The committee had been divided.
Fenston was determined to make a good impression on his colleagues in the banking fraternity and had already dictated several drafts of the speech.
Customers must always be able to rely on our independent judgment, confident that we will act in their best interests rather than our own.
Tina began to wonder if she was writing a script for a bankers’ sitcom, with Fenston auditioning for the lead. What part would Leapman play in this moral tale, she wondered? For how many episodes would Victoria Wentworth survive?
We must, at all times, look upon ourselves as the guardians of our customers’ assets—especially if they own a Van Gogh, Tina wanted to insert—while never neglecting their commercial aspirations.
Tina’s thoughts drifted to Anna, as she continued to type out Fenston’s shameless homily. She had spoken to her on the phone just before leaving for the office that morning. Anna wanted to tell her about the new man in her life, whom she had met in the most unusual circumstances. They had agreed to get together for supper that evening, as Tina also had something she wanted to share.
And let’s never forget that it only takes one of us to lower our standards, and then the rest of us will suffer as a consequence.
As Tina turned another page, she wondered just how much longer she could hope to survive as Fenston’s personal assistant. Since she’d thrown Leapman out of her office, not one civil word had passed between them. Would he have her fired only days before she had gathered enough proof to make sure Fenston spent the rest of his life in a smaller room in a larger institution?
And may I conclude by saying that my single purpose in life has always been to serve and give back to the community that has allowed me to share the American dream.
This was one document Tina would not bother to retain a copy of.
The light on Tina’s phone was flashing and she quickly picked up the receiver.
“Yes, Chairman?”
“Have you finished my speech for the bankers’ dinner?”
“Yes, chairman,” repeated Tina.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” said Fenston.
“It’s remarkable,” responded Tina.
Jack hailed a cab and told him Lincoln Street, Queens. The driver left the meter running while he looked up the address in his much-thumbed directory. Jack was halfway back to the airport before he was dropped off on the corner of Lincoln and Harris. He looked up and down the street, aware that the suit he’d carefully selected for Park Avenue was somewhat incongruous in Queens. He stepped into a liquor store on the corner.
“I’m looking for the Romanian Club,” he told the elderly woman behind the counter.
“Closed years ago,” she said. “It’s now a guest house,” she added, looking him up and down, “but I don’t think you’ll wanna stay there.”
“Any idea of the number?” asked Jack.
“No, but it’s ’bout halfway down, on the other side of the street.”
Jack thanked the woman, walked back out onto Lincoln and crossed the road. He tried to judge where the halfway mark might be, when he spotted a faded ROOMS FOR RENT sign. He stopped and looked down a short flight of steps to see an even more faded sign painted above the entrance. The letters NYRC, FOUNDED 1919 were almost indecipherable.
Jack descended the steps and pushed open the creaking door. He stepped into a dingy, unlit hallway, to be greeted with the pungent smell of stale tobacco. There was a small, dusty reception desk straight ahead of him, and behind it, almost hidden from view, Jack caught a glimpse of an old man reading the New York Post, enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“I need a room for the night,” said Jack, trying to sound as if he meant it.
The old man’s eyes narrowed as he gave Jack a disbelieving look. Did he have a girl waiting outside? “That’ll be seven dollars,” he said, before adding, “in advance.”
“And I’ll also need somewhere to lock my valuables,” said Jack.
“That’ll be another dollar—in advance,” repeated the man, the cigarette bobbing up and down.
Jack handed over eight dollars in return for a key.
“Second floor, number three, and the safety deposit boxes are at the end of the corridor,” he said, passing him a second key. He then returned his attention to the New York Post, the cigarette having never left his mouth.
Jack walked slowly down the corridor until he reached a wall lined with safety deposit boxes, which, despite their age, looked solid and not that easy to break into, even if anyone might have considered the exercise worthwhile. He opened his own box and peered inside. It must have been about eight inches wide and a couple of feet deep. Jack glanced back toward the front counter. The desk clerk had managed to turn the page, but the cigarette still hadn’t left his mouth.