At one point Margot had demanded, “Who the hell are you?”
“An ordinary American who believes that, in the military, discipline is necessary.”
“Even in an immoral war like Vietnam?”
“A soldier can’t decide morality. He operates under orders. The alternative is chaos.”
“Whoever you are, you sound like a Nazi. After World War II, we executed Germans who offered that defense.”
“The situation was entirely different.”
“No different at all. At the Nuremberg trials the Allies insisted Germans should have heeded conscience and refused orders. That’s exactly what Vietnam draft defectors and deserters did.”
“The American Army wasn’t exterminating Jews.”
“No, just villagers. As in My Lai and elsewhere.”
“No war is clean.”
“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 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 villainy 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 can! 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.”
“Then 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 herself out of the apartment.
11
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 conception and birth—an offending, unwarranted invasion of her bodily privacy. Elmer, now nearing thirty, and a certified public accountant, radiated disapproval 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 would have scoffed at the idea that an executive vice-president’s $65,000 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 taxes ate up a further $2,500. That left $23,000—or roughly $45
0 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 beginning it had proved larger than they needed, even when Elmer lived at home, 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 lèse majesté. Her attitude was reflected in countless ways around the house. She would never use a linen napkin twice; soiled or not, it must be laundered after every use. 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 Mediterranean 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 certainty his successor would receive the same.
If it happened to Roscoe Heyward, it would mean immediate doubling of his present salary. Even with higher taxes, what was left would eliminate every present problem.
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 announcement 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 moment—weighed more heavily on Edwina.
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 Núnez, 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, we’ll keep an eye on her, though it isn’t the kind of case where the Bureau can maintain a full surveillance.”
The FBI 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 Núñez’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 scrambled 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 relic.” Gold, he claimed, was finished 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 Times, Chicago Tribune, and a day-old 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 none!”
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.”
And it was true, even those who detested him conceded, he had a remarkably agile brain, particularly when applied to money and finance.
His morning tantrums seldom bothered Edwina. For one thing, over their fourteen years of marriage she had learned they were rarely directed at herself; and for another, she realized Lewis was girding himself for a morning session at his typewriter where he would roar like the righteously angry Jeremiah that readers of his twice-a-month financial newsletter expected him to be.
The high-priced, private newsletter containing Lewis D’Orsey’s investment advice to an exclusive list of international subscribers provided him with both a rich livelihood and a personal spear on which to impale governments, presidents, prime ministers, and assorted politicians when any of their fiscal acts displeased him. Most did.
Many financial men attuned to modern theories, including some at First Mercantile American Bank, abhorred Lewis D’Orsey’s independent, acidly biting, ultraconservative newsletter. Not so, however, most of Lewis’s enthusiastic subscribers who regarded him as a combination of Moses and Midas in a generation of financial fools.
And with good reason, Edwina admitted. If making money was your objective in life, Lewis was a sound man to follow. He had proved it many times, uncannily, with advice which paid off handsomely for those who followed it.
Gold was one example. Long before it happened, and while others scoffed, Lewis D’Orsey predicted a dramatic upsurge in the free market price. He also urged heavy buying of South African gold mining shares, at that time low-priced. Since then, several subscribers to The D’Orsey Newsletter had written to say they were millionaires, solely as a result of taking this advice.
With equal prescience he had foreseen the series of U.S. dollar devaluations and advised his readers to put all the cash they could raise into other currencies, notably Swiss francs and Deutsche marks, which many did—to their great profit.
In the most recent edition of The D’Orsey Newsletter he had written:
The U.S. dollar, a once-proud and honest currency, is moribund, like the nation it represents. Financially, America has passed the point of no return. Thanks to insane fiscal
policies, misconceived by incompetent and corrupt politicians who care solely about themselves and re-election, we are living amid financial disaster which can only worsen.
Since our rulers are knaves and imbeciles and the docile public stands vacuously indifferent, it’s time for the financial lifeboats! Every man (or woman) for himself!
If you have dollars, keep only enough for cab fare, food, and postage stamps. Plus sufficient for an airline ticket to some happier land.
For the wise investor is the investor who is departing these United States, living abroad and shedding U.S. nationality. Officially, Internal Revenue Code section 877 says that if U.S. citizens renounce their citizenship to avoid income taxes, and the IRS can prove it, their tax liability remains. But for those who know, there are legal ways to thwart the IRS. (See The D’Orsey Newsletter of July last year on how to become an ex-American citizen. Single copies available for $12 or Swiss fr.40 each.)
The reason for a change of allegiance and scene: The value of the U.S. dollar will continue to diminish, along with Americans’ fiscal freedom.
And even if you can’t leave personally, send your money overseas. Convert your U.S. dollars while you can (it may not be for long!) into Deutsche marks, Swiss francs, Dutch guilders, Austrian schillings, Lebanese pounds, almost anything!
Then place them, out of reach of U.S. bureaucrats, in a European bank, perferably Swiss …
Lewis D’Orsey had trumpeted variations on that theme for several years. His latest newsletter continued with more of the same and concluded with specific advice on recommended investments. Naturally, all were in non-U.S. currencies.
The Moneychangers Page 9