83. Out of that there was food to buy for the two of them, Estela's school fees, plus rent of the tiny walk-up fla
t they lived in at Forum East;
also the finance company would demand a payment since she had missed the last.

Before Carlos left her, simply walking out and disappearing a year ago, Juanita had been naive enough to sign finance papers jointly with her husband. He had bought suits, a used car, a color TV, all of which he took with him. Juanita, however, was still paying, the installments seeming to stretch on into a limitless future

She would have to visit the finance company office, she thought, and offer them less. They would undoubtedly be nasty, as they were before, but it would have to be endured.

On the way home, Estela skipped happily along, one small hand in Juanita's. In her other hand Juanita carried Estela's painting, carefully rolled up. In a little while, in the apartment, they would have their evening meal and afterward they usually played and laughed together. But Juanita would find it difficult to laugh tonight.

Her earlier terror deepened as she considered for the first time what might happen if she lost her job. The probability, she realized, was strong.

She knew, too, that it would be hard to find work elsewhere. No other bank would hire her and other employers would want to know where she had worked before, then would find out about the missing money and reject her.

Without a job, what would she do? How could she support Estela?

Abruptly, stopping on the street, Juanita reached down and clasped her daughter to her.

She prayed that tomorrow someone would believe her, would recognize the truth. Someone, someone. But who?

9

Alex Vandenoort, also, was abroad in the city.

Earl
ier in the afternoon, returning from the session with Nolan Wainwright, Alex had paced his office suite, seeking to place recent events in true perspective. Yesterday's announcement by Ben Rosselli was a major cause for reflection. So was the resultant situation in the bank. So, too, were developments, within recent months, in Alexis personal life.

Pacing back and forth twelve strides one way, twelve the other was an.old established habit. Once or twice he had stopped, re-examining the counterfeit Keycharge credit cards which the security chief had allowed Alex to bring away. Credit and credit cards were additionally a part of his preoccupation not only fraudulent cards, but genuine ones, too.

The genuine variety was represented by a series of advertising proofs, also on the desk, and now spread out. They had been prepared by the Austin Advertising Agency and the purpose was to encourage Keycharge holders to use their credit and their cards increasingly. One announcement urged:

WHY WORRY ABOUT MONEY?

USE YOUR KEYCHARGE CARD

AND

LET US WORRY FOR YOUI

Another claimed:

BILLS ARE PAINLESS

WHEN YOU SAY

"PUT IT ON MY KEYCHARGE
"

A third advised:

WHY WAIT?

YOU CAN AFFORD TOMORROW'S DREAM

TODAY!

USE YOUR KEYCHARGE

A half dozen others were on similar themes. Alex Vandervoort was uneasy about them all. His unease did not have t
o be translated into action. The
advertising, already approved by the bank's Keycharge division, had merely been sent to Alex for general information. Also, the over-all approach had been agreed on several weeks ago by the bank's board of directors as a means to increase the profitability of Keycharge which like all credit-card programs sustained losses in its Intel, launching years.

But Alex wondered: Had the board envisaged a promotional campaign quite so blatantly aggressive?

He shuffled the advertising proofs together and returned them to the folder they had arrived in. At home tonight he would reconsider them and he would hear a second opinion, h
e realized probably a strong one
from Margot. Margot.

The thought of her melded with the memory of Ben Rosselli's disclosure yesterday. What had been said then was a reminder to Alex of life's fragility, the brevity of time remaining, the inevitability of endings, a pointer to the unexpected always close at hand. He had been moved and saddened for Ben himself; but also, without intending to, the old man had revived once more an oft-recurring question: Should Alex make a fresh life for himself and Margot? Or should he wait? And wait for what? For Celia?

That question, too, he had asked himself a thousand times.

Alex looked out across the city toward where he knew Celia to be. He wondered what she was doing, how she was. There was a simple way to find out.

He returned to his desk and dialed a number which he knew by heart. A woman's voice answered, "Remedial Center."

He identified himself and said, "I'd like to talk with Dr. McCartney."

After a moment or two a male voice, quietly firm, inquired, "Where are you, Alex?'

"In my office. I was sitting here wondering about my wife."

"I asked because I intended to can you today and suggest you come in to visit Celia."

"The last time we talked you said you didn't want me to."

The psychiatrist corrected him gently. "I said I thought any more visits inadvisable for a while. The previous few, you'll remember, seemed to unsettle your wife rather than help."

"I remember." Alex hesitated, then asked, "There's been some change?"

"Yes, there is a change. I wish I could say it was for the better."

There had been so many changes, he had become dulled to them. "What kind of change?"

"Your wife is becoming even more withdrawn. Her escape from reality is almost total. It's why I think a visit from you might do some good." The psychiatrist corrected himself, "At least it should do no harm." "All right. I'll come this evening."

"Any time, Alex; and drop in to see me when you do. As you know, we've no set visiting hours here and a minimum of rules." "Yes, I know."

The absence of formality, he reflected, as he replaced the telephone, was a reason he had chosen the Remedial Center when faced with his despairing decision about Celia nearly four years ago. The atmosphere was deliberately non-institutional. The nurse
s did not wear uniforms. As far
as was practical, patients moved around freely and were encouraged to make decisions of their own. With occasional exceptions, friends and families were welcome at any time. Even the name Remedial Center had been chosen intentionally in preference to the more forbidding "mental hospital." Another reason was that Dr. Timothy McCartney, young, brilliant, and innovative, headed a specialist team which achieved cures of mental illnesses where more conventional treatments failed.

The Center was small. Patients never exceeded a hundred and fifty though, by comparison, the staff was large. In a way, it was like a school with small classes where
students received personal attention they could not have gained elsewhere.

A modern building and
spacious gardens were as pleas
ing as money and imagination could make them.

The clinic was private. It was also horrendously expensive but Alex had been determined, and still was, that whatever else happened, Celia would have the best of care. It was, he reasoned, the very least that he could do.

Through the remainder of the afternoon he occupied himself with bank business. Soon after 6 P.M. he left FMA Headquarters, giving his driver the Remedial Center address, and read the evening paper while they crawled through traffic. A limousine and chauffeur, available at any time from the bank's pool of cars, were perquisites of the executive vice-president's job and Alex enjoyed them.