Conduct in Question

Chapter 5

Better get Chin’s money into the trust account, thought Harry. One million for the deposits and two hundred thousand for legal costs. Surely the huge retainer must include work on the rezoning applications.

Harry nursed a deep-seated grudge against banks. Usually his stomach rebelled as he approached them. Banks are not your friends, he reminded himself while riding down in the elevator. In good times, bank managers—beaming like carnival hucksters—lured solvent citizens into the valley of debt. Scowling in the bad times, they tallied up arrears and heartlessly called in loans. This particular bank, the Toronto-Royal, had refused to finance his attempts to buy Crawford out.

Memories of his father’s own battles with banking institutions leapt to mind. Vividly, he recalled one night at dinner, when he was eight. The banging at the door had made him drip spaghetti sauce over the stove‑top.

There, in the porch light, had stood a tall, burly man.

“You Stanley Jenkins?” the man demanded, thrusting a sheaf of papers into his father’s hand. The top page was decorated with a bright red seal. “Greetings!” it began.

Dad’s shoulders sagged and his chest caved in. Shaking his head, he sighed and turned the pages as Mother hovered in the doorway.

“What is it, Stan?”

The house was entirely silent, except for the ticking of the kitchen clock. Finally, well-educated, hardworking Stanley Jenkins looked up at his wife and said, “They’re going to sell the place, Alice.”

“Who?”

“The bank,” he said quietly. Then anger flared. “Who else, God damn it?”

Harry and Anna were shocked, less by the swearing, than by the lonely frustration in their father’s voice.

Harry wasn’t old enough to be really worried, even when he and his sister, were sent to bed early. Lying in the darkness, he listened to the rise and fall of his parents’ voices. He was puzzled by a phrase his father used over and over again.

“In arrears, in arrears.” His father’s voice peaked in frustration. “We’re three months in arrears.” To Harry, it sounded like a jail sentence.

Harry knew about money. Sometimes, he could almost hear it sloshing up and down the financial canyons of the city. But not enough of it was his.

Money…always the money! He sighed. He knew his wife had other standards, but her family’s wealth spun a soft cocoon that protected them from the rest of the world. From within their silken web, her parents peered out at the populace in general and at Harry in particular. Their intense scrutiny was more than disconcerting. A tilt of the jaw or the pursing of lips spoke volumes. He could seldom measure up against their silently shifting boundaries. Money was the only true and absolute indicator of success. It poisoned their love.

Awed by her beauty, he used to love stroking her soft blonde hair. Once, her green eyes had been filled with love for him. Now they appraised him with brisk efficiency.

As an art dealer for Sotheby’s, she had recently invited Harry to an auction. “Harry, come with me. It’ll be fun.” He had not realized it was a last attempt to draw him into her world.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he hesitated, but could find no excuse. It was foreign territory to him, and he railed at any form of profligacy or flamboyance.

The auction was held in the ballroom of the Royal York Hotel. Immense crystal chandeliers and heavy brocade drapes graced the room. Silent tension hung in the air. The auctioneer, handsome in his pin-striped suit, rapped sharply with his tiny gavel, driving the bidding even higher.