The Moneychangers (12 page)

"But Vietnam was dirtier than most. From the Commander-in-Chief down. Which is why so many young Americans, with a special courage, obeyed their consciences and refused to take part in it." "They won't get
a
unconditional amnesty."

"They should. In time,
when decency wins out, they will
."

They were still arguing fiercely when Edwina separated them and performed introductions. Later they resumed the argument, and continued it while Alex drove Margot home to her apartment. There, at one point, they came close to blows but instead found suddenly that physical desire eclipsed all else and they made love excitedly, heatedly, until exhausted, knowing already that something new and vital had entered both their lives.

As a footnote to that occasion, Alex later reversed his once-strong views, observing, as other disillusioned moderates did, the hollow mockery of Nixon's "peace with honor." And later still, while Watergate and related infamies unfolded, it became clear that those at the highest level of government who had decreed: "No amnesty" were guilty of more v
illainy by far than any Vietnam
deserter.

There had been other occasions, since that first one, when Margot's arguments had changed or widened his ideas.

Now, in the apartment's single bedroom, she selected a nightgown from a drawer which Alex left for her exclusive use. When she had it on, Margot turned out the lights.

They lay silently, in comforting companionship in the darkened room. Then Margot said, "You saw Celia today, didn't you?" Surprised, he turned to her. "How did you know?"

"It always shows. It's hard on you." She asked, "Do you want to talk about it
?" "Yes," he said, "I think so.
"You still blame yourself, don't you?"

"Yes." He told her about his meeting with Celia, the conversation afterward with Dr. McCartney, and the psychiatrist's opinion about the probable effect on Celia of a divorce and his own remarriage.

Margot said emphatically, "Then you mustn't divorce her."

"If I don't," Alex said, "there can be nothing permanent for you and me."

"Of course there cam I told you long ago, it can be as permanent as we both want to make it. Marriage isn't permanent any more. Who really believes in marriage nowadays, except a few old bishops?" "I believe," Alex said. "Enough to want it for us."

'When let's have it on our terms. What I don't need, darling, is a piece of legal stationery saying I'm married, because I'm too used to legal papers for them to impress me overmuch. I've already said I'll live with you gladly and lovingly. But what I won't have on my conscience, or burden
you with either, is shoving what’
s left of Celia's sanity into a bottomless pit."

"I know, I know. Everything you say makes sense." His answer lacked conviction.

She assured him softly, "I'm happier with what we have than I've ever been before in all my life. It's you, not me, who wants more." Alex sighed and, soon after, was asleep.

When she was sure that he was sleeping soundly, Margot dressed, kissed Alex lightly, and let hers
elf out of the apartment.
While Alex Vandervoort slept part of that night alone, Roscoe Heyward would sleep in solitude the whole night through. Though not yet.

Heyward was at home, in his rambling, three-story house in the suburb of Shaker Heights. He was seated at a leather-topped desk, with papers spread out before him, in the small, sedately furnished room he used as a study.

His wife Beatrice had gone upstairs to bed almost two hours ago, locking her bedroom door as she had for the past twelve years since by mutual consent they moved into separate sleeping quarters.

Beatrice's locking of her door, though characteristically imperious, had never offended Heyward. Long before the separate arrangement, their sexual exercises had grown fewer and fewer, then tapered into nothingness.

Mostly, Heyward supposed, when occasionally he thought about it, their sexual shutdown had been Beatrice's choice. Even in the early years of marriage she made plain her mental distaste for their gropings and heavings, though her body at times demanded them. Sooner or later, she implied, her strong mind would conquer that rather disgusting need, and eventually it had.

Once or twice, in rare whimsical moments, it had occurred to Heyward that their only son, Elmer, mirrored Beatrice's attitude to the method of his con
ception and birth an offending,
unwarranted invasion of her bodily privacy. Elmer, now nearing thirty, and a certified public accountant, radiated disappr
oval about almost everything,
stalking through life as with a thumb and finger over his nose to protect him from the stench. Even Roscoe Heyward at times found Elmer a bit much

As to Heyward himself, he had accepted sexual deprivation uncomplainingly, partly because twelve years ago he was at a point where sex was something he could take or leave; partly because ambition at the bank had, by then, become his central driving force. So, like a machine which slips into disuse, his sexual urgings dwindled. Nowadays they revived only rarely even then, mildly to remind him with a certain sadness of a portion of his life on which the curtain fell too soon.

But in other ways, Heyward admitted, Beatrice had been good for him. She was descended from an impeccable Boston family and, in her youth, had "come out" properly as a debutante. It was at the debutante ball, with young Roscoe in tails and white gloves, and standing yardstick straight, that they were formally introduced. Later they had dates on which chaperones accompanied them and, following a suitable period of engagement, were married two years after meeting. The wedding, which Heyward still remembered with pride, was attended by a Who's Who of Boston society.

Then, as now, Beatrice shared Roscoe's notions about the importance of social position and respectability. She had followed through on both by long service to the Daughters of the American Revolution and was now National Recording Secretary General. Roscoe was proud of this and delighted with the prestigious social contacts which it brought. There had been only one thing Beatrice and her illustrious family lacked money. At this moment, as he had many times before, Roscoe Heyward wished fervently that his wife had been an heiress.

Roscoe's and Beatrice's biggest problem was, and always had been, managing to live on his bank salary.

This year, as the figures he had been working on tonight showed, the Heywards' expenses would substantially exceed their income. Next April he would have to borrow to pay the income tax he owed, as had been necessary last year and the year before. There would have been other years, too, except that during some he had been lucky with investments.

Many people with much smaller incomes woul
d have scoffed at the idea that
an executive vice-president's S65,000 a year salary was not ample to live on, and perhaps to save. In fact, for the Heywards, it was not.

To begin
with, Income taxes cut the gross amount by more than a third After that, first and second mortgages on the house required payments of another $16,
000 yearly, while municipal tax
ate up a further $2,500. That left $23,000 or roughly $450 a week for all other expenses including repairs, insurance, food, clothes, a car for Beatrice (the bank supplied Roscoe with a chauffeur-driven pool car when he needed it), a housekeeper-cook, charitable donations, and an Incredible array of smaller items adding up to a depressingly large sum.

The house, Heyward always realized at times like this, was a serious
extravagance. From the beginin
g it had proved larger than they needed, even when Elmer lived at loose, which now he didn't. Vandervoort, whose salary was identical, was wiser by far to live in an apartment and pay rent, but Beatrice, who loved their house for its size and prestige, would never
hear of that, nor would Roscoe
favor it.

As a result they had to scrimp elsewhere, a process which Beatrice sometimes refused to acknowledge, taking the view she ought to have money; therefore to
worry about it herself was lese
majeste. Her attitude was reflected in countless ways around the house. She would never we a linen napkin twice; soiled or not, it must
be laundered after every us
e The same applied to towels, so that linen and laundry bills were high She made long
-
distance phone calls casually and rarely deigned to turn off switches. Moments earlier, Heyward had gone to the kitchen for a glass of milk and, though Beatrice had been in bed for two hours, every downstairs light was on. He had irritatedly snapped them off.

Yet, for all Beatrice's attitude, fact was fact and there were things they simply could not
afford. An example was holidays
the Heywards had had none for the past two
years. Last summer Roscoe told colleagues at the bank, "We considered a M
editerranean cruise, but decided
after all we'd prefer to stay home."

Another uncomfortable reality was that they had virtually no savings only a few shares of FMA stock which might have to be sold soon, though the proceeds would not be enough to offset this year's deficit.

Tonight, the only conclusion Heyward had reached was that after borrowing they must hold the line on expenses as best they could, hoping for a financial upturn before too long.

And there would be one satisfyingly generous if he became president of FMA.

In First Mercantile American, as with most banks, a wide salary gap existed between the presidency and the next rank downward. As president, Ben Rosselli had been paid $130,000 annually. It was a virtual certainly his successor would receive the same.

If it happened to Rosc
oe Heyward, it would mean immediate
doubling of his present salary. Even with higher taxes; what was left would
eliminate every present probl
em.

Putting his papers away, he began to dream about it, a dream which extended through the night.

12

Friday morning

In their penthouse atop fashionable Cayman Manor, a residential high-rise a mile or so outside the city, Edwina and Lewis D'Orsey were at breakfast. It was three days since Ben Rosselli's dramatic an
nouncement of his
impending death, and two days since discovery of the heavy cash loss at First Mercantile American's main downtown branch. Of the two events, the cash loss at this m
oment weighed more heavily on E
dwina.

Since Wednesday afternoon, nothing new had been discovered. Through all of yesterday, with low-key thoroughness, two FBI special agents had intensively questioned members of the branch staff, but without tangible result. The teller directly involved, Juanita Nunez, remained the prime suspect, but she would admit nothing, continued to insist that she was innocent, and refused to submit to a lie detector test.

Although her refusal increased the general suspicion of her guilt, as one of the FBI men put it to Edwina, "We can suspect her strongly, and we do, but there isn't a pinhead of proof. As to the money, even if it's hidden where she lives, we need some solid evidence before we can get a search warrant. And we don't have any. Naturally, well keep an eye on her, though it isn't the kind of case where the Bureau can maintain a full surveillance."

The FB
I agents would be in the branch
again today, yet there seemed little more that they could do.

But what the bank could do, and would, was end Juanita Ndnez's employment. Edwina knew she must dismiss the girl today. But it would be a frustrating, unsatisfactory ending.

Edwina returned her attention to breakfast lightly scramble
d eggs and toasted English muffins
which their maid had served a moment earlier.

Across the table, Lewis, hidden behind The Wall Street Journal, was growling as usual over the latest lunacy from Washington where an Under Secretary of the Treasury had declared before a Senate committee that the U.S. would never again return to a gold standard. The secretary used a Keynesian quotation in describing gold as "this barbarous yellow r
elic." Gold, he claimed, was fini
shed as an international exchange medium.

"My God! That leprous ignoramus!" Glaring over his steel-rimmed half-moon glasses, Lewis D'Orsey flung his newspaper to the floor to join The New York Ti
me,, Chicago Tribune, and a day-o
ld Financial Times from London, all of which he had skimmed through already. He stormed on about the Treasury official, "Five centuries after dimwits like him have rotted into dust, gold will still be the world's only sound basis for money and value. With the morons we have in power, there's no hope for us, absolutely nonel"

Lewis seized a coffee cup, raised it to his lean, grim face and gulped, then wiped his lips with a linen napkin.

Edwina had been leafing through The Christian Science Monitor. She looked up. "What a pity you won't be around five centuries from now to say, 'I told you so.' "

Lewis was a small man with a body like a twig, making him seem frail and half starved, though in fact he was neither. His face matched his body and was lean, almost cadaverous. His movements were quick, his voice more often than not impatient. Occasionally Lewis would joke about his unimpressive physique. Tapping his forehead he asserted, "What nature omitted on the bodywork it made up behind here."