If Tommorrow Comes Part 19

A DEPOSIT MONEY.

B TRANSFER MONEY.

C WITHDRAW MONEY FROM SAVINGS ACCOUNT.

D INTERBRANCH TRANSFER.

E WITHDRAW MONEY FROM CHECKING ACCOUNT.

PLEASE ENTER YOUR CHOICE.

Tracy chose B. The screen went blank and a new menu appeared.

AMOUNT OF TRANSFER?.

WHERE TO?.

WHERE FROM?.

She typed in: FROM GENERAL RESERVE FUND TO RITA GONZALES. When she came to the amount, she hesitated for an instant. Tempting, Tracy thought. Since she had access, there was no limit to the amount the now subservient computer would give her. She could have taken millions. But she was no thief. All she wanted was what was rightfully owed her.

She typed in $1,375.65, and added Rita Gonzales's account number.

The screen flashed: TRANSACTION COMPLETED. DO YOU WISH OTHER TRANSACTIONS?

NO.

SESSION COMPLETED. THANK YOU.

The money would automatically be transferred by CHIPS, the Clearing House Interbank Payment System that kept track of the $220 billion s.h.i.+fted from bank to bank every day.

The store clerk was approaching Tracy again, frowning. Tracy hurriedly pressed a key, and the screen went blank.

"Are you interested in purchasing this machine, miss?"

"No, gracias," Tracy apologized. "I don' understan' these computers."

She telephoned the bank from a corner drug store and asked to speak to the head cas.h.i.+er.

"Hola. Thees is Rita Gonzales. I would like to have my checkin' account transferred to the main branch of the First Hanover Bank of New York City, por favor."

"Your account number, Miss Gonzales?"

Tracy gave it to her.

An hour later Tracy had checked out of the Hilton and was on her way to New York City.

When the First Hanover Bank of New York opened at 10:00 the following morning, Rita Gonzales was there to withdraw s8 the,money from her account.

"How much ees in it?" she asked.

The teller checked. "Thirteen hundred eighty-five dollars and sixty-five cents."

"Si, that ees correct."

"Would you like a certified check for that, Miss Gonzales?"

"No, gracias," Tracy said. "I don' trust banks. I weel take the cash."

Tracy had received the standard two hundred dollars from the state prison upon her release, plus the small amount of money she had earned taking care of Amy, but even with her money from the bank fund, she had no financial security. It was imperative she get a job as quickly as possible.

She checked into an inexpensive hotel on Lexington Avenue and began sending out applications to New York banks, applying for a job as a computer expert. But Tracy found that the computer had suddenly become her enemy. Her life was no longer private. The computer banks held her life's story, and readily told it to everyone who pressed the right b.u.t.tons. The moment Tracy's criminal record was revealed, her application was automatically rejected.

I think it unlikely that given your background, any bank would hire you. Clarence Desmond had been right.

Tracy sent in more job applications to insurance companies and dozens of other computer-oriented businesses. The replies were always the same: negative.

Very well, Tracy thought, I can always do something else. She bought a copy of The New York Times and began searching the want ads.

There was a position listed as secretary in an export firm.

The moment Tracy walked in the door, the personnel manager said, "Hey, I seen you on television. You saved a kid in prison, didn't you?"

Tracy turned and fled.

The following day she was hired as a saleswoman in the children's department at Saks Fifth Avenue. The salary was a great deal less than she had been used to, but at least it was enough to support herself.

On her second day, a hysterical customer recognized her and informed the floor manager that she refused to be waited on by a murderess who had drowned a small child. Tracy was given no chance to explain. She was discharged immediately.

It seemed to Tracy that the men upon whom she had exacted vengeance had had the last word after all. They had turned her into a public criminal, an outcast. The unfairness of what was happening to her was corrosive. She had no idea how she was going to live, and for the first time she began to have a feeling of desperation. That night she looked through her purse to see how much money remained, and tucked away in a corner of her wallet she came across the slip of paper that Betty Franciscus had given her in prison. CONRAD MORGAN, JEWELER, 640 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY. He's into criminal reform. He likes to give a hand to people who've been in prison.

Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers was an elegant establishment, with a liveried doorman on the outside and an armed guard on the inside. The shop itself was tastefully understated, but the jewels were exquisite and expensive.

Tracy told the receptionist inside, "I'd like to see Mr. Conrad Morgan, please."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No. A--- a mutual friend suggested that I see him."

"Your name?"

"Tracy Whitney."

"Just a moment, please."

The receptionist picked up a telephone and murmured something into it that Tracy could not hear. She replaced the receiver. "Mr. Morgan is occupied just now. He wonders if you could come back at six o'clock."

"Yes, thank you," Tracy said.

She walked out of the shop and stood on the sidewalk, uncertainly. Coming to New York had been a mistake. There was probably nothing Conrad Morgan could do for her. And why should he? She was a complete stranger to him. He'll give me a lecture and a handout. Well, I don't need either. Not from him or anyone else. I'm a survivor. Somehow I'm going to make it. To h.e.l.l with Conrad Morgan. I won't go back to see him.

Tracy wandered the streets aimlessly, pa.s.sing the glittering salons of Fifth Avenue, the guarded apartment buildings on Park Avenue, the bustling shops on Lexington and Third. She walked the streets of New York mindlessly, seeing nothing, filled with a bitter frustration.

At 6:00 she found herself back on Fifth Avenue, in front of Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers. The doorman was gone, and the door was locked. Tracy pounded on the door in a gesture of defiance and then turned away, but to her surprise, the door suddenly opened.

An avuncular-looking man stood there looking at her. He was bald, with ragged tufts of gray hair above his ears, and he had a jolly, rubicund face and twinkling blue eyes. He looked like a cheery little gnome. "You must be Miss Whitney?"

"Yes...."

"I'm Conrad Morgan. Please, do come in, won't you?"

Tracy entered the deserted store.

"I've been waiting for you," Conrad Morgan said. "Let's go into my office where we can talk."

He led her through the store to a closed door, which he unlocked with a key. His office was elegantly furnished, and it looked more like an apartment than a place of business, with no desk, just couches, chairs, and tables artfully placed. The walls were covered with old masters.

"Would you care for a drink?" Conrad Morgan offered. "Whiskey, cognac, or perhaps sherry?"

"No, nothing, thank you."

Tracy was suddenly nervous. She had dismissed the idea that this man would do anything to help her, yet at the same time she found herself desperately hoping that he could.

"Betty Franciscus suggested that I look you up, Mr. Morgan. She said you--- you helped people who have been in... trouble." She could not bring herself to say prison.

Conrad Morgan clasped his hands together, and Tracy noticed how beautifully manicured they were.

"Poor Betty. Such a lovely lady. She was unlucky, you know."

"Unlucky?"

"Yes. She got caught."

"I--- I don't understand."

"It's really quite simple, Miss Whitney. Betty used to work for me. She was well protected. Then the poor dear fell in love with a chauffeur from New Orleans and went off on her own. And, well... they caught her."

Tracy was confused. "She worked for you here as a saleslady?"

Conrad Morgan sat back and laughed until his eyes filled with tears. "No, my dear," he said, wiping the tears away. "Obviously, Betty didn't explain everything to you." He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "I have a very profitable little sideline, Miss Whitney, and I take great pleasure in sharing those profits with my colleagues. I have been most successful employing people like yourself--- if you'll forgive me--- who have served time in prison."

Tracy studied his face, more puzzled that ever.

"I'm in a unique position, you see. I have an extremely wealthy clientele. My clients become my friends. They confide in me." He tapped his fingers together delicately. "I know when my customers take trips. Very few people travel with jewelry in these parlous times, so their jewels are locked away at home. I recommend to them the security measures they should take to protect them. I know exactly what jewels they own because they purchased them from me. They---"

Tracy found herself on her feet. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Morgan."

"Surely you're not leaving already?"

"If you're saying what I think you're saying---"

"Yes. Indeed, I am."

She could feel her cheeks burning. "I'm not a criminal. I came here looking for a job."

"And I'm offering you one, my dear. It will take an hour or two of your time, and I can promise you twenty-five thousand dollars." He smiled impishly. "Tax free, of course."

Tracy was fighting hard to control her anger. "I'm not interested. Would you let me out, please?"

"Certainly, if that is what you wish." He rose to his feet and showed her to the door. "You must understand, Miss Whitney, that if there were the slightest danger of anyone's being caught, I would not be involved in this. I have my reputation to protect."

"I promise you I won't say anything about it," Tracy said coldly.

He grinned. "There's really nothing you could say, my dear, is there? I mean, who would believe you? I am Conrad Morgan."

As they reached the front entrance of the store, Morgan said, "You will let me know if you change your mind, won't you? The best time to telephone me is after six o'clock in the evening. I'll wait for your call."

"Don't," Tracy said curtly, and she walked out into the approaching night. When she reached her room, she was still trembling.

She sent the hotel's one bellboy out for a sandwich and coffee. She did not feel like facing anyone. The meeting with Conrad Morgan had made her feel unclean. He had lumped her with all the sad, confused, and beaten criminals she had been surrounded by at the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women. She was not one of them. She was Tracy Whitney, a computer expert, a decent, law-abiding citizen.

Whom no one would hire.

Tracy lay awake all night thinking about her future. She had no job, and very little money left. She made two resolutions: In the morning she would move to a cheaper place and she would find a job. Any kind of job.

The cheaper place turned out to be a dreary fourth-floor walkup, one-room apartment on the Lower East Side. From her room, through the paper-thin walls, Tracy could hear her neighbors screaming at one another in foreign languages. The windows and doors of the small stores that lined the streets were heavily barred, and Tracy could understand why. The neighborhood seemed to be populated by drunks, prost.i.tutes, and bag ladies.

On her way to the market to shop, Tracy was accosted three times--- twice by men and once by a woman.

I can stand it. I won't be here long, Tracy a.s.sured herself.

She went to a small employment agency a few blocks from her apartment. It was run by a Mrs. Murphy, a matronly looking, heavy-set lady. She put down Tracy's resume and studied her quizzically. "I don't know what you need me for. There must be a dozen companies that'd give their eyeteeth to get someone like you."

Tracy took a deep breath. "I have a problem," she said. She explained as Mrs. Murphy sat listening quietly, and when Tracy was finished, Mrs. Murphy said flatly, "You can forget about looking for a computer job."

"But you said---"

"Companies are jumpy these days about computer crimes. They're not gonna hire anybody with a record."

"But I need a job. I---"