“You don’t,” he said pleasantly. “You can’t. But I hope for your sake that you’ll keep the promise nonetheless. A promise means no exceptions. Understood?”
Of course he hadn’t understood. And later, when he began to, Dexter could only marvel at the sleight of hand whereby his father-in-law had jimmied himself out of a straitjacket with enough leverage to extract promises. Houdini couldn’t have topped it: his daughter was knocked up and refused to have it taken care of. Had Arthur withheld his consent, she’d have run away with Dexter: a disgrace. The old man hadn’t had enough room to scratch his nose, yet he’d bargained as if the advantage were all his—intuiting with eerie perspicacity that, although criminal, Dexter was a man of his word. Monogamy was nothing short of exotic in his line of work, yet no sooner had the ice-creamy arm of a chorus girl encircled his neck than Dexter felt watched: Would this be the slip? The thin end of the wedge? It worked better than a cold shower. Afterward, he was always relieved, grateful, even. Dames were as bad as dope for turning a man against his interests. And Harriet was better-looking than all of them.
There had been the one on the train. A unique misstep—out of time and place—that had strengthened his resolve never to err again.
Now, having broken his promise a second time exactly two weeks ago on this night, Dexter was forced to consider that the old man might have brought him here to confront him with that fact. But how could he know? What George Porter had seen was nothing. And even if George suspected, Dexter’s sin paled beside his own. Anyway, the doctor had became bluff and friendly again with Dexter since that night, the manly understanding between them newly enriched.
He emerged from this brown study to find the old man watching him. “You’ve not seemed quite yourself these past weeks,” he said. “I wonder what’s on your mind.”
Dexter swallowed. How did the real adulterers do it? But there was something on his mind, of course—he’d been conniving for a month to bend the old man’s ear about it. With relief, he began, “I feel the need of a change, sir.”
“Sir?”
Dexter flushed. “Arthur.”
“What sort of change?”
“Professional.”
“You’ve quite a diversity of interests already, haven’t you?”
“That’s a fact. But I’m on the wrong side.”
Music sputtered like a distant phonograph through bursts of glacial wind. They might have been standing at the end of the earth: a gray-black landscape of water and ice.
“Right and wrong are relative terms, aren’t they, in your line of work?” the old man asked.
“I’ve always said so.”
Arthur whistled. “It’s late in the day to come down with a case of idealism.”
Dexter heard his smile. “It seems to be an epidemic,” he said.
“War will do that. One of many ancillary benefits.”
“I want to be an honest part of what comes next,” Dexter said. “Not a leech sucking blood off its back.”
The old man took a long breath, something like a sigh. “It’s a pity we’re forced to make the choices that govern the whole of our lives when we’re so goddamn young.”
“If they’re the wrong choices, then we have to make new ones,” Dexter said. “Even late in the day.”
An onslaught of wind made his eyes water, but the old man didn’t so much as hold his hat. When the blast subsided, he said, “Judging by my limited knowledge of your associates and their business practices, changing sides won’t be easy.”
“It’s already happening naturally,” Dexter said. “I’ve legitimate interests here, in Chicago, in Florida. I’ve friendships all over.”
“I don’t doubt that. You’re a likable fellow. But is your employer aware of this . . . natural divergence?”
It was the first time Dexter could recall the old man referring, singly and directly, to Mr. Q. His fleeting amazement gave way to a heady sense of convergence, as if a bridge had suddenly appeared between irreconcilable worlds. And a bridge was precisely what he needed.
“I’m certain he’s aware,” Dexter said. “But it’s up to me to take a decisive step.”
The old man was too canny not to have sensed where this talk was leading—probably he’d known from the word “professional,” or even “sir.” Dexter squared his shoulders and took a breath. “It occurred to me,” he said, swallowing back another “sir” that rose like a bubble in his throat, “that I might bring my legitimate assets and interests to you. At the bank.”
“We’d buy you out,” the old man said.
“Exactly.”
His father-in-law’s silence seemed a good sign—a sign of serious consideration. Dexter eyed the whorls of frozen sea at his feet. His life had already changed course once in this spot—why not again?
“You’re not thinking clearly, son,” the old man said at last, in the same mild way he said everything. “And that worries me considerably—for your own safety and that of persons dear to me who are under your protection.”
An entity deep within Dexter recoiled as if scalded, but he managed to say casually, “How do you figure?”
“You’ve a good life, Dexter. A beautiful family. You’re known, respected—sought after. Your name is in the papers. That’s double, triple what most men achieve in a lifetime. But it isn’t portable. You possess a currency that cannot be used in any country besides its own.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Then clear your head, son. Clear your head.” Son was a diminutive; what the old man called Cooper.
“It feels terribly clear,” Dexter said. “My head.”
“Do you know,” the old man said affably, “after the Great War, when we formed syndicates to underwrite the bond issues to build railroads and factories, we never had so much as a contract with any of our partners? Not the managing group closest to us, not even the purchasing group that sold the bonds to the public. There was no law to oversee those transactions. Trust, reputation—those were all we needed. All we had! To this day, the entirety of my business rests upon trust.”
“But you do trust me,” Dexter said. “You’ve shown that time and again.”
“I trust you entirely. You’d have made a tremendous banker, Dexter. A partner, nothing less.” This was a reference to Cooper, a junior in the firm unlikely to rise much further despite his pedigree. “I’ve absolute faith in your vision. Which is why I’m mystified by your failure to see that your reputation—your history—is prohibitive.”
Dexter strained to regroup. How had he not foreseen this objection? But he had—it was the first thing he’d foreseen. He’d simply counted on the old man’s power, reputation, and independence to sweep it aside.
“I never thought you cared for other men’s opinions,” he said.
“Personally, I don’t,” the old man said. “In business, I’ve no choice. I know exactly how far I can go. Am I saying no bank in New York would have you? Certainly not. There are banks where reputation matters less. But why? Why become a middling banker at a middling firm, forever trying to prove you’ve gone straight?”