Memorial

LXIV.Marjorie

SHE bought a lottery ticket at Riki’s then drove to Wells.

She had an appointment with Agent Marone and the lady. The lady called to remind her, and said she had spoken to Joanie. Marj already knew that, and thanked her.

When she got to the bank, there was a double door installed — something new. She came in from the street and it shut behind her but when she tried the 2nd door, it wouldn’t open. A disembodied voice boomed that Marj needed to hold up her purse. She was confused and the voice repeated its command. Once she held up the purse, they buzzed her in. Well, that was the silliest thing. Did they think she was going to rob the bank? “I’m not Ma Barker,” she muttered.

She found a chair by the closest desk and sat down to wait, as she’d been told. She was there almost 20 minutes but no one approached. The old woman began to think the arrest might have already happened, or that maybe she’d gotten the time wrong. It was beyond belief but she’d left her cellphone at home again. The muleheaded stupidity of it made her groan. She waited another 10 minutes before getting in line to check on her money. It was habit, a way to kill time.

The teller, some sort of Persian who Marj could barely see behind the thick, smudged security glass, told her the balance had been “zeroed out.”

“But what is the balance?” asked Marj.

The Persian said there was “none,” adding, “You have closed the account.”

There was a time delay because of an inferior sound system. The voice of the teller dipped in and out.

Marj reached in her bag and got the business card from the lady. She read the name to the teller, saying she wanted to speak with “Cynthia Mulcahy, Vice President, Customer Relations.” She slipped the card under the glass for the imbecile to examine. Marj said she had an important appointment with Miss Mulcahy and a gentleman from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The Persian called someone over, a prim-looking African-American. The black began to speak but her voice was low and kept fritzing out as well. She studied the card and asked Marj which branch the lady she wished to see worked out of. This is the silliest thing! Can’t you read? This is not Ebonics, Miss! This is Wells Fargo, not McDonald’s. Just please read the card! The woman on the card is your boss!

The black told Marj to wait. Then the teller asked if she’d step aside but the old woman couldn’t hear and the request was repeated that she step out of line because there were customers waiting.

The black came out a few minutes later with a tall, thin man. (It was a relief to see people without that horrid glass barrier.) He asked Marj to sit at his desk. The black earnestly hovered a moment before she was called away. The thin man adjusted his glasses and told Marj that he was afraid there was no one by that name who worked at Wells Fargo Bank. She said she didn’t understand, the business card said the lady was Vice President of Pico-Robertson, she had even been to Marj’s home for coffee. The thin man kept staring at Miss Mulcahy’s card, with an ever-so-slight nod of the head. Then he got the old woman’s Social and punched it in his computer, calling up her accounts. Without looking at her, he asked Marj how long she had banked there, and she became furious because that was something they should know, they should know their business, she was a loyal longtime customer, she had just given him her Social Security number and he had her driver’s license sitting right there too, and anyway, he was punching everything in and she couldn’t understand why she had to be asked questions whose answers were probably staring him in the face from the screen. To show her impatience, Marj said, “Well, that’s moot.” (A remark she would have told Hamilton about when he got home from work — how during the day she’d had the gumption to tell some bureaucratic fool, “That’s moot.”) The thin man said their records showed she had closed out her money market and personal checking accounts that very morning. She said that was impossible, or if it was true, it surely had been done in the course of an investigation, because she was in the midst of helping the FBI — she was helping an agent, Agent — suddenly she became flustered, and couldn’t remember his name. The thin man told her she might be the victim of fraud and Marj got a little irate and said of course she was the victim of a fraud, she already knew that, and so did the bank, Miss Whatshername, and so did the FBI and Agent So-and-So. I cannot remember his name. The man who looks like Jeff Chandler. I was meeting both of them here.

The lady on the card spoke to my daughter—

The thin man eyed her carefully now and said he was going to call the police. Marj said she wasn’t sure that was a good idea, because the agent — Agent Marone (she had finally gotten the brilliant idea of digging his card from her purse, which she handed over to the fastidious bureaucrat, who scrutinized it closely. What an ass he was!)—Agent Marone said they were quite near an arrest, and if the thin man were to call the police it might jeopardize the work done up till now. I am to be a critical eyewitness, and the ringleader, AKA Mr Weyerhauser, is supposed to be taken into custody at this very branch, Pico-Robertson, and that is an action he should be extremely wary of jeopardizing. The thin man told her the business card of the lady appeared to be “falsified.” He dialed the number of Agent Ruddy Marone and hung up, telling the old woman it had been disconnected. Marj asked him to try again, which he did, but it was still disconnected.

He said he was going to phone the police right away because of the “high numbers” involved, that he felt Marj and the bank may have been defrauded and it was probably a good idea for her to wait at his desk until certain matters could be further clarified. She looked pale and he waved at someone to bring a cup of water. He said she could go home if she wished, that she didn’t live so far away, according to their records—well, at least they had some records! — and he would call just as soon as he heard anything. The black brought the water and the parched old trembling woman raised it to her mouth. Marj shouted, “Of course you have been defrauded!” and mentioned that the lady from Wells had deposited a hundred thousand dollars back into her account, the amount covered by federal insurance, and why didn’t that show up on his stupid screen? She tearfully apologized for her outburst, then demanded to know why the accounts had been “zeroed out,” to use the teller’s term. The black trundled off, and instead of answering, the thin man merely confirmed all of Mrs Herlihy’s personal information, by rote — they even had her cellphone number on file — and Marjorie told him yes she would wait, but then he got called away, apparently to deal with a customer complaint, that’s all they seemed to have around here, and she heard the black start to laugh, and Marj thought, She’d better not be laughing about me. Because there is nothing funny about this or the way it is being handled. People can be sued for their behavior and that woman should know it, but the laughter was grating nonetheless, distant, over by the vault, she was having a mighty laugh with the Persian, Marj didn’t think it was at her expense anymore, probably just sharing a dumb joke, the 2 tittering away like the old woman’s problems had ceased to exist or were something that wouldn’t stop the world for one iota of a single second. Marj had the very same feeling when Hamilton was hooked up in the CCU and she heard nurses laughing somewhere while the life drained out of him. She grew lightheaded and decided to go home without even making the effort to announce her intentions.

SHE forgot where the Imperial was parked then had a violent attack of diarrhea. She found it, almost by chance.

There was a vending machine with free papers and she grabbed some to sit on so she wouldn’t stain the leather seat. On the way home she was almost struck by another car and winced at the imprecations of the driver as he reentered traffic.

She stripped off her soggy dress, put it in a Glad bag, and ran a hot bath. She got the notepad with the numbers on it and called Joan’s house, thinking it was her cell, but hung up before being connected. She rang again, got a message, then put down the receiver without leaving word. She thought of phoning Lucas — maybe everyone had been wrong about him and the Bonita gal, but who was everyone? — and wanted desperately to call Jeff Chandler and the woman from Wells too, kicking herself for having left their cards at the bank. How could she have left their cards with those bloodless people? Though maybe it was best to sit tight: the pair were possibly “scammers,” that was the word her daughter used, even though Marj couldn’t believe it. They had been so kind! They were real. She didn’t trust the thin man, the black, or their double-doored nonsense as far as she could throw them. She thought of calling Joan again…she wished Ham were there, her white knight, always so protective, like her father was, so polite and respectful yet intimidating, he would have known how to deal with these people, he wouldn’t have allowed anyone into the house in the 1st place, and now she wondered about that bureaucrat who said he was going to call the police — what police? Was it really her bank, or something that looked like her bank? It sure seemed different. She didn’t recognize anyone there either. (It was as if they were actors.) Hadn’t she been there just a few days ago? How would they have put those double doors in so quickly? That was a big job! Maybe she’d ask Cora about it, but Cora did her banking at Fremont, on Wilshire. Maybe Stein would know. Stein probably used a lot of banks. Yes, she would ask Cora to ask Stein if he’d noticed any renovations at Pico-Robertson. He might even have “information,” like businessmen sometimes do. Maybe he would know if this particular branch was notorious for defrauding the elderly.

She turned off the faucet.

It simply couldn’t be true that she had no money in her accounts! The agent and the Wells lady made her write a series of checks because they said it was absolutely necessary, in order to catch AKA Mr Weyerhauser in the act, that was the way the Bureau did it so the charges would stick. The Bureau insisted it be done like that or else the gang would “strike again.” Besides, there was always the chance it was an inside job and they said that if the money was in their hands, there would be no question of its being safe. Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there. So she wrote out the checks and they gave her receipts and told her what time to go to the bank because they would need her to identify AKA Mr Weyerhauser — they always called him that, AKA Mr Weyerhauser — they said exactly when to come because she was “critical” to the arrest, the eyewitness who would seal the ringleader’s fate. They needed her to ensure this would never happen again.

(She remembered the agent had said, “You are my hero.”)

Marj climbed in the tub, along with her soiled slip and underwear. That was dumb, she thought, she should have washed herself 1st, but what was done was done. They floated around her like flotsam from the Titanic. She soaped up her itchy behind. The phone rang and she leapt from the bath, and barely caught herself from falling, thinking it was someone from the bank. Trudy, from the Travel Gals, was on the line. She’d put together a wonderful “mother-daughter package” at a phenomenal rate — a 2 week trip that took in Bombay, Delhi, and Agra. Marj stood there sopping and shivering and said that she couldn’t talk just now. She was on her way back to the tub when the phone rang again.

“Mother?”

“Who — Joan?”

“Mommy, it’s me! I was in an accident!”

“Joan! Where — where are you? My God—”

“I — it was my fault. Oh God, Mother! The woman — she’s hurt! I’m going to miss my plane. I’m going to lose the job! I’m going to lose the entire fucking job and all the work I’ve done!”

“Where are you? Baby? Baby! Are you all right?”

“Yes!” She took a moment to pull herself together. “I’m — I’m OK.” She started to whimper. “The man says it was my fault and he — he wants to talk to you…”

“Hullo?”

“Hullo?”

“Hello, who’s this?”

“This is Arnold Mathers, who’s this?”

“Marjorie Herlihy. I’m her mother. Is she all right—”

“Well, I’m the guy whose car your daughter just hit! My wife is having a fuckin miscarriage! Your daughter hit my wife! I think she’s drunk, or on drugs!”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean—”

“We are very badly shaken up. The paramedics are here and my wife is bleeding from between her legs!”

The man started choking back tears.

“We’re going to lose the baby!” cried a woman.

“Take deep breaths, darling. It’s gonna to be OK.”

“What can I — how can I—”

“Hello? Who is this?”

“This is Marjorie Herlihy! May I please speak to my daughter?”

“This is Antonio Borgosa. I’m a lawyer — I saw the whole thing. Your daughter was clearly at fault. It’s Joan Herlihy, correct?”

“Yes—”

“We’re calling from the County of Marin. Did you know your daughter was up north?”

“Yes…”

“Well, she’s in trouble, big-time. The woman she ran into was 6 months pregnant.”

A man said over and over, “I have to go with my wife! I need to go with my wife to the hospital!”

“Listen,” said the lawyer. “There’s something you can do and the gentleman said he won’t press charges.”

“What is it? Tell me—”

“Hullo?”

“Hello? Who is this?” said Marj.

“The father of the baby your hopped-up daughter just snuffed!”

“Oh God!”

“That’s right—killed. Now you listen to me—”

Joan cried out, “Mommy, do what he says, do what he says!”

“Oh Lord Lord Lord Lord.”

Marj sat on the floor, the shit pouring out of her. She was cramping and blanching, her eyes watery from pain. She put a fist in her mouth and bit down.

“Just listen to me. I don’t want to deal with the insurance companies. I hate insurance companies.”

“Mommy!” Her daughter grabbed the phone. “Mama, I think my insurance lapsed. I don’t even think I have insurance! Oh God, am I going to lose my job? The job up north? And the condo? Mama, if I can’t get on the plane I am going to lose everything!”

“But they said you already — that they were calling…”

The nasty man got back on the line.

“I want you to get your jewelry and put it in a little suitcase—everything you have. That means wedding and engagement rings, necklaces, pins, all the crap that dead prick husband ever gave you, understand? Put it in a bag, get in your car and bring it — now!”

“Please! I don’t know where — I don’t I can’t I—”

“Bring it to me now, you hundred-year-old monkeycunt, or you will regret the day you were born! My wife is bleeding internally and our baby is dead! Because of your fucked-up daughter! You spawned her! A junkie pig who turns tricks in Porta-Potties!”

“Mister, please! She’ll do it! She’ll do it! Mommy!”

“Get the jewelry.”

“Mama, I’m so scared! There’s blood, everywhere!”

“Get the jewelry and don’t forget the opal! You are human garbage, do you understand? Get the rings and the diamonds and the everything, put em in a bag, and sit your skinny terminal gullible ass in the car and wait. In the fucking driveway. And don’t fucking talk to anyone or I will dig the eyes from your daughter’s head and fuck her skull with doggie-dicks. Am I making myself clear?”

“Mommy!”

“The baby’s dead! The baby’s dead!”

“I will lock little Joanie in jail with maggots and animals. Do you hear me, you deaf and dumb geriatrical cunt? I’ll be there in 5 minutes, OK, senile shithole? 5 minutes—or I will kick your daughter in the stomach till she bleeds from her ass and her eyes!” He started to sob. “My baby is dead! Do you understand, Mrs Herlihy? Your daughter killed my little girl!”

“Mommy! Help me! Help me! Help me!”

“Let me talk to my daughter! Let me talk to her!”

“Hi! This is Antonio Villaraigosa again! I am a personal injury attorney with many, many years experience. Listen, this gentleman is agitated, he is very emotional, but I think it is best from the legal point of view that you do as he says.”

There was a muffle of laughter and sirens and shouting before a breathless Joan got on the line. “Mommy, are you going to help me? Are you going to do as they say?”

“Yes! Of course,” she said, already struggling to remove the ring, the ring she hadn’t taken off in more than 30 years. Her finger was swollen and she went to get soap. “I will, baby! Hold tight! Hold tight!”

“Hurry!” screamed Joan.

The line went dead.