If Tomorrow Comes (16 page)

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

“How much ees in it?” she asked.

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

“Sí
, 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 buttons. 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 hell with Conrad Morgan. I won’t go back to see him
.

Tracy wandered the streets aimlessly, passing 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 walk-up, 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, prostitutes, 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 assured 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 résumé 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—”

“There are other kinds of jobs. Have you thought about working as a saleslady?”

Tracy remembered her experience at the department store. She could not bear to go through that again. “Is there anything else?”

The woman hesitated. Tracy Whitney was obviously over-qualified for the job Mrs. Murphy had in mind. “Look,” she said. “I know this isn’t up your alley, but there’s a waitress job open at Jackson Hole. It’s a hamburger place on the Upper East Side.”

“A waitress job?”

“Yeah. If you take it, I won’t charge you any commission. I just happened to hear about it.”

Tracy sat there, debating. She had waited on tables in college. Then it had been fun. Now it was a question of surviving.

“I’ll try it,” she said.

Jackson Hole was bedlam, packed with noisy and impatient customers, and harassed, irritable fry cooks. The food was good and the prices reasonable, and the place was always jammed. The waitresses worked at a frantic pace with no time to relax, and by the end of the first day Tracy was exhausted. But she was earning money.

At noon on the second day, as Tracy was serving a table filled with salesmen, one of the men ran his hand up her skirt, and Tracy dropped a bowl of chili on his head. That was the end of the job.

She returned to Mrs. Murphy and reported what had happened.

“I may have some good news,” Mrs. Murphy said. “The Wellington Arms needs an assistant housekeeper. I’m going to send you over there.”

The Wellington Arms was a small, elegant hotel on Park Avenue that catered to the rich and famous. Tracy was interviewed by the housekeeper and hired. The work was not difficult, the staff was pleasant, and the hours reasonable.

A week after she started, Tracy was summoned to the housekeeper’s office. The assistant manager was also there.

“Did you check Suite eight-twenty-seven today?” the housekeeper asked Tracy. The suite was occupied by Jennifer Marlowe, a Hollywood actress. Part of Tracy’s job was to inspect each suite and see that the maids had done their work properly.

“Why, yes,” she said.

“What time?”

“At two o’clock. Is something wrong?”

The assistant manager spoke up. “At three o’clock Miss Marlowe returned and discovered that a valuable diamond ring was missing.”

Tracy could feel her body grow tense.

“Did you go into the bedroom, Tracy?”

“Yes. I checked every room.”

“When you were in the bedroom, did you see any jewelry lying around?”

“Why…no. I don’t think so.”

The assistant manager pounced on it. “You don’t
think
so? You’re not
sure?”

“I wasn’t looking for jewelry,” Tracy said. “I was checking the beds and towels.”

“Miss Marlowe insists that her ring was on the dressing table when she left the suite.”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“No one else has access to that room. The maids have been with us for many years.”

“I didn’t take it.”

The assistant manager sighed. “We’re going to have to call in the police to investigate.”

“It
had
to be someone else,” Tracy cried. “Or perhaps Miss Marlowe misplaced it.”

“With your record—” the assistant manager said.

And there it was, out in the open.
With your record…
.

“I’ll have to ask you to please wait in the security office until the police get here.”

Tracy felt her face flush. “Yes, sir.”