If Tommorrow Comes Part 18

BOOK THREE.

Chapter 15.

Philadelphia.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 7--- 4:00 P.M.

It was time to deal with Charles Stanhope III. The others had been strangers. Charles had been her lover, the father of her unborn child, and he had turned his back on both of them.

Ernestine and Al had been at the New Orleans Airport to see Tracy off.

"I'm gonna miss you," Ernestine had said. "You sure set this town on its a.s.s. They oughta run you for people's mayor."

"Whatcha gonna do in Philly?" Al had asked.

She had told them half the truth. "Go back to my old job at the bank."

Ernestine and Al had exchanged a glance. "They--- er--- know you're comin'?"

"No. But the vice-president likes me. There won't be a problem. Good computer operators are hard to find."

"Well, good luck. Keep in touch, ya hear? And stay out of trouble, girl."

Thirty minutes later Tracy had been in the air, bound for Philadelphia.

She checked into the Hilton Hotel and steamed out her one good dress over the hot tub. At 11:00 the following morning she walked into the bank and approached Clarence Desmond's secretary.

"h.e.l.lo, Mae."

The girl stared at Tracy as though she were seeing a ghost. "Tracy!" She did not know where to look. "I--- how are you?"

"Fine. Is Mr. Desmond in?"

"I--- I don't know. Let me see. Excuse me." She rose from her chair, fl.u.s.tered, and hurried into the vice-president's office.

She came out a few moments later. "You may go in." She edged away as Tracy walked toward the door.

What's the matter with her? Tracy wondered.

Clarence Desmond was standing next to his desk.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Desmond. Well, I've come back," Tracy said brightly.

"What for?" His tone was unfriendly. Definitely unfriendly.

It caught Tracy by surprise. She pressed on. "Well, you said I was the best computer operator you had ever seen, and I thought ---"

"You thought I'd give you back your old job?"

"Well, yes, sir. I haven't forgotten any of my skills. I can still---"

"Miss Whitney." It was no longer Tracy. "I'm sorry, but what you're asking is quite out of the question. I'm sure you can understand that our customers would not wish to deal with someone who served time in the penitentiary for armed robbery and attempted murder. That would hardly fit in with our high ethical image. I think it unlikely that given your background, any bank would hire you. I would suggest that you try to find employment more suitable to your circ.u.mstances. I hope you understand there is nothing personal in this."

Tracy listened to his words, first with shock and then with growing anger. He made her sound like an outcast, a leper. We wouldn't want to lose you. You're one of our most valuable employees.

"Was there anything else, Miss Whitney?" It was a dismissal.

There were a hundred things Tracy wanted to say, but she knew they would do no good. "No. I think you've said it all." Tracy turned and walked out the office door, her face burning. All the bank employees seemed to be staring at her. Mae had spread the word: The convict had come back. Tracy moved toward the exit, head held high, dying inside. I can't let them do this to me. My pride is all I have left, and no one is going to take that away from me.

Tracy stayed in her room all day, miserable. How could she have been naive enough to believe that they would welcome her back with open arms? She was notorious now. "You're the headline in the Philadelphia Daily News." Well, to h.e.l.l with Philadelphia, Tracy thought. She had some unfinished business there, but when that was done, she would leave. She would go to New York, where she would be anonymous. The decision made her feel better.

That evening, Tracy treated herself to dinner at the Cafe Royal. After the sordid meeting with Clarence Desmond that morning, she needed the rea.s.suring atmosphere of soft lights, elegant surroundings, and soothing music. She ordered a vodka martini, and as the waiter brought it to her table, Tracy glanced up, and her heart suddenly skipped a beat. Seated in a booth across the room were Charles and his wife. They had not yet seen her. Tracy's first impulse was to get up and leave. She was not ready to face Charles, not until she had a chance to put her plan into action.

"Would you like to order now?" the captain was asking.

"I'll--- I'll wait, thank you." She had to decide whether she was going to stay.

She looked over at Charles again, and an astonis.h.i.+ng phenomenon occurred: It was as though she were looking at a stranger. She was seeing a sallow, drawn-looking, middle-aged, balding man, with stooped shoulders and an air of ineffable boredom on his face. It was impossible to believe that she had once thought she loved this man, that she had slept with him, planned to spend the rest of her life with him. Tracy glanced at his wife. She wore the same bored expression as Charles. They gave the impression of two people trapped together for eternity, frozen in time. They simply sat there, speaking not one word to each other. Tracy could visualize the endless, tedious years ahead of the two of them. No love. No joy. That is Charles's punishment, Tracy thought, and she felt a sudden surge of release, a freedom from the deep, dark, emotional chains that had bound her.

Tracy signaled to the captain and said, "I'm ready to order now."

It was over. The past was finally buried.

It was not until Tracy returned to her hotel room that evening that she remembered she was owed money from the bank's employees' fund. She sat down and calculated the amount. It came to $1,375.65.

She composed a letter to Clarence Desmond, and two days later she received a reply from Mae.

Dear Miss Whitney: In response to your request, Mr. Desmond has asked me to inform you that because of the morals policy in the employees' financial plan, your share has reverted to the general fund. He wants to a.s.sure you that he bears no personal ill will toward you.

Sincerely, Mae Trenton Secretary to the Senior Vice-president Tracy could not believe it. They were stealing her money, and doing it under the pretext of protecting the morals of the bank! She was outraged. I'm not going to let them cheat me, she vowed. No one is ever going to cheat me again.

Tracy stood outside the familiar entrance to the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank. She wore a long black wig and heavy, dark makeup, with a raw red scar on her chin. If anything went wrong, it would be the scar they remembered. Despite her disguise, Tracy felt naked, for she had worked in this bank for five years, and it was staffed with people who knew her well: She would have to be very careful not to give herself away.

She removed a bottle cap from her purse, placed it in her shoe, and limped into the bank. The bank was crowded with customers, for Tracy had carefully chosen a time when the bank would be doing peak business. She limped over to one of the customer-service desks, and the man seated behind it finished a phone call and said, "Yes?"

It was Jon Creighton, the bank bigot. He hated Jews, blacks, and Puerto Ricans, but not necessarily in that order. He had been an irritant to Tracy during the years she had worked there. Now there was no sign of recognition on his face.

"Buenos dias, senor. I would like to open a checking account, ahora," Tracy said. Her accent was Mexican, the accent she had heard for all those months from her cell mate Paulita.

There was a look of disdain on Creighton's face. "Name?"

"Rita Gonzales."

"And how much would you like to put in your account?"

"Ten dollars."

His voice was a sneer. "Will that be by check or cash?"

"Cash, I theenk."

She carefully took a crumpled, half-torn ten-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to him. He shoved a white form toward her.

"Fill this out---"

Tracy had no intention of putting anything in her handwriting. She frowned. "I'm sorry, senor. I hurt mi mano--- my hand--- in an accident. Would you min' writin' it for me, si se puede?"

Creighton snorted. These illiterate wetbacks! "Rita Gonzales, you said?"

"Si."

"Your address?"

She gave him the address and telephone number of her hotel.

"Your mother's maiden name?"

"Gonzales. My mother, she married her uncle."

"And your date of birth?"

"December twentieth, 1958."

"Place of birth?"

"Ciudad de Mexico."

"Mexico City. Sign here."

"I weel have to use my left hand," Tracy said. She picked up a pen and clumsily scrawled out an illegible signature. Jon Creighton wrote out a deposit slip.

"I'll give you a temporary checkbook. Your printed checks will be mailed to you in three or four weeks."

"Bueno. Muchas gracias, senor."

"Yeah."

He watched her walk out of the bank. f.u.c.kin' spic.

There are numerous illegal ways to gain entry to a computer, and Tracy was an expert. She had helped set up the security system at the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank, and now she was about to circ.u.mvent it.

Her first step was to find a computer store, where she could use a terminal to tap into the bank's computer. The store, several blocks from the bank, was almost empty.

An eager salesman approached Tracy. "May I help you, miss?"

"Eso si que no, senor. I am just looking."

His eye was caught by a teen-ager playing a computer game. "Excuse me." He hurried away.

Tracy turned to the desk-model computer in front of her, which was connected to a telephone. Getting into the system would be easy, but without the proper access code, she was stymied, and the access code was changed daily. Tracy had been at the meeting when the original authorization code had been decided on.

"We must keep changing it," Clarence Desmond had said, "so no one can break in; yet we want to keep it simple enough for people who are authorized to use it."

The code they had finally settled on used the four seasons of the year and the current day's date.

Tracy turned on the terminal and tapped out the code for the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank. She heard a high-pitched whine and placed the telephone receiver into the terminal modem. A sign flashed on the small screen: YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?

Today was the tenth.

FALL 10, Tracy tapped out.

THAT IS AN IMPROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. The computer screen went blank.

Had they changed the code? Out of the corner of her eye, Tracy saw the salesman coming toward her again. She moved over to another computer, gave it a casual glance, and ambled slang the aisle. The salesman checked his stride. A looker, he decided. He hurried forward to greet a prosperous-looking couple coming in the door. Tracy returned to the desk-model computer.

She tried to put herself into Clarence Desmond's mind. He was a creature of habit, and Tracy was sure he would not have varied the code too much. He had probably kept the original concept of the seasons and the numbers, but how had he changed them? It would have been too complicated to reverse all the numbers, so he had probably s.h.i.+fted the seasons around.

Tracy tried again.

YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?.

WINTER 10.

THAT IS AN IMPROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. The blank screen again.

It's not going to work, Tracy thought despairingly. I'll give it one more try.

YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?.

SPRING 10.

The screen went blank for a moment, and then the message appeared: PLEASE PROCEED.

So he had switched the seasons. She quickly typed out: DOMESTIC MONEY TRANSACTION.

Instantly, the bank menu, the category of available transactions, flashed onto the screen: DO YOU WISH TO.