Sidney Sheldon 3-Book Collection: If Tomorrow Comes, Nothing Lasts Forever, The Best Laid Plans

B TRANSFER MONEY

C WITHDRAW MONEY FROM SAVINGS ACCOUNT

D INTERBRANCH TRANSFER

E WITHDRAW MONEY FROM CURRENT 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 shifted 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 cashier.

‘Hola. Thees is Rita Gonzales. I would like to have my current 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 all the money from her account.

‘How much ees in it?’ she asked.

The cashier checked. ‘Thirteen hundred and eighty-five dollars and sixty-five cents.’

‘Sí, that ees correct.’

‘Would you like a certified cheque 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 situations vacant 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, an 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 a slip of paper that Betty Franciscus had given her in prison. CONRAD MORGAN, JEWELLER, 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 Jewellers 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, ‘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 pavement, uncertainly. Coming to New York had been a mistake. There was probably nothing Conrad 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.