I wandered to the porch door and looked out at the yard. Either she or her husband shared the neighborhood mania for gardening: the tiny square of grass was lined with weedless flower beds on one side and vegetables on the other. My father had liked to garden, too, but I hadn’t inherited a longing to dig around in the ground.
Mrs. Tertz returned after about ten minutes, her face flushed and her gray curls changed into tiny corkscrews by the humidity. She held out a flyer to me.
“I tried to call Chrissie to make sure she wouldn’t mind me showing it to you, but I couldn’t get hold of her. So I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
My throat constricted with tension. That’s what I needed all right—for Chrissie to pop in at this moment. Although I’d already tipped my hand to Vinnie Buttone. What difference did it make if Mrs. Tertz called Chrissie?
I took the brochure from Mrs. Tertz’s unwilling fingers and flipped through its four sides. She wouldn’t let me borrow it, even for the afternoon, so I studied it carefully while she breathed over my arm.
IS YOUR MONEY DOING ENOUGH FOR YOU?
the front cover asked in screaming type.
The inside panel pointed out the woes of people living on fixed incomes.
Are your savings in certificates of deposit? Maybe your banker or your broker told you that was the best place for your money now that you’re past retirement age. No risk, they probably told you. But no return, either. Your banker may think because you’re past retirement you don’t deserve the same investments younger folks get. But those CDs he sold you aren’t going to grow fast enough to cover the cost of expensive nursing care if you need it. Or to take you on that dream vacation if you want it. What you need is risk-free money that provides great returns.
A photo of an old woman in a derelict nursing home bed stared grimly from the left panel, while an elderly couple with golf clubs gazed raptly at the ocean on the right.
“Just as safe as federally insured funds,” the copy trumpeted. “U.S. Metropolitan can provide you with investments that pay up to 17 percent—and leave your worries behind.”
“Just as safe as federally insured funds,” I repeated aloud. “An unsecured bond that isn’t paying jackshit and is trading at nineteen dollars on the hundred.”
The bitterness in my voice startled Mrs. Tertz, who snatched the flyer from me. “If you’re going to be angry about it I just can’t let you look at it; it wouldn’t be fair to Chrissie.”
I tried to smile, but I could feel my mouth twist sideways. “Chrissie may have meant it for the best, but she wasn’t very fair to Mrs. Frizell. I do hope not too many of you on the block here bought investments from her or Vinnie. Otherwise the two of them are going to own most of the street before long.”
She bit her lips uncomfortably, but told me she thought it was time for me to go. As she shepherded me rapidly through the house to the front door, I could hear her bemoaning the mistake she’d made under her breath. I think she was talking more about letting me into the house than about buying junk bonds. At least I hoped so.
The heat had lifted somewhat by the time I got outside, but my blouse still grew wet across the neck and armpits during the short walk to my own building. The perfect appeal to a recluse with a chip on her shoulder—your banker is cheating you just because you’re old. And your new investment is just as safe as federally insured funds.
As I passed Vinnie’s apartment door I wanted to kick it in, to violate his home as he had decimated Mrs. Frizell’s. I’d been there several times last year; I knew it was filled with high-priced modern art. Almost as good an investment as a federally insured CD. Figure out how to replace that stuff, I thought, panting as I pictured myself trashing it. I actually gave the door a savage kick that left a scuff mark on the paneling. That alone would drive him into a frenzy: he had personally sanded and painted it an eggshell white. The rest of us were content with the dark varnish that came with the building.
Up in my own place I undid the locks, forgetting my new electronic alarm until a high-pitched whistle interrupted me as I gulped down a glass of water. I sprinted down the hall to the front door and punched in the numbers to shut off the system. I hoped I’d been fast enough to forestall a visit from the cops.
I went back to the kitchen and filled another glass under the tap. I drank it more slowly, carrying it with me as I walked to the living room to call Max. I took off my shoes and socks and massaged my toes. The loafers didn’t give enough support; my feet ached from walking around in them.
Curling my legs under me, I leaned back in the armchair with my eyes shut. I needed to relax before I talked to Max. Get the image of Mrs. Frizell restlessly moving in her hospital bed out of my brain, let my anger with Vinnie and Chrissie work its way out of my shoulders and fingertips. I’ve never been too good at that kind of exercise; after a few fruitless minutes I sat up and dialed Max’s number.