The Lonely Lady

by Harold Robbins

  “But I’ve run more than that before,” he protested.

  “I know,” the bookmaker said flatly. “But things were different then. You weren’t hurtin’.”

  “A thousand then,” Carson said. “You got to give me a chance to get even.”

  “Sorry.” The bookmaker went off the line.

  Carson stared at the dead phone in his hand for a moment, then slowly put it down. He sat there for almost an hour until he was sure everyone had gone home. Then he opened the small drawer in the bottom of his desk. He took out the revolver, put the muzzle in his mouth and blew the top of his head all over the wall under the picture of President Eisenhower.

  Chapter 20

  Wearily John Randall glanced up at the big clock on the wall. Three o’clock. The bank guard was looking at him. He raised his hand; the guard nodded and turned to lock the door. At the same time the two tellers dropped the windows, closing their cages.

  Frustrated, the crowd of people still in line in front of the teller’s windows surged toward him. He got to his feet. The news of Carson’s suicide had hit Port Clare like a shock wave.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The door of the president’s office was closed. Behind it the state examiners were still going through the records. Several other large discrepancies had been found but the total had not yet been reached. Carson had been thorough. Transfers and approvals had been carefully forged. No one could understand how he had slipped up this time.

  “When do we get our money?” an irate customer shouted at him from the crowd. “Why are you closing the doors on us?”

  “It’s legal closing time,” he said patiently. “And you will get your money. Whatever losses there have been are completely covered by insurance.”

  “How do we know that?” another customer shouted. “I remember they told us the same thing when the Bank of the United States failed back in thirty-two.”

  “Things were different then,” John explained. “Savings accounts are protected by the F.D.I.C. up to ten thousand dollars. The bank carries insurance against fraud and theft. Every penny will be replaced.”

  “That’s what you say,” the man replied. “But you don’t have the cash to give us back our deposits right now, do you?”

  “No,” John said. “But no bank has all the cash on hand to return to its depositors. Banks have the same problem as people. Cash comes in and goes out all the time. Like when you pay up your mortgage we have the money to lend to someone else or go give them a mortgage. Multiple that by hundreds and you understand how it works. It’s really simple common sense.”

  “I’m not stupid,” the man said. “If I don’t make the payment on the mortgage, the bank takes my house away. If the bank doesn’t make our payment, what do we do?”

  “The bank will make the payments.”

  “What if you close?”

  “We won’t close,” John said stubbornly. “We have assets enough to cover all our liabilities. All we need is time to convert them. And if you give us that time, I can promise that not one of you will suffer.”

  “Mr. Randall, why should we believe you after what happened?”

  John looked the man squarely in the eyes. He spoke slowly and clearly so that they could all hear him. “Because like you, Mr. Sanders, I’ve worked for a living all my life. And I have every penny I’ve managed to save in the world in this bank. And I’m not worried about it.”

  The man was silent for a moment, then turned to the others. “I’m goin’ along with Mr. Randall. How ’bout you?”

  There was a murmur among the crowd. Their hostility was dissolving. This was something they could understand. The word of one man.

  “We’ll go along too!” a man in back of the crowd shouted.

  Sanders held out his hand to John. “You’ll keep your promise to us?”

  John nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Several of the others grabbed at his hand and then he watched the crowd silently leave the bank as the guard opened the door for them.

  As he returned to his desk, John saw that Arthur Daley and several other members of the board of trustees had come out of the president’s office, where they had been closeted with the examiners, and were looking at him Arthur nodded and they went back into the office.

  Three days later John was elected president of the Port Clare National Bank.

  ***

  John looked up from the breakfast table as JeriLee came into the room. “You’re early,” he said. “Especially today.”

  “What’s so special about today! I’m always up early.”

  “On Saturdays? When there’s no school?”

  She blushed. “I wanted to get to the stores.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You? I thought you hated shopping.”

  “It’s Mr. Thornton’s birthday tomorrow,” she said. “I wanted to get him something special.”

  “How old will he be?”

  “Forty-eight.”

  Surprise came into John’s voice. “I thought he was older.”

  “Many people do. I guess it’s because his first play was produced on Broadway when he was only twenty-three.”

  “He’s still older than I am,” John said. He was forty-three.

  “Not much,” JeriLee said. “The funny thing is that he doesn’t seem old.” She looked at her father. “You know what I mean.”

  John nodded. He picked up his coffee cup. “He was in the bank yesterday. We had a long talk.”

  She took some coffee and sat down. “What about?”

  “Business mostly,” John said. “He’s been very nice about what happened. If he had wanted to, he could have made real trouble for us. If he had taken away his account, it could have started a run that would have closed the bank.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “No,” he answered. It was curious how things happened. He wondered if she knew that if it weren’t for Walter Thornton he might never had been president of the bank.

  It had happened the night the bank examiners had finished. The board of trustees had gone to see Mr. Thornton. He had been the hardest hit of any individual. More than two hundred thousand dollars. They had asked him for time to replace the loss and to show his confidence in the bank by not taking the account elsewhere.

  His agreement had been immediate. But conditional. Later Arthur Daley had told John the exact words Mr. Thornton used. “I will stay under one condition only. That is, if John Randall is made president of the bank.”

  As Arthur had put it, the board was relieved. They had already come to that decision on their own so it was a simple matter of them to agree.

  He watched her take some toast and butter it. “We also spoke about you,” he said.

  “Yes?” She waited until she swallowed. “What did he say about me?”

  “He said you really can write. And that you should take special care about what college you go to after graduating Central.”

  “He told me that too.”

  “Do you really want to become a writer?” John asked curiously. “What happens if you get married and have a family?”

  “Oh, Daddy!” She flushed. “That’s a long way off. I still haven’t met a boy I would want to settle down with. And besides, writing is the one thing you do on your own. Many women writers are married and have families.”

  “He says you should start making applications to college now. After all, you’ll be graduating soon.”

  “He promised to get me some information. Then I’ll be able to make up my mind.”

  “He mentioned that too. He said he would keep in touch with us.”

  “In touch?”

  John nodded. “He’s going to be gone for a long while. Hollywood, Europe, then back to Hollywood.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Did he say anything about a play on Broadway?”

  “No,” her father replied. “He never mentioned anything like that at all.”

  ***

  She pressed the doorbell. Inside the house, chi
mes rang softly. The door was opened by his secretary. “Oh, JeriLee!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you. We’re in the midst of packing. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  The woman went into the library, closing the door behind her. After waiting a moment in the foyer, JeriLee walked through the living room and out onto the terrace. The pool was already covered for the winter and the cold November wind was tearing off the Sound. She shivered and pulled her jacket around her.

  “JeriLee.” His voice came from the doorway.

  She turned. “It’s really getting cold now,” she said.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Come back inside where it’s warm.”

  She followed him into the living room. “I didn’t expect to see you today,” he said.

  “It’s your birthday tomorrow,” she said, handing him the small gift-wrapped package. “I wanted you to have this.”

  He took it awkwardly.

  “Open it,” she said. “I hope you like it.”

  Quickly he undid the wrapping. It was a small pocket memo and telephone book bound in black pinseal leather. And in a loop along the side was a small gold pencil. “It’s lovely,” he said. “What made you think of it?”

  “You’re always looking for telephone numbers.”

  He nodded.

  “Happy birthday,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He forced a smile. “I’m getting old.”

  “You’ll never get old, Mr. Thornton,” she said. “The things you’ve written will keep you young forever.”

  He felt a tightness inside him. “Thank you. Really thank you. That’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.”

  She stood awkwardly for a moment then she said, “I guess I’ll be going, Mr. Thornton. I’m expected home for dinner.”

  “JeriLee,” he said, without moving.

  “Yes, Mr. Thornton.”

  His eyes were on her face. “I’m going away tomorrow.”

  “I know. My father told me.”

  “I’ll be gone a long time.”

  “My father told me that too.”

  After a moment he said, “I’ve withdrawn the play. I don’t think it’s ready.”

  She was silent.

  He smiled. “You’re a writer,” he said. “You’ll find things like that happen sometimes.”

  She nodded.

  “You go off on the wrong track and suddenly you find that you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Or that you know too much. And you don’t want to say it.”

  His eyes fell. “I’m sorry, JeriLee.”

  Her voice suddenly broke. “So am I, Mr. Thornton,” she said and went out of the house.

  He moved over to a window where he could watch her as she got into the car and drove away.

  His secretary called from the library. “Walter, do you want me to take your notes on the Chicago story?”

  Unshed tears burned his eyes.

  He didn’t answer. JeriLee’s car was at the corner and turning out of sight.

  “Walter, do you—?”

  “I’ll be right there,” he said.

  Chapter 21

  It had been so long ago and yet not that long really. Seventeen years. What was that? Half her life to date. So much had happened since and still; if she pushed the right button in her memory bank, it all came back.

  She glanced up at the clock on the wall over the hospital bed. It was four o’clock and the other women had long since gone home. She was the only patient left.

  The doctor came to the side of the bed and looked down at her through his glasses. He smiled. “How do you feel?”

  “Bored,” she said. “When do I get out of here?”

  “Right now. I’ll sign the discharge.” He picked up the chart from the foot of the bed, made a note and then pressed the button for the nurse.

  The big black lady came in. “Yes, Doctor?”

  “Miss Randall can go now,” he said. “Help her with her things.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” She turned to JeriLee. “They’ve been a gen’mum waitin’ downstairs in reception for you since twelve o’clock.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “He said he’d wait. He didn’t want to disturb you.” The nurse went to a small closet and took out JeriLee’s clothes and put them on the chair next to the bed. “You let me he’p you out of bed, honey.”

  “I’m all right,” JeriLee answered. But when she was on her feet she felt strangely weak and reached for the hand the nurse held out to her. “Thank you.”

  The nurse smiled. “You’ll be okay in a few minutes, honey. Takes that long fo’ you to git yo’ legs back.”

  She went to the bathroom and when she came out the doctor was still waiting for her. “I want to see you in a week,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “And no sex until after I check you out,” he added.

  She looked at him and smiled. That had been the furthest thing from her mind. “Can I give head?” she asked.

  He laughed. “That’s out of my area,” he said. “Check with your dentist.”

  “Okay, Doc.”

  “Take it easy for a few days. Don’t push things.”

  “I will, Doc. Thank you.” He left and she began to dress. By the time she finished, the nurse was back with a wheelchair. JeriLee looked at it dubiously. “Do I have to go in one of those things?”

  “Regulations. Right to the door.”

  “Let me put some lipstick on first,” JeriLee said. She looked in the mirror. A little color in her cheeks wouldn’t hurt either. Hospital pallor didn’t take long to set in.

  At first she didn’t recognize him. Dark mirror glasses, a false brown mustache and a wig covered his normally clean-shaven face and curly black hair. She almost laughed aloud. He looked so ridiculous.

  “How are you JeriLee?” he piped, trying to disguise his deep voice.

  “Just fine.”

  “The car’s right outside, Nurse,” he said.

  The nurse nodded and rolled the chair to the car entrance and down the ramp. He had a rented Continental instead of using his own Corniche convertible. He opened the door and the nurse helped her into the front seat.

  “Goodbye,” JeriLee said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, honey. Good luck.”

  He took out a twenty-dollar bill and gave it to the nurse. “Thank you,” he said.

  The nurse looked at the twenty then at him, her shining dark face breaking into a big grin. “Thank you, Mr. Ballantine.”

  He stood with his mouth open, then turned to JeriLee. “How did she recognize me?”

  JeriLee was giggling. “You may be a star, George,” she said, “but you still don’t know a damn thing about makeup.”

  He walked around the car and got in behind the wheel. “I didn’t want anyone to recognize me.”

  “Don’t worry about it. She’s seen ’em all. Coming and going. She won’t talk.”

  “I can’t afford any more talk,” he said, putting the car into motion. “The studio’s on my back enough as it is.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  He looked at her. “How do you feel?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t you feel better now that it’s over?” he said.

  She looked at him. “Do you?”

  “Much. It was the right thing to do.”

  She reached for a cigarette.

  “Don’t you think so?” he asked.

  “If you think so,” she said.

  He reached across and patted her hand. “I’m right. You’ll see. Tomorrow morning you’ll wake up and you’ll see that I was right.”

  “Tomorrow morning I’m going to wake up so stoned that I won’t even remember what happened today,” she said.

  “What’s the matter with you, JeriLee? What do you want from me?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Absolutely nothing.” She shrank down into her sea
t.

  What was wrong with men that always made them feel you wanted something from them they were not prepared to give? Especially when you asked for nothing and wanted nothing. That they could not understand at all.

  There had been only two men in her life who had not felt like that. Her father and Walter Thornton. All they wanted was to give to her. And maybe that was why she failed them. She did not know how to take.

  ***

  “He’s too old,” her mother said. “He’s older than your father. And what about his son? You’ll have to see him.”

  “No, I won’t have to. He’s moved to England with his mother,” she said. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. I love him.”

  Veronica looked at her. “What do you know of love? You’re still a child. You’re not even eighteen yet.”

  “What is love, Mother?” she asked. “I like him, I admire him, I respect him, I want to go to bed with him.”

  “JeriLee!”

  “If that isn’t love, then tell me what it is,” JeriLee said.

  “It’s not what you think it is,” Veronica said. “Sex. You saw what almost happened with those boys.”

  “Was that supposed to make me afraid of love?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” her mother said. She turned to John for help. “Tell her, John. Make her understand.”

  John shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “Love is what each individual person thinks it is. Love is what two people agree it is. And it is different for every person who loves.”

  “But she’s still a child,” Veronica said.

  “Then you don’t know your own daughter. JeriLee stopped being a child a long time ago.”

  “He’ll be fifty before she’s eighteen,” Veronica said.

  “If that turns out to be a problem, it will be their problem. I’m sure they have both thought about it and they will have to solve it.”

  “She still needs my signature on the marriage license,” Veronica said stubbornly. “And I won’t sign it.”

  “Then it will be too bad. Because I will.”

  Veronica grew angry. “You can’t. She’s not your daughter!”

  JeriLee could see the hurt on her father’s face. But his voice was calm and quiet. “Yes, she is,” he said. “As much mine as her real father’s. I love her and I adopted her. That’s enough to satisfy the law.”