"Yes, yes," Cerruti tried unsuccessfully to conceal his disappointment. "Well, I'm sure the Chairman will call me soon and let me know his plans. Carry on then, who's next?"

"Another client is causing a fuss. I'm afraid it's one of our numbered accounts, so I don't know the name." Nick made a show of searching for the account number among the papers on his lap. After all, he was only a trainee, he couldn't be expected to match the mental acuity of Maestro Cerruti. He held up a sheet of paper. "Found it. Account 549.617 RR."

"Can you repeat that?" whispered Cerruti. His blinking had gone haywire.

"Five four nine, six one seven, R R. I'm sure you recognize the number."

"Yes, yes. Of course, I do." Cerruti harrumphed. He fidgeted. His hands mangled each other. "Well, get to it, boy. What's the problem?"

"Not a problem really. More an opportunity. I'd like to convince this client to keep more of his assets with us. In the last six weeks he's transferred over $200 million through our accounts without keeping a dime of it overnight. I'm sure we can make some more money off of him than simple transfer fees."

Suddenly, Cerruti was on his feet. "Stay there, Nicholas. No moving. No budging. I'll be right back. I have something wonderful to show you."

Before Nick could protest, he was gone. He came back a minute later with a spiral scrapbook tucked under his arm. He thrust the scrapbook into Nick's hands and opened it to a spot kept by a leather bookmark. "Recognize anyone?" he asked.

Nick peered down at the color photo on the right-hand page. It was a 5 by 7 of Wolfgang Kaiser, Marco Cerruti, Alexander Neumann, and a stout, jolly-looking fellow with a sweaty brow. A voluptuous woman with frosted blond hair and bright pink lipstick curtsied in front of them. She was a knockout. Kaiser held one of her hands to his mouth, giving it a zesty kiss. Not to be outdone, the jolly little fellow held her other hand in a similar position. The woman's sparkling eyes made it clear she was enjoying the attention. A handwritten caption beneath the photograph read, "California, Here He Comes! December 1967."

Nick stared at his father. Alexander Neumann was tall and slim, hair as black as Nick's, cut in the style of the day. His blue eyes shone with the zeal of a thousand dreams, all of them attainable. He was laughing. A man with the world before him.

Standing next to him, a head shorter, was Cerruti, ever the dandy, sporting a red carnation in the lapel of a dark suit. Wolfgang Kaiser came next, exuberantly smooching the attractive woman's hand. His mustache was, if possible, bushier than today. Nick did not recognize the fourth man or the woman.

"Your father's going-away party," said Cerruti. "Before he left to open the office in Los Angeles. We were some crew, all of us bachelors. Handsome devils, eh? Everyone at the bank came to the party. Of course, we were only a couple hundred back then."

"You said you worked with him?"

"We all worked together. We were the heart and soul of private banking. Kaiser was our divisional manager. I served as an apprentice under your father. Looked after me like a brother, he did. He'd been promoted to vice president that very day." Cerruti tapped the picture. "I adored Alex. I hated to see him go to Los Angeles but for me it was a big step up."

Nick continued studying the photograph. He'd seen few snapshots of his father before he came to America, mostly black-and-white portraits of a tall unsmiling teenager in a strict Sunday suit. He was surprised at how much younger he looked in Cerruti's photo than in his own recollections. This Alex Neumann was happy, really happy. Nick didn't have a single memory of his father being so cheerful, so unrestrained.

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…"