Numbered Account

Cerruti bounced to his feet. "Come, let's have a drink. What can I get you?"

Nick felt buoyed by Cerruti's enthusiasm. "How about a beer?"

"I'm sorry, I don't touch alcohol. Makes me nervous. Will a soda do?"

"Sure, that's fine." If alcohol made this guy nervous, what calmed him down? Nick wondered.

Cerruti disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later, he returned with two cans of soda and glasses filled with ice. Nick took the glass and poured himself a soft drink.

"To your father," Cerruti toasted.

Nick raised his glass, then took a sip. "I never knew he worked directly under Wolfgang Kaiser. What did he do?"

"Why, your father was Kaiser's number two for years. Portfolio management, of course. The Chairman never told you?"

"No, I've only spoken to him for a few minutes since I arrived. Like you said, he's pretty busy these days."

"Your father was a tiger. There was a lot of competition between the two of them."

"What do you mean?"

"Come now, turn the page. I kept a letter from your father. It will show you what I mean. Actually, it's one of his monthly reports. An update detailing the business conducted at the Los Angeles office."

Nick turned the page to find a wrinkled memorandum held in place by a transparent plastic sheet. The stationery was headed United Swiss Bank, Los Angeles Representative Office, Alexander Neumann Vice President and Bureau Manager. The memo was addressed to Wolfgang Kaiser and cc'd to Urs Knecht, Beat Frey, and Klaus Konig. It was dated June 17, 1968.

The text was uneventful, more notable for the casual tone employed (compared with the formal reports submitted today) than for any important news. Nick's father wrote about three prospective clients he had visited, a deposit he had received for $125,000 from Walter Galahad, "a big shot at MGM," and his need for a secretary. He mentioned that he could not be expected to mimeograph bank documents and then go to lunch at Perino's, blue ink wet on his hands. He planned a trip to San Francisco the next week. Most interesting to Nick's eye was the postscript labeled "Confidential"- no doubt a ruse to ensure maximum readership. "Wolf, am prepared to double our wager. Goal of one million in deposits first year too easy. Don't say I'm not fair. Alex."

Nick read the memorandum a second time, this time slowly, line by line. He felt as if his father were still alive. Alex Neumann had a plane to catch next week to San Francisco. A bet with Wolfgang Kaiser he was determined to win. A luncheon date at Perino's. How could he be dead seventeen years? He had a marriage, a child, an entire life in front of him.

Nick stared at the words, transfixed. His stomach grew hollow and his shoulders ached with a fatigue that hadn't been there moments ago. One look at the picture, one reading of the memo, and he was ready to fall apart. He was utterly surprised that after so long he could feel so much pain. He flipped back to the picture and looked deep into his father's eyes. He realized at that instant that he'd taught himself not to miss the man, not to miss Alexander Neumann, but to miss the role he played, to miss his father. He had never considered for a second that he'd been deprived of knowing someone special, a man Cerruti had adored. For the first time in his life Nick felt sorry for his father, for the forty-year-old executive who'd had his life stolen from him. He had discovered a new wellspring of sorrow and already its waters were seeping into him, filling him with his own worst memories.

Nick closed his eyes and held them tightly shut.

He is no longer in Marco Cerruti's apartment. He is a boy. It is night. He shudders as the strobe of a police siren lights a dozen shadowy figures dressed in yellow sou'westers. A heavy rain pounds his shoulders. He walks toward the front door of a house he's never seen before. Why is his father staying here only two miles from home? Business? That's the excuse his mother has lamely provided. Or, is it because lately his parents never seem to stop arguing? Inside the doorway, his father lies on his side in his tan pajamas. A pond of blood has gathered between his chest and his outstretched arm. "Sonuvabitch caught three in the chest," whispers a policeman behind Nick. "Sonuvabitch caught three in the chest, caught three in the chest…"

Marco Cerruti placed a hand on Nick's shoulder. "Are you all right, Mr. Neumann?"

Nick shuddered at the touch. "Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks."

"I was so sorry to learn about your father."

Nick tapped the report. "Reading this brought back some old memories. Do you think I might keep it?"

"Nothing would give me more pleasure." Cerruti folded back the sheet and delicately removed the memorandum. "There are more of these in the bank archives. We've never thrown away a single piece of official correspondence. Not in one hundred twenty-five years."

"Where would I find them?"

"Dokumentation Zentrale. Ask Karl. He can find anything."