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 over 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 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 lapis private lifer
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 hi But tonight she shrank away, curling her body even tighter, her eyes alert with sudden fear. He sighed and abandoned the attempt. 'Good night, Celia,' Alex said.
There was no answer and he went out, leaving his wife to whatever lonely world she now inhabited.
Next morning Alex sent for Nolan Wainwright. He told the security chief that the investigator's fee to be paid Vernon fax would be remitted through Wainwright's department. Alex would authorize the expense. Alex didn't state, and Wainwright didn't ask, the specific nature of Jax's investigation. For the moment, Alex decided, the fewer people who knew the target, the better.
Nolan Wainwright had a reciprocal report for Alex. It concerned his arrangement that Miles Eastin would be an undercover agent for the bank. Alex's reaction was immediate. 'No. I don't want that man ever again on our payroll.'
'He won't be on the payroll,' Wainwright argued. 'I've explained to him that as far as the bank is concerned, he has no status. Any money he'll receive will be in cash, with nothing to show where it came from.'
'That's hairsplitting, Nolan. One way or the other he'd be employed by us, and that I can't agree to.'
'If you don't agree,' Wainwright objected, 'you'll be tying my hands, not letting me do my job.'
'Doing your job doesn't require you to hire a convicted thief.' 'Ever hear of using one to catch ones' 'Then use one who didn't personally defraud this bank.'
They argued back and forth, at moments heatedly. In the end, Alex reluctantly conceded. Afterward he asked, 'Does Eastin realize how much of a risk he's taking?' 'He knows.'
'You told him about the dead man?' Alex had learned about Vic, from Wainwright, several months ago. 'Yes.' 'I still don't like the idea any of it.'
'You'll like it even less if Keycharge fraud losses keep increasing, as they are.'
Alex sighed. 'All right. It's your department and you're entitled to run it your way, which is why I've given in. But I'll impress one thing on you: If you've reason to believe Eastin is in immediate danger, then pull him out at once.' 'I intended that.'
Wainwright was glad that he had won, though it had been a tougher argument than he expected. However, it seemed unwise right now to mention anything else for example, his hope of enlisting Juanita Nunez as an intermediary. After all, he rationalized, the principle was established, so why bother Alex with details?
6
Juanita Nunez was torn between suspicion and curiosity. Suspicion because she disliked and distrusted the bank's vice-president of security, Nolan Wainwright. Curiosity because she wondered why he wanted to see her, apparently in secrecy.
There was nothing for her to be concerned about personally, Wainwright had assured Juanita on the telephone yesterday when he called her at the main downtown branch. He would merely like the two of them, he said, to have a confidential talk. 'It's a question of whether you'd be willing to help someone else.' 'Like you?' 'Not exactly.' 'Then who?' 'I'd prefer to tell you privately.'
Prom his voice, Juanita sensed that Wainwright was trying to be friendly. But she parried the friendliness, still remembering his unfeeling harshness when she had been under suspicion of theft. Not even his subsequent apology had wiped out that memory. She doubted if anything ever would.
Just the same, he was a senior officer of FMA and she a junior employee. 'Well,' Juanita said, 'I'm here, and last time I looked the tunnel was open.' She assumed that either Wainwright would walk over from the Headquarters Tower or she would be told to report there. However, he surprised her.
'It would be best if we didn't meet in the bank, Mrs. Nunez. When I've explained, you'll understand why. Suppose I pick you up in my car from your home this evening, and we talk while we drive.' 'I can't do that.' She was more wary than ever. 'You mean, not tonight?' 'Yes.' 'How about tomorrow?'
Juanita was stalling, trying to decide. 'I'll have to let you know.'
'All right, call me tomorrow. As early as you can. And meanwhile, please don't tell anyone else we had this conversation.' Wainwright hung up.
Now it was tomorrow Tuesday in the third week of September. At midmorning, Juanita knew that if she failed to call Wainwright soon, he would call her.
She was still uneasy. Sometimes, she thought, she had a nose for trouble and scented it now. Earlier Juanita had considered asking the advice of Mrs. D'Orsey whom she could see, on the other side of the bank, at the manager's desk on the platform. But she hesitated, remembering Wainwright's cautionary words about not telling anyone else. That, as much as anything, had piqued her curiosity.
Today Juanita was working on new accounts. Beside her was a phone. She stared at it, picked it up, and dialed the internal number of Security. Moments later, Nolan Wainwright's deep voice asked, 'Can you make it tonight?'
Curiosity won out. 'Yes, but not for long.' She explained that she would leave Estela alone for half an hour;
