Lawrence Sanders - The seventh commandment

"I have something to tell you," Helene said.

"And I have something to tell you," he said. "But go ahead; ladies first."

"Since when?" she said. "Anyway, Clayton asked me to marry him."

Turner's aplomb shattered. He drained his glass.

"When did this happen?" he asked hoarsely.

"A few days ago."

"Why didn't you tell me immediately?"

"No rush," she said. "He has to ask mommy's permission first."

"Sure," Turner said, "she owns the company now. He's really going to divorce Eleanor?"

"That's what he says."

"Shit!"

"My sentiments exactly," Helene said. "How are we going to handle it?"

"Before we compute that, I better tell you my news; it'll give you a hoot. Felicia wants to marry me."

They stared at each other. They wanted to laugh but couldn't.

"This family's doing splendidly," Turner said with a twisted smile. "What did Clayton offer?"

"Financial security. A prenuptial agreement on my terms."

"Pretty much what Felicia offered me. There's a lot of loot there, kiddo."

"I know."

"Damn it!" he exploded. "Things were going so great, and now this. How long can you stall Clayton?"

She shrugged. "As long as it takes him to get a divorce. If Eleanor hires a good lawyer, it could be a year. Stop biting your nails."

He took a deep breath. "It means we'll have to revise our timetable. Another year on the gravy train and that's it."

"What about Felicia?"

"I'll think of something."

"You want to cut and run right now?" she asked curiously.

He shook his head. "It took a lot of time and hard work to set up this deal. It's just beginning to pay off; I'm not walking away from it. And besides, if I split, Ramon would be a mite peeved."

"The understatement of the year," she said.

He nodded gloomily. "I'll figure out how to handle Felicia; it's Clayton I'm worried about."

"You worry too much," she told him. "Leave it to me."

"If you say so," he said doubtfully, and went into the kitchen to mix more kir royales.

Helene straightened up in her armchair, lighted a cigarette slowly. She heard him moving about, the gurgle of wine, clink of glasses. She looked toward the kitchen door, frowning.

She had caught something in his voice that disturbed her. Not panic-not yet-but there was an uncertainty she had never heard before. He was the one who had taught her self-assurance.

"Just don't give a dam'," he had instructed her. "About anything. That gives you an edge on everyone who believes in something."

And that's the way they had played their lives; amorality was their religion, and they had flourished. And as they thrived, their confidence grew. They thumbed their noses at the world and danced away laughing. But now, it seemed to her, his surety was crumbling. She imagined all the scenarios that could result from his weakness and how they would impact on her life.

He brought fresh drinks from the kitchen, and she smiled at him, thinking that if push came to shove, she might have to make a hard choice.

Dora awoke the next morning convinced that her brainstorm of the previous night had been exactly that: a storm of the brain. Now, in the sunny calm of a new day, it seemed highly unlikely that the peculiarity she had spotted in the computer printout had any significance whatsoever. There were a dozen innocent explanations for it. It was a minor curiosity. It would lead her nowhere.

But still, she reflected glumly, it was all she had, and it deserved, at least, a couple of phone calls. So she dialed Arthur Rushkin. He wasn't in his office yet, and Dora continued calling at fifteen-minute intervals until, at about 10:30, she was put through to him.

"Did you find anything?" he asked eagerly.

"Not really," she said, wondering if dissembling was part of her job or part of her nature. "I just have a technical question, and I was hoping you'd be willing to give me the name of that computer expert you consulted."

"I don't see why not," Rushkin said slowly. "His name is Sregor Pinchik, and he's in the Manhattan directory. He has his own business: computer consultant for banks, brokerages, credit card companies, and corporations."

"Sounds like just the man I need."

"There are two things you should know about him," the attorney went on. "One, he charges a hundred dollars an hour. And two, he's an ex-felon."

"Oh-oh," Dora said. "For what?"

"Computer fraud," Rushkin said, laughing. "But since he's been out, he's discovered there's more money to be made by telling clients how to avoid getting taken by computer sharpies like him. Shall I give Pinchik a call and tell him he'll be hearing from you? That way you won't have to go through the identification rigmarole."

"It would be a big help. Thank you, Mr. Rushkin."

Then she phoned Mike Trevalyan in Hartford.

"Are you on to anything?" he asked.

"Not really," Dora said again, "but something came up that needs a little digging. Mike, remember when you were telling me about Starrett Fine Jewelry? You said that about a year ago Clayton Starrett fired most of his branch managers and put in new people. And about the same time he started trading in gold bullion."

"So?"

"Starrett has fifteen branches in addition to their flagship store in New York. What I need to know is this: Which of the branch stores got new managers a year ago."

"I'm not sure I can get that," Trevalyan said, "but if it's important, I'll try."

"It's important," Dora assured him. "How come I always end up doing your job for you?" "Not all of it. The other thing I wanted to tell you is that I'm going to hire a computer consultant."

"What the hell for?"

"Because I need him," she said patiently. "Technical questions that only an expert can answer."

"How much does he charge?"

"A hundred dollars an hour."

"What!" Trevalyan bellowed. "Are you crazy? A hundred an hour? That means the Company will be paying twenty-five bucks every time this guy takes a crap!"

"Mike," Dora said, sighing, "must you be so vulgar and disgusting? Look, if you needed brain surgery-which sometimes I think you do-would you shop around for the cheapest surgeon you could find? You have to pay for expertise; you know that."

"Are you sure this guy's an expert?"

"The best in the business," she said, not mentioning that he had done time for computer fraud.

"Well… all right," Trevalyan said grudgingly. "But try to use him only for an hour."

"I'll try," she promised, keeping her fingers carefully crossed.

Her third call of the morning was to Gregor Pinchik, whose address in the directory was on West 23rd Street.

Dora gave her name and asked if Mr. Arthur Rushkin had informed Pinchik that she'd be phoning.

"Yeah, he called," the computer consultant acknowledged in a gravelly voice. "He tell you what my fees are?"

"A hundred an hour?"

"That's right. And believe me, lady, I'm worth it. What's this about?"

"I'd rather not talk about it on the phone. Could we meet somewhere?"

"Why not. How's about you coming down here to my loft."

"Sure," Dora said, "I could do that. What time?"

"Noon. How does that sound?"

"I'll be there," she said.

"It's just west of Ninth Avenue. Don't let the building scare you. It's being demolished, and right now I'm the only tenant left. But the intercom still works. You ring from downstairs-three short rings and one long one-and I'll buzz you in. Okay?"

"Okay," Dora said. "I'm on my way."

The decrepit building on West 23rd Street had scaffolding in place, and workmen were prying at crumbling ornamental stonework and brick facing, allowing the debris to tumble down within plywood walls protecting the sidewalk.

Dora nervously ducked into the littered vestibule and pressed the only button in sight: three shorts and a long. The electric lock buzzed; she pushed her way in and cautiously climbed five flights of rickety wood stairs, thinking that at a hundred dollars an hour Gregor Pinchik could afford a business address more impressive than this.