Conduct in Question

by Mary E. Martin

  He found simple beginnings in 1955, when the lots had been owned by the Deighton and Garvey families. Starting with the root, Harry’s drawing of the chain of ownership rapidly began to take on the appearance of an ancient and gnarled tree, with branches twisting out in all directions. A black snarl of confusion, he thought.

  Staring out the library window, he contemplated the maze of rusted-iron fire escapes and rows of paint-chipped windows. He shook his head. There was no reason to stay in such abysmal quarters. Surely he could afford much better than this. Tomorrow, he would check the papers for new office space—something light and airy.

  CHAPTER 4

  Frustration with his lack of artistic skill flooded the Florist as he walked swiftly up Yonge Street. He glanced at the rows of dingy porn shops. Through grimy windows, he saw magazines with pictures of women, twisted and bent. There were photographs of men posing naked together. How sick, disgusting, and depressing, he thought. Sometimes he yearned for the cleansing power of fire to destroy such depravity.

  He shook his head. No one appreciated fine art anymore. At last he reached Bloor Street, where the shops were more suited to his taste. In one small bookstore he examined the art section, finding what he was looking for deep within the racks of books: a selection of line drawings by the masterful French painter, Matisse.

  Sinking into a comfortable chair, he was transported by the beauty and expression in the effortless flow of line. Matisse had captured his imagination. How could an artist achieve such life and magnificent truth with just one or two lines?

  Setting down the book, he gazed out the window. His carvings were much too fussy. On his last one, he had striven for greater artistic style and flair. The scrolling stem along her neck was a good beginning. How splendid it was to create a masterful mark with just a few lines.

  Quickly, he paid for the book and checked his watch. It was getting late. He hailed a cab and resolved to practise his drawing tonight. He would learn from Matisse. An artist must rise to the challenge. This time, he would seek the finest canvas to satisfy his requirements.

  CHAPTER 5

  Better get Chin’s money into the trust account, thought Harry. One million for the deposits and two hundred thousand for legal costs. Surely the huge retainer must include work on the rezoning applications.

  Harry nursed a deep-seated grudge against banks. Usually his stomach rebelled as he approached them. Banks are not your friends, he reminded himself while riding down in the elevator. In good times, bank managers—beaming like carnival hucksters—lured solvent citizens into the valley of debt. Scowling in the bad times, they tallied up arrears and heartlessly called in loans. This particular bank, the Toronto-Royal, had refused to finance his attempts to buy Crawford out.

  Memories of his father’s own battles with banking institutions leapt to mind. Vividly, he recalled one night at dinner, when he was eight. The banging at the door had made him drip spaghetti sauce over the stove‑top.

  There, in the porch light, had stood a tall, burly man.

  “You Stanley Jenkins?” the man demanded, thrusting a sheaf of papers into his father’s hand. The top page was decorated with a bright red seal. “Greetings!” it began.

  Dad’s shoulders sagged and his chest caved in. Shaking his head, he sighed and turned the pages as Mother hovered in the doorway.

  “What is it, Stan?”

  The house was entirely silent, except for the ticking of the kitchen clock. Finally, well-educated, hardworking Stanley Jenkins looked up at his wife and said, “They’re going to sell the place, Alice.”

  “Who?”

  “The bank,” he said quietly. Then anger flared. “Who else, God damn it?”

  Harry and Anna were shocked, less by the swearing, than by the lonely frustration in their father’s voice.

  Harry wasn’t old enough to be really worried, even when he and his sister, were sent to bed early. Lying in the darkness, he listened to the rise and fall of his parents’ voices. He was puzzled by a phrase his father used over and over again.

  “In arrears, in arrears.” His father’s voice peaked in frustration. “We’re three months in arrears.” To Harry, it sounded like a jail sentence.

  Harry knew about money. Sometimes, he could almost hear it sloshing up and down the financial canyons of the city. But not enough of it was his.

  Money…always the money! He sighed. He knew his wife had other standards, but her family’s wealth spun a soft cocoon that protected them from the rest of the world. From within their silken web, her parents peered out at the populace in general and at Harry in particular. Their intense scrutiny was more than disconcerting. A tilt of the jaw or the pursing of lips spoke volumes. He could seldom measure up against their silently shifting boundaries. Money was the only true and absolute indicator of success. It poisoned their love.

  Awed by her beauty, he used to love stroking her soft blonde hair. Once, her green eyes had been filled with love for him. Now they appraised him with brisk efficiency.

  As an art dealer for Sotheby’s, she had recently invited Harry to an auction. “Harry, come with me. It’ll be fun.” He had not realized it was a last attempt to draw him into her world.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he hesitated, but could find no excuse. It was foreign territory to him, and he railed at any form of profligacy or flamboyance.

  The auction was held in the ballroom of the Royal York Hotel. Immense crystal chandeliers and heavy brocade drapes graced the room. Silent tension hung in the air. The auctioneer, handsome in his pin-striped suit, rapped sharply with his tiny gavel, driving the bidding even higher.

  “Eight hundred and fifty thousand.” Looking expectantly over the sea of impassive faces, he called out, “Do I hear nine hundred thousand?” At the back of the room, a small yellow paddle shot up. “Sold…going…going…gone.”

  Harry’s stomach had sunk as the figures danced ever higher. Shocked by Laura’s intense excitement, loneliness crept over him. She gloried in this recklessness so foreign to him. She was betrothed to her career and a family would only interfere.

  “Why not a child?” Harry used to ask, years back.

  “Not yet, darling. Perhaps next year, when the projects at the museum are done.” But there was always another project.

  After the auction, they had driven in silence past dark mansions on Sherbourne Street, now a jumble of converted rooming houses. At Gerrard Street lay the Allan Gardens, where men drifted about and fought for park benches. At the end of Sherbourne Street they turned into the tree-lined crescents of Rosedale. Before he knew it, the house in which Laura had grown up, loomed ahead. He gazed at the portico and the stately, broad oak door.

  “Home sweet home,” said Harry. He thought the remark was innocent.

  “Why did you come this way?” Laura’s voice was flat and hollow. Surprised, Harry glanced at her. Lights of an oncoming car illuminated her thin, drawn face.

  “Just trying to get to the parkway.” He hesitated, “Something wrong?”

  Angrily, she twisted around in her seat. “You hated the auction, didn’t you? You couldn’t stomach watching people spend money.”

  “What?” Harry was alarmed.

  “You don’t need to spell it out.” She waved at her old house, grand with its columns and porticos. “Just because I grew up here doesn’t mean I measure everything in money. Am I supposed to apologize for our money?”

  Harry was silent. There was no stopping a bursting dam.

  “You’re so superior about your ethical values, Harry. As if having money were a crime.”

  “Laura, I didn’t say a word.”

  “You didn’t need to. It’s written all over your face.”

  After several moments of silence, Harry spoke evenly. “Actually, Laura, I was just thinking how well the auction went. You and Dr. Stover must have worked very hard.”

  Laura glared at him. “What has he got to do with this?”

  He tried to placate her. “Nothing at all.
Can’t I give a compliment without getting into trouble?”

  Laura stared out the window in silence. At last she spoke as if setting down a heavy burden. “Harry, I think we need time to think things through.”

  “What things?”

  They were on Bayview Avenue sweeping northward along the Don River. Red taillights crept up the parkway on the other side of the river. The city, always so familiar, seemed hostile and foreign to Harry, as if he had lost his bearings in the dark.

  “Us,” she said.

  “Yes?” He tried to maintain an even tone.

  Her voice was weary. “We’re in completely different worlds, Harry. Your old clients, with their Depression-era thinking, hoard their fistfuls of money, never taking a moment of pleasure in life.”

  “And that’s what Dr. Stover gives you? A sense of pleasure in life?” Instantly, he regretted his words. Now they were hurling stones at each other.

  As Harry mounted the stone steps to the bank, he vividly recalled Laura’s ashen face as they had argued back and forth in the car. Then he remembered Natasha Boretsky’s eyes widening with pleasure as he took her hand at the funeral parlor. The bank’s vaulted ceilings rose up from the hushed main concourse. Despite any bureaucratic trial visited upon him, no customer would dare to vent his rage in this sepulchre. Crawford had chosen this branch, considering it a suitable extension of his old Toronto practice. Security and gentility were to be found within, or so he had thought.

  On several occasions, Harry had accompanied Marjorie Deighton for tea after a bond coupon-clipping expedition, in which interest from solid investments was safely tucked away in an account. Laura was right. Money, according to his clients, was for careful investing, not lavish or frivolous spending. Tables of white linen laden with crystal and delicate teacups dotted Eaton’s Round Room near the bank. In these elegant surroundings, between the business of pouring tea and passing plates of tiny sandwiches, Marjorie had first discussed her personal affairs.

  “The secret trust? Yes, Mr. Jenkins, I’ve taken care of that. It is quite safe.” Marjorie dabbed the corners of her lips with her napkin.

  “Should I have a copy of it, Miss Deighton?” He hated being in the dark.

  “No, not yet. Someday, perhaps,” she said wistfully. “I’d like your advice about Suzannah, and about another matter.”

  “Certainly.” Harry was delighted by her confidence.

  “She’s very much influenced by her friend Mr. Sasso. I believe he has a reputation.” Although Harry knew Frank Sasso only slightly, the word ‘lout’ readily came to mind.

  “I want to ensure that none of my estate comes into his hands. I am sure he has unsavory connections.”

  Harry spoke reassuringly. “That can be arranged. Certain legal stratagems…”

  Marjorie smiled sadly at him and said, “I have a very special tie with Suzannah. One day, I’ll come to your office and change my will.”

  “And the other matter?” Harry asked.

  Marjorie averted her eyes. “I’m very worried about my great-nephew, Donald, Gerry’s son. They call him Donnie. He’s getting in some trouble at school, and he’s had a few minor brushes with the law. His parents throw up their hands and march him off to a psychiatrist.” She examined her hands neatly folded in her lap. “They should be talking with him, not abandoning him. He has so many good qualities, but I’m afraid his parents are too busy with their own lives to notice.”

  “Perhaps he needs their understanding. It’s hard for young people, these days,” he murmured. “Is there something you’d like me to do?” Harry spoke carefully. He remembered Laura’s accusations of social work.

  Marjorie smiled sadly. “There’s not much you can do. But it helps to be able to talk. You give good advice—not just on legal matters.”

  Harry smiled. His client’s trust meant a great deal to him. “You can talk to me anytime, Miss Deighton.”

  Inside the Toronto‑Royal, Harry took his place in the single line before the wickets. Miss Priverts the head teller, pursed her lips when she spotted Harry.

  Stepping up to the counter, Harry slid the deposit books across the cool marble countertop and under the brass rail.

  In his most soothing tone, he began, “Good afternoon, Miss Privets.” He could not prevent a smile. She really did look like a colorless prune.

  “The assistant manager wants to speak with you, Mr. Jenkins.” When she deigned to open the deposit books, her voice trailed off. First she squinted and held the checks at arm’s length, then she adjusted her lamp for closer examination.

  “I have to speak to Mr. Mudhali,” she began faintly. Snapping shut her cash drawer, she scurried off in search of help. Clearing his throat, Harry assumed a posture of impatience. He became aware of shifting feet and rustling papers in the line behind him. Lost in a study of the checks, Mr. Mudhali emerged from his office.

  “Mr. Jenkins, could I see you, please? In my office.” Harry summoned his slightly frayed dignity and followed the man to the inner recesses of his office.

  “Mr. Jenkins.” Mudhali’s tone was formal. “I attempted to reach your partner this week, regarding the firm’s line of credit.”

  “Mr. Crawford is dead. He had a stroke on Tuesday.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “I’m terribly sorry,” mumbled Mudhali. “This does cause a problem. The firm’s line of credit is fifty thousand dollars in arrears. If immediate arrangements are not made…”

  In arrears…in arrears. Three months in jail. The words rang out in Harry’s mind.

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.

  Mudhali consulted his file. “Mr. Crawford pledged the firm account as security for a personal line of credit.”

  “He can’t do that!”

  “Do you want to see the accounting?”

  “No. I want to see his signature.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Jenkins.” He passed a sheet of paper across the desk.

  Harry searched, but could not find his reading glasses. He squinted at the document. It sure as hell looked like Richard’s signature. “The bank can’t secure a personal loan against partnership funds,” said Harry, tossing the sheet back at the assistant manager.

  Mudhali paled only slightly. His voice remained stubbornly calm. “Our lawyers will have to deal with the issue.”

  Harry was on his feet. His hands pressed on the table so hard that his knuckles were white. “This banking relationship is in trouble, Mr. Mudhali.”

  “If suitable arrangements are not made,” Mudhali said, lowering his eyes to the checks on the desk, “we will have to freeze the account and refer the matter to the head office.”

  “You do that, sir, and I will have you in court faster than—”

  Mudhali fingered Harry’s retainer check. “A substantial immediate payment on account would permit me to deposit these checks and avoid such unpleasantness.”

  If he hadn’t been so angry, Harry would have laughed. “A bank hold-up? Listen, Mr. Mudhali, my firm has been a customer for more than fifty years.”

  Mudhali held up his hand. “As for any balance remaining, the bank would accept other collateral. Do you own a house?” The assistant manager reached for his loan manual.

  “Listen, you are dead wrong on the law. That security is useless.”

  “I am not a lawyer, sir, but I understand such legal points take months, if not years to determine in court.”

  Considering the complexities of legal partnerships, Harry seethed. Either he went along with the bureaucratic twit (for the moment), or he would be tied up in red tape for months. The Chin retainer would be either uncashed or frozen.

  Harry stood up. His chair screeched backward, smashing against a filing cabinet. Only a tiny amount of the trust money had been earned with the interview of Chin, the instructions, and the title searches. If the deals did not go through, he would have to return most of Mr. Chin’s money.

  Harry was scrupulous about client funds, and would fret if t
he bookkeeper missed a penny. Snatching up his checkbook, he saw in his mind the bright and trusting faces of a hundred clients. He saw those faces turn gray in disbelief when he uncapped his pen.

  Petty triumph gleamed in Mudhali’s eyes.

  Despite years of circumspection and care, Harry was driven by a new and reckless fury. Either he made a payment, or the bank would freeze his accounts. Mudhali had nailed him to the wall.

  He exploded. “You’ll have payment of half the damned arrears right now!” He scrawled a trust account check for twenty-five thousand dollars to the bank, from Albert Chin’s money.

  “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins. However, you do realize that this takes care of only part of the arrears of interest on the loan.”

  Harry grew cold. “How much is the loan?” He held his breath.

  “Five hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Harry breathed. “That loan can’t legally be secured on the firm’s account.” He prayed he was right. Time to read up on partnership law. Otherwise, Crane, Crawford and Jenkins would be dead.

  Mr. Mudhali closed the firm’s file. “As I have said, that’s for our legal department to consider, sir.” His expressionless brown eyes disclosed nothing.

  White anger and fear propelled Harry along King Street in record time. That pompous paper-pusher had goaded him into taking twenty-five thousand dollars of the Chin money before he’d earned it. If he couldn’t straighten out Crawford’s mess, he’d be sunk. Damn that womanizer! Suddenly, he stopped and grinned. Even if the old bastard could secure a personal line of credit on partnership funds, his estate would be liable to repay the debt. Dorothy, Crawford’s long-suffering wife, would not be pleased. For a moment, he breathed more easily.

  As to his rashness, Laura’s voice rang in his ears. “You’re so tied to your outdated morality, Harry. Everybody else takes risks. But not you. Are you that much better than everyone else?” Jesus! Laura would be proud, he thought bitterly. In anger, he had put one foot on the wrong side.