The Moneychangers

As Alex paused, Floyd LeBerre interjected, "I have one observation right away."

Patterton, his habit of politeness back in place, inquired~ "Do you want to take questions as we go, Alex, or leave them to the end?" "I'll take Floyd's now."

"This isn't a question," the General Cable chairman said unsmilingly. "It's a matter of record. I'm against a major savings expansion because if we do it we'll be ripping our own gut. Right now we've big deposits from correspondent banks…"

"Eighteen million dollars from the savings and loan institutions," Alex said. He had expected LeBerre's objection, and it was valid. Few banks existed alone; most had financial ties with others and First Mercantile American was no exception. Several local savings and loan institutions maintained large deposits with FMA and fear that these sums would be withdrawn had deterred other proposed savings activity in the past. Alex stated, "I've taken that into account.

LeBerre was unsatisfied. "Have you taken into account that if we compete intensively with our own customers we'll lose every bit of that business?"

"Some of it. I don't believe all. In any case, new business we’ll generate should far exceed what's lost." "So you say." Alex insisted, "I see it as an acceptable risk."

Leonard Kingswood said quietly, "You were against any risk with Supranational, Alex."

"I'm not against risks. This is a far smaller risk. The two have no relation." Faces around the table mirrored skepticism. LeBerre said, "I'd like to hear Roscoe's view." Two others echoed, "Yes, let's hear Roscoe."

Heads turned to Heyward who had been studying his folded hands. He said blandly, "One doesn't like to torpedo a colleague."

"Why not?" someone asked. "It's what he tried to do to you."

Heyward smiled faintly. "I prefer to rise above that." His face went serious. "I do, however, agree with Floyd. Intensive savings activity on our part would lose us importent correspondent business. I do not believe any theoretical potential gain is worth it." He pointed to one of Straughan's charts indicating the geography of proposed new branches. "Board members win observe that five of the suggested branches would be in locations close to savings and loan associations who are large depositors with FMA. We can be sure that that win not escape their attention either."

"Those locations," Alex said, "have been carefully chosen as a result of population studies. They're where the people are. Sure the S&Ls got there first; in many ways they've been more farsighted than ~banks like ours. But it doesn't mean we should stay away forever."

Heyward shrugged. "I've already given my opinion. I'll say one thing, though I dislike the entire idea of storefront branches."

Alex snapped, 'they'll be money shops the branch banks of the future." Everything, he realized, was coming out contrary to the way he had intended. The subject of the branches themselves he had planned to get to later. Well, he supposed it made no difference now.

"From their description," Floyd LeBerre said he was reading an information sheet Tom Straughan had circulated "those branches sound like laundromats."

Heyward, also reading, shook his head. "Not in keeping with our style. No dignity."

"We'd do better to shed some dignity and add more business," Alex declared. "Yes, storefront banks resemble laundromats; just the same, they're the kind of branch banks which are coming in. I'll make a prediction to the board: Neither we nor our competitors can go on affording the gilded sepulchers we have as branch banks now. The cost of land and construction make it senseless. In ten years, half at least of our present branch banks will have ceased to exist as we know them. We'll retain a few key ones. The rest will be in less expensive premises, totally automated, with machine tellers, TV monitors to answer queries, and all linked to a computer-center. In planning new branches including the nine I'm advocating here it's that transition we should be anticipating."

"Alex is right about automation," Leonard Kingswood said. "Most of us see it in our own businesses, moving in faster than we ever expected."

"What's equally important," Alex asserted, "is that we've a chance to jump ahead profitably that is, if we do it dramatically, with flair and fanfare. The advertising and promotion campaign would be massive, saturation coverage. Gentlemen, look at the figures. First, our present savings deposits substantially lower than they should be…"

He moved on, aided by the charts and an occasional amplification by Tom Straughan. Alex knew that the figures and proposals, which he and Straughan had toiled over, were solid and logical. Yet he sensed flat opposition from some board members, a lack of interest by others. Lower down the table a director put a hand over his mouth, stifling a yawn. Obviously he had lost. The savings and branch expansion plan would be rejected and would be, in effect, a vote of "no confidence" in him as well. As he had earlier, Alex wondered how long his own tenure with FMA could continue. There seemed little future for him, nor could he see himself as a participant in a Heyward-dominated regime.

He decided not to waste more time. "Okay, I'll leave it there, gentlemen. Unless there are further questions."

He had not expected any. Least of all did he anticipate support from the source from which suddenly, amazingly, it came.

"Alex," Harold Austin said with a smile and friendly tone, "I'd' like to say thank you. Frankly, I'm impressed. I hadn't expected to be, but your presentation was convincing. What's more, I like the idea of those new branch banks."

A few seats away Heyward looked startled, then glared at Austin. The Honorable Harold ignored him and appealed to others at the table. "I think we should look at this with an open mind, putting aside our disagreements of this morning."

Leonard Kingswood nodded, as did several others. Still more directors shed post-lunch drowsiness, their attention returning. Not for nothing was Austin the FMA board member with longest service. His influence was pervasive. He also was adept at swinging others to his points of view.

"Near the beginning of your remarks, Alex," he said, "you spoke of a return to personal thrift, and leadership which banks like ours might give." "Yes, I did." "Could you expand that thought?" Alex hesitated. "I suppose so."

Should he? Alex weighed choices. He was no longer surprised at the interjection. He knew exactly why Austin had switched sides.

Advertising. Earlier, when Alex had suggested a "massive advertising campaign" with "saturation coverage," he had seen Austin's head come up, his interest clearly quicken. From that point it was not hard to see inside that head. The Austin Advertising Agency, by reason of the Honorable Harold's directorship and influence at FMA, had a monopoly of the bank's advertising business. A campaign such as Alex envisaged would bring substantial profit to the Austin Agency.

Austin's action was conflict of interest in its grossest form the same conflict of interest which Alex had attacked this morning over Roscoe Heyward's appointment to the board of Supranational. Alex had asked then: Whose interests would Roscoe put first? Supranational's or those of First Mercantile American shareholders? Now, a parallel question should be asked of Austin.

The answer was obvious. Austin was looking out for his own interests; FMA came second. Never mind that Alex believed in the plan. The support for selfish reasons was unethical, an abuse of trust.

Should Alex say so? If he did, it would touch off an uproar even greater than this morning's, and he would lose again. Directors clung together like lodge brothers. Furthermore, such a confrontation would end, for sure, Alex's own effectiveness at FMA. So was it worth it? Was it necessary? Did his duties require him to be keeper of the board's conscience? Alex wasn't sure. Meanwhile the directors were watching him and waiting.

"Yes," he said, "I did refer as Harold has reminded me to thrift and a need for leadership." Alex glanced at notes which, a few minutes ago, he had decided to discard.

"It is often said," he told the listening directors, "that government, industry, and commerce of all kinds are founded upon credit. Without credit, without borrowing, without loans small, medium, and massive business would disintegrate and civilization wither. Bankers know this best.

"Yet, increasingly, there are those who believe that borrowing and deficit financing have gone mad, and have eclipsed all reason. Especially is this true of governments. The United States government-has amassed an appalling mountain range of debt, far beyond our ability ever to repay. Other governments are in as bad, or worse, condition. This is the real reason for inflation and the undermining of currencies at home and internationally.

"To a remarkable extent," Alex continued, "overwhelming government debt is matched by gargantuan corporate debt. And, at a lower financial level, millions of people individuals following examples nationally set have assumed debt burdens which they cannot pay. Total U.S. indebtedness is two and a half trillion dollars. National consumer debt is now approaching two hundred billion dollars. In the past six years more than a million Americans have gone bankrupt.

"Somewhere along the way nationally, corporately, individually we have lost the ancient verity of thrift and husbandry, of balancing what we spend against what we earn, and of keeping what we owe within honest limitations."

Suddenly the mood of the board had become sober. Responding to it, Alex said quietly, "I wish I could say there is a trend away from what I have described. I am not convinced there is. But trends begin with resolute action somewhere. Why not here?

"In the nature of our times, savings deposits more than any other type of monetary activity represent financial prudence. Nationally and individually we need more prudence. A way to achieve it is through enormous increases in savings.

"There can be tremendous increases if we commit ourselves, and if we work. And while personal savings alone will not restore fiscal sanity everywhere, it is at least one major move toward that end.

"This is why there is an opportunity for leadership and also why here and now I believe this bank should exercise it."

Alex sat down. Seconds later he realized he had said nothing about his doubts concerning Austin's intervention.

Leonard Kingswood broke the brief, ensuing silence. "Sense and truth don't always make palatable listening. But I think we all just heard some."

Philip Johannsen grunted, then said grudgingly, "I'll buy part of that."

"I buy it all," the Honorable Harold said. "In my opinion the board should approve the savings and branch expansion plan as presented. I intend to vote for it. I urge the rest of you to do the same."

This time Roscoe Heyward did not display his outrage, though his face was tightly set. Alex figured that Heyward, too, had guessed Harold Austin's motivation.

For another fifteen minutes discussion swirled until Jerome Patterton rapped with his gavel and called for a vote. By an overwhelming majority Alex Vandervoort's proposals were approved. Floyd LeBerre and Roscoe Heyward were the only dissenters.

On his way out of the boardroom Alex was aware that the earlier hostility had not vanished. Some directors made it plain that they still resented his strong stance of this morning on Supranational. But the latest, unexpected outcome had made him more buoyant, less pessimistic about his continuing role at FMA

Harold Austin intercepted him. "Alex, when will you move on the savings plan?"

"Immediately." Not wishing to seem ungracious, he added, "Thank you for your support."

Austin nodded. "What I'd like to do now is come in with two or three of my agency people to discuss the campaign." "Very well. Next week."

So Austin had confirmed without delay or embarrassment what Alex had deduced. Though to be fair, Alex thought, the Austin Advertising Agency did good work and could be selected to handle the savings campaign on merit.

But he was rationalizing and knew it. By keeping silent a few minutes ago he had sacrificed principle to achieve an end. He wondered what Margot would think of his defection.

The Honorable Harold said affably, "Then I'll be seeing you."

Roscoe Heyward, leaving the boardroom just ahead of Alex, was accosted by a uniformed bank messenger who handed him a sealed envelope. Heyward ripped it open and took out a folded message slip. Reading it, he brightened visibly, glanced at his watch, and smiled. Alex wondered why.

13

The note was a simple one. Typed by Roscoe's trusted senior secretary, Dora Callaghan, it informed him that Miss Deveraux had telephoned, leaving word she was in town and would like him to call as soon as possible. The note supplied a phone number and extension.

Heyward recognized the number: the Columbia Hilton Hotel. Miss Deveraux was Avril.

They had met twice since the trip to the Bahamas a month and a half ago. Both times it had been at the Columbia Hilton. And on each occasion, as well as during that night in Nassau when he had pressed button number seven to bring Avril to his room, she had taken him to a kind of paradise, a place of sexual ecstasy such as he had never dreamed existed. Avril knew incredible things to do to a man which during that original night had at first shocked and then delighted him. Later, her skill aroused wave after wave of sensual pleasure until he had cried out in sheer joy, using words which he did not know he knew. Afterward Avril had been gentle, caressing, loving, and patient, until, to his surprise and exultation, he was aroused once more.

It was then he began to realize, with an awareness which had heightened since, how much of life's passion and glory the mutual exploring, uplifting, sharing, giving, and receiving he and Beatrice had never known.

For Roscoe and Beatrice his discovery had come too late, though perhaps for Beatrice it was a discovery she never would have wanted. But there was time still for Roscoe and Avril; on the occasions since Nassau they had proved it. He glanced at his watch, smiling the smile which Vandervoort had seen.

He'd go to Avril as soon as possible, of course. It would mean rearranging his schedule for this afternoon and evening, but no matter. Even now, the thought of seeing her once more excited him, so that his body was stirring and reacting like a youth's.

On a few occasions since the affair with Avril began, conscience had trouped him. During recent Sundays in church, the text he had read aloud before going to the Bahamas came back to haunt him: Righteousness exalteth a nation: but sin is a reproach to any people. At such moments he consoled himself with the words of Christ in the Gospel of St. John: He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone… And: I judge no man. Heyward even permitted himself to reflect with a levity which not long ago would have appalled him that the Bible, like statistics, could be used to prove anything.

In any case, debate was immaterial. The intoxication with Avril was stronger than any stab of conscience.

Walking from the boardroom to his office suite on the same floor, he reflected, glowing: A session with Avril would consummate a triumphal day, with his Supranational proposals approved and his professional prestige at a zenith with the board. He had, of course, been disarm pointed at this afternoon's outcome and downright angry at what he saw as Harold Austin's betrayal, though he had deduced at once the selfish reasoning behind it. However, Heyward had little fear that Vandervoort's ideas would produce much real success. The plus-effect on bank profits this year of his own Supranational arrangements would be far, far greater. Which reminded him he must make a decision about the additional half million dollars requested by Big George Quartermain as a further loan to Q-Investments.

Roscoe Heyward frowned slightly. He supposed in the whole matter of Q-Investments there was some mild irregularity, though in view of the bank's commitment to Supranational, and vice versa, it didn't seem too serious. He had raised the matter in a confidential memo to Jerome Patterton a month or so ago.

G.G. Quartermain of Supranational phoned me twice yesterday from New York about a personal project of his called Q-Investments. This is a small private group of which Quartermain (Big George) is the principal, and our own director, Harold Austin, is a member. The group has already bought large blocks of common stock of various Supranational enterprises at advantageous terms. More purchases are planned.

What Big George wants from us is a loan to Q-Investments of $1 million at the same low rate as the Supranational loan, though without any requirement of a compensating balance. He points out that the SuNatCo compensating balance will be ample to offset this personal loan which is true, though of course there is no cross guarantee.

I might mention that Harold Austin also telex phoned me to urge that the loan be made.

The Honorable Harold, in fact, had bluntly reminded Heyward of a quid pro quota debt for Austin's strong support at the time of Ben Rosselli's death. It was a support which Heyward would continue to need when Patterton the interim Pope retired in eight months' time. The memo to Patterton continued:

Frankly, the interest rate on this proposed loan is too low, and waiving a compensating balance would be a large concession. But in view of the Supranational business which Big George has given us, I think we would be wise to go along. I recommend the loan. Do you agree?

Jerome Patterton had sent the memo back with a laconic penciled Yes against the final question. Knowing Patterton, Heyward doubted if he had given the whole thing more than a cursory glance.

Heyward had seen no reason why Alex Vandervoort need be involved, nor was the loan large enough to require approval by the money policy committee. Therefore, a few days later, Roscoe Heyward had initialed approval himself, which he had authority to do.

What he did not have authority for and had reported to no one was a personal transaction between himself and G. G. Quartermain.

During their second telephone conversation about Qlnvestments, Big George calling from a SuNatCo offshbot in Chicago had said, "Been talking to Harold Austin about you, Roscoe. We both think it’s time you got involved in our investment group. Like to have you with us. So what I've done is allot two thousand shares which we'll regard as fully paid for. They're nominee certificates endorsed in blank more discreet that way. I'll have 'em put in the mail."

Heyward had demurred. 'Thank you, George, but I don't believe I should accept." "For Chrissakes, why not?" - "It would be unethical."

Big George had guffawed. "This is the real world, Roscoe. Same kind of thing happens between clients and bankers all the time. You know it. I know it."

Yes, Heyward knew, it did happen, though not "all the time," as Big George claimed, and Heyward had never let it happen to himself.

Before he could answer, Quartermain persisted, "Listen, fella, don't be a damn fool. If it makes you feel better well say the shares are in return for your investment advice."

But Heyward knew he had given no investment advice, either then or subsequently.

A day or two later, the Q-Investments share certificates arrived by registered airmail, in an envelope with elaborate seals, and marked STRICTLY PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL. even Dora Callaghan hadn't opened that one.

At home that evening, studying the Q-Investments financial statement which Big George had also supplied, Heyward realized his two thousand shares had a net asset value of twenty thousand dollars. Later, if Q-Investments prospered or went public, their worth would be much greater.

At that point he had every intention of returning the shares to G. G. Quartermain; then, reassessing his own precarious finances no better than they had been several months ago he hesitated. Finally he yielded to temptation and later that week put the certificates in his safe deposit box at FMA's main downtown branch. It was not, Heyward rationalized, as if he had deprived the bank of money. He hadn't. In fact, because of Supranational, the reverse was true. So if Big George chose to make a friendly gift, why be churlish and refuse it?

But his acceptance still worried him a little, especially since Big George had telephoned at the end of last week this time from Amsterdam seeking an additional half million dollars for Q-Investments. "There's a unique chance for our Q group to pick up a block of stock over here in Guilderland that's certain to be high flying. Can't say too much on an open line, Roscoe, so trust me."

"I do, of course, George," Heyward had said, "but the bank will need details."

"You'll get 'em by courier tomorrow." To which Big George had added pointedly, "Don't forget you're one of us now."

Briefly, Heyward had a second uneasy feeling: G. G. Quartermain might be paying more attention to his private investments than to management of Supranational. But the next day's news had reassured him. The Wall Street Journal and other papers carried prominent stories about a major, Quartermain-engineered industrial takeover by SuNatCo in Europe. It was a commercial coup d'etat which sent Supranational shares soaring on the New York and London markets and made FMA's loan to the corporate giant seem even sounder.

As Heyward entered his outer office, Mrs. Callaghan offered him her usual matronly smile. The other messages are on your desk, sir."

He nodded, but inside pushed the pile aside. He hesitated over papers which had been prepared, but were not yet approved, concerning the additional Q-Investments loan. Then he dismissed that too, and, using a phone which was a direct outside line, dialed the number of paradise.

"Rossie, sweetie," Avril whispered as the tip of her tongue explored his ear, "you're hurrying too much. Waitl Lie stilll Stilll Hold backl" She stroked his naked shoulder, then his spine, her fingernails hovering, sharp but gossamer light.

Heyward moaned a mixture of savored, sweetest pleasure, pain, and postponed fulfillment as he obeyed. She whispered again, "I’ll be worth waiting, I promise."

He knew it would be. It always was. He wondered again how someone so young and beautiful could have learned so much, be so emancipated. .. uninhibited… gloriously wise.

"Not yet, Rossiel Darling, not yet There That's good. Be patient!"

Her hands, skilled and knowing, went on exploring. He let his mind and body float, knowing from experience it was best to do everything… exactly as… she said. "Oh, that's good, Rossie. Isn't it lovely?" He breathed, "Yes. Yes!" "Soon, Rossie. Very soon."

Beside him, over the bed's two pillows, close together, Avril's red hair tumbled. Her kisses had devoured him. The ambrosial, heady fragrance of her filled his nostrils. Her marvelous, willowy, willing body was beneath him. This, his senses shouted, was the best of life, of earth and heaven, here and now.

The only bittersweet sadness was that he had waited so many years to find it. Again Avril's lips searched for his and found them She urged him, "Now, Rossie! Now, sweetie! Now!'

The bedroom, as Heyward had observed when he arrived, was standard Hilton clean, efficiently comfortable, and a characterless box. A compact sitting room of the same genre was outside; on this occasion, as on the others, Avril had taken a suite.

They had been here since late afternoon. After the lovemaking they had dozed, awakened, made love again though not with entire success then slept for an hour more. Now both were dressing. Heyward's watch showed eight o'clock.

He was exhausted, physically drained. More than anything else he wanted to go home and go to bed alone. He wondered how soon he could decently slip away.

Avril had been outside in the sitting room, telephoning. When she returned, she said! "I ordered dinner for us, sweetie. It'll be up soon." 'That's wonderful, my dear."

Avril had put on a filmy slip and pantyhose. No bra. She began brushing her long hair which had become disordered. He sat on the bed watching her, despite his tiredness aware that every movement she made was lithe and sensuous. Compared with Beatrice, whom he was used to seeing daily, Avril was so young. Suddenly he felt depressingly old.

They went into the sitting room where Avril said, "Let's open the champagne."

It was on a sideboard in an ice bucket. Heyward had noticed it earlier. By this time most of the ice had melted but the bottle was still cold. He fumbled inexpertly with wire and cork.

"Don't try to move the cork," Avril told him. "Tilt the bottle to forty-five degrees, then hold the cork and twist the bottle." It worked easily. She knew so much. Taking the bottle from him, Avril poured into two glasses. He shook his head. "You know I don't drink, my dear."

"It'll make you feel younger." She held out a glass. As he surrendered and took it, he wondered if she had read his mind.

Two refills later, when their room service meal arrived, he did feel younger.

When the waiter had gone, Heyward said, "You should have let me pay for that." A few minutes earlier he had brought out his wallet but Avril waved it away and signed the check. "Why, Rossie?"

"Because you must allow me to give you back some of your expenses the hotel bills, the cost of flying here from New York." He had learned that Avril had an apartment in Greenwich Village. "It's too much for you to spend yourself."

She looked at him curiously, then gave a silvery laugh "You didn't think I was paying for all this?" She gestured around the suite. "Using my money? Rossie, baby, you have to be crazyl" "Then who is paying?"

"Supranational of course, you old silly! Everything's charged to them this suite, the meal, my air fare, my time." She crossed to his chair and kissed him; her lips were full and moist. "Just don't worry about it"

He sat still, crushed and silent, absorbing the impact of what had just been said. The mellowing potency of the champagne still coursed through his body, yet his mind was sharp.

"My time." That hurt most of all. Until now he had assumed the reason Avril telephoned him after the Bahamas, suggesting that they meet, was because she liked him and had enjoyed as much as he did what happened between them.

How could he have been so naive? Of course the entire exercise had been arranged by Quartermain and was at Supranational's expense. Shouldn't commonsense have told him? Or had he shielded himself by not inquiring sooner because he hadn't wanted to know? Something else: If Avril were being paid for "my time," what did that make her? A whore? If so, what then was Roscoe Heyward? He closed his eyes. St. Luke 18.13, he thought: God be merciful to me a sinner.

There was one thing he could do, of course. Immediately. That was find out how much had been expended until now, and afterwards send his personal check for that amount to Supranational. He began calculating, then realized he had no idea of the cost of Avril. Instinct told him it would not be small.

In any case he doubted the wisdom of such a move. His comptroller's mind reasoned: How would Supranational show the payment on its books? Even more to the point, he didn't have that much money to spare. And besides, what would happen when he wanted Avril again? He knew, already, that he would.

The telephone rang, filling the small sitting room with sound. Avril answered it, spoke briefly, then announced, "It's for you." "For me?"

As he took the receiver, the voice boomed, "Hi there, Roscoe" Heyward asked sharply, "Where are you, George?"

"Washington. What's the difference? Got some real good news about SuNatCo. Quarterly earnings statement. You'll read about it in tomorrow's papers." "You called me here to tell me that?" "Interrupted you, did I?" "No."

Big George chuckled. "Just a friendly phone call, fella Checking that all arrangements were okay."

If he wanted to protest, Heyward realized, this was the moment. But protest what? The generous availability of Avril? Or his own acute embarrassment?

The booming telephone voice cut through his dilemma 'What Q-Investments credit okayed yet?" "Not quite." 'Taking your time, aren't you?" "Not really. There are formalities." "Let's move 'em, or I'll have to give some other bank that business, and maybe shift some of Supranational's over, too."

The threat was clear. It did not surprise Heyward by cause pressures and concessions were a normal part of banking. "I'll do my best, George." A grunt. "Avril still there?” "Yes." "Lemme talk to her."

Heyward passed the phone to Avril. She listened briefly, said, "Yes, I will," smiled, and hung up.

She went into the bedroom where he heard a suitcase snap open and a moment later she emerged with a large manila envelope. "Georgie said I was to give you this."

It was the same kind of envelope, and with similar seals, as the one which had contained the Q-Investrnents share certificates.

"Georgie told me to say it's a reminder of our good time in Nassau."

More share certificates? He doubted it. He considered refusing to accept, but curiosity was strong.

Avril said, "You're not to open it here. Wait till you're away."

He seized the opportunity and checked his watch "I shall have to go anyway, my dear." "Me, too. I'm flying back to New York tonight."

They said goodbye in the suite. There could have been an awkwardness at parting. Because of Avril's practiced savoir-faire there wasn't.

She draped her arms around him and they held each other closely while she whispered, "You're a sugarplum, Rossie. We'll see each other soon."

Notwithstanding what he had learned, or his present tiredness, his passion for her hadn't changed. And whatever the cost of "my time," he thought, one thing was sure: Avril delivered value in return.

Roscoe Heyward took-a taxi from the hotel to First Mercantile American Headquarters Tower. In the main foyer of the bank building he left word that in fifteen minutes he would require a car and driver to take him home. Then he rode an elevator to the 36th floor and walked through silent corridors, past deserted desks, to his office suite.

At his desk he opened the sealed envelope which Avril had given him. In a second package inside, interleaved with tissue, were a dozen enlarged photographs.

That second night in the Bahamas, when the girls and men had bathed naked in Big George's pool, the photographer had remained discreetly invisible. Perhaps he employed a telephoto lens, possibly was screened from view by shrubbery in the lush garden. He had certainly used a fast film because there had been no betraying flash. It scarcely mattered. He or she had been there just the same.

The photos showed Krista, Rhetta, Moonbeam, Avril, and Harold Austin undressing and unclothed. Roscoe Heyward appeared with the naked girls around him, his face a study in fascination. There was a view of Heyward unfastening Avril's dress and bra; another of her kissing him, his fingers curled around her breasts. Whether by accident or design, only the back of Vice-President Stonebridge could be seen.

Technically and artistically the quality of all photographs was high and obviously the photographer had been no amateur. But then, Heyward thought, G. G. Quartermain was accustomed to paying for the best.

Notably, in none of the photographs did Big George appear.

The photos appalled Heyward by their existence. And why had they been sent? Were they some kind of threat? Or a heavy-handed joke? Where were the negatives and other copies? He was beginning to realize that Quartermain was a complex, capricious, perhaps event dangerous man.

On the other hand, despite the shock, Heyward found himself fascinated. As he studied the photographs, unconsciously he moistened his lips with his tongue. His first impulse had been to destroy them. Now he couldn't do it.

He was startled to find he had been at his desk for nearly half an hour.

Obviously he couldn't take the photos home. What then? Carefully repacking them, he locked the envelope in a desk drawer where he kept several personal, private files.

Out of habit, he checked another drawer where Mrs. Callaghan was apt to leave current papers when she cleared his desk at night. On top of the pile inside were those concerning the additional Q-Investments loan. He reasoned: Why delay? Why vacillate? Was there really any need to consult Patterton a second time? The loan was sound, as were G. G. Quartermain and Supranational. Removing the papers, Heyward scribbled an approved and added his initials.

A few minutes later he came down to the foyer. His driver was waiting, the limousine outside.

14

Only rarely, nowadays, did Nolan Wainwright have occasion to visit the city morgue. The last time, he recalled, was three years before when he identified the body of a bank guard killed in a robbery shootout. When Wainwright was a police detective, visiting morgues and viewing the victims of violent crime was a necessary and frequent part of his job. But even then he had never grown used to it. A morgue, any morgue, with its aura of death and charnel house smell, depressed him and sometimes turned his stomach. It did now.

The sergeant of city detectives, who had met him by arrangement, walked stolidly beside Wainwright down a gloomy passageway, their footsteps echoing sharply off the ancient, cracked tile floor. The morgue attendant preceding them, who looked as if he would soon be a customer here himself, was wearing rubber-soled shoes and shambled ahead silently.

The detective, whose name was Timberwell, was young, overweight, had unkempt hair and needed a shave. Many things had changed, Nolan Wainwright ruminated, in the twelve years since he had been a city police lieutenant.

Timberwell said, "If the dead guy is your man, when was the last time you saw him?" "Seven weeks ago. Beginning of March." `'Where?" "A little bar across town. The Easy Over." "I know the place. Did you hear from him after that?" "No." "Any idea where he lived?"

Wainwright shook his head. "He didn't want me to know. So I played it his way."

Nolan Wainwright hadn't been sure of the man's name either. He had been given one, but almost certainly it was false. As a matter of fairness he hadn't tried to discover the real one. All he knew was that "Vic" was an ex-con who needed money and was prepared to be an undercover informer.

Last October, on Wainwright's urging, Alex Vandervoort had authorized him to employ an informer to seek out the source of counterfeit Keycharge bank credit cards, then appearing in disquieting numbers. Wainwright put out feelers, using contacts in the inner city, and later, through more intermediaries, a meeting between himself and Vic had been arranged and a deal agreed on. That was in December. The security chief remembered it well because Miles Eastin's trial had taken place the same week.

There were two other encounters between Vic and Wainwright in the months which followed, each in a different out-of-the-way bar, and on all three occasions Wainwright had handed over money, gambling on receiving value for it later. Their communications scheme was one-sided. Vic could telephone him, setting up a meeting at a place of Vic's choosing, though Wainwright had no means of contact in return. But he saw the reasoning behind the arrangement and accepted it.

Wainwright hadn't liked Vic, but then had not expected to. The ex-con was shifty, evasive, with the perpetually drippy nose and other outward signs of a narcotics user. He exhibited contempt for everything, including Wainwright; his lip was permanently curled. But at their third meeting, in March, it seemed as if he might have stumbled on a lead.

He reported a rumor: A big supply of bogus twenty dollar bills of high quality was ready to be spread out through distributors and passers. According to still more scuttlebutt, somewhere back in the shadows behind the distributors was a high-powered, competent organization into other lines of action, including credit cards. This last information was vague, and Wainwright suspected Vic might have made it up to please him. On the other hand he might not.

More specifically, Vic claimed he had been promised a small piece of the action with the counterfeit money. He figured that if he got it, and became trusted, he could work his way deeper into the organization. One or two details which in Wainwright's opinion, Vic would not have had the knowledge or wit to invent, convinced the bank security chief that the main thrust of the information was authentic. The proposed plan also made sense.

Wainwright had always assumed that whoever was producing the fraudulent Keycharge bank cards was likely to be involved with other forms of counterfeiting. He had told Alex Vandervoort so last October. One thing he knew for certain: It would be highly dangerous to try to penetrate the organization and an informer if discovered was dead. He had felt obliged to warn Vic of this and was rewarded for his trouble by a sneer.

After that meeting, Wainwright had not heard from Vic again.

Yesterday a small news item in the Times-Register, about a body found floating in the river, caught his attention.

"I should warn you," Detective Sergeant Timberwell said, "that what's left of this guy isn't pretty. The medics figure he was in the water for a week. Also, there's a lot of traffic on that river and it looks as if some boat propeller cut him up."

Still trailing the elderly attendant, they entered a brightly lighted, long, low-ceilinged room. The air was chill. It smelled of disinfectant. Occupying one wall, facing them, was what looked like a giant file cabinet with stainless steel drawers, each identified by a number. A hum of refrigeration equipment came from behind the cabinet.

The attendant peered shortsightedly at a clipboard he was carrying, then went to a drawer midway down the room. He pulled and the drawer slid out silently on nylon bearings. Inside was the lumpy shape of a body, covered by a paper sheet.

"These are the remains you wanted, officers," the old man said. As casually as if uncovering cucumbers, he folded back the sheet. Wainwright wished he hadn't come. He felt sick.

Once, the body they were looking at had had a face. It didn't have any more, Immersion, putrefaction and something else probably a boat propeller, as Timberwell said had left flesh layers exposed and lacerated. From the mess, white bones protruded'.

They studied the corpse in silence, then the detective asked, "You see anything you can identify?"

"Yes," Wainwright said. He had been peering at the side of the face where what remained of the hairline met the neck. The apple-shaped red scar undoubtedly a birthmark was still dearly visible. Wainwright's trained eye had observed it on each of the three occasions that he and Vic had met. Though the lips that had sneered so frequently were gone, without doubt the body was that of his undercover agent. He told Timberwell, who nodded.

"We identified him ourselves from fingerprints. They weren't the clearest, but good enough." The detective took out a notebook and opened it. "His real name, if you'll believe it, was Clarence Hugo Levinson. He had several other names he used, and a long record, mostly petty stuffy''

"The news report said he died of stab wounds, not drowning.',

"It's what the autopsy showed. Before that he was tortured." "How do you know?"

"His balls were crushed. The pathologist's report said they must have been put in some kind of vise which was tightened until they burst. You want to see?"

Without waiting to be told, the attendant pulled back the remainder of the paper sheet.

Despite shrinkage of the genitals during immersion, autopsy had exposed enough to show the truth of Timberwell's statement. Wainwright gulped. "Oh, Christ'" He motioned to the old man. "Cover him up." Then he urged Tirnberwell, "Let's get out of here."

Over strong black coffee in a tiny restaurant a half block from the morgue, Detective Sergeant Timberwell soliloquized, "Poor bastard! Whatever he'd done, no one deserves that." He produced a cigarette, lit it, and offered the pack. Wainwright shook his head.

"I guess I know how you're feeling," Timberwell said. "You get hardened to some things. But there sure are others that make you think."

"Yes." Wainwright was remembering his own responsibility for what had happened to Clarence Hugo Levinson, alias Vic.

"I'll need a statement from you, Mr. Wainwright. Summarizing those things you told me about your arrangement with the deceased. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to go to the precinct house and take it after we're finished here." "All right."

The policeman blew a smoke ring and sipped his coffee. "What's the score about counterfeit credit cards right now?"

"More and more are being used. Some days it's like an epidemic. It's costing banks like ours a lot of money."

Timberwell said skeptically, "You mean it's costing the public money. Banks like yours pass those losses on. It's why your top management people don't care as much as they should."

"I can't argue with you there." Wainwright remembered his own lost arguments about bigger budgets to fight bank-related crime. "Is the quality of the cards good?" "Excellent.'

The detective ruminated. "That's exactly what the Secret Service tells us about the phony money that's circulating in the city. There's a lot of it. I guess you know." "Yes, I do."

"So maybe that dead guy was right in figuring both things came from the same source."

Neither man spoke, then the detective said abruptly, "There's something I should warn you about. Maybe you've thought of it already." Wainwright waited.

"When he was tortured, whoever did it made him talk. You saw him. There's no way he wouldn't have. So you can figure he sang about everything, including the deal he had with you." "Yes, I'd thought of it."

Timberwell nodded. "I don't think you're in any danger yourself, but as far as the people who killed Levinson are concerned, you're poison. If anyone they deal with as much as breathes the same air as you, and they find out, he's dead nastily."

Wainwright was about to speak when the other silenced him.

"Listen, I'm not saying you shouldn't send some other guy underground. That's your business and I don't want to know about it at least, not now. But I'll say this: If you do, be super-careful and stay away from him yours self. You owe him that much."

"Thanks for the warning," Wainwright said. He was still thinking about the body of Vic as he had seen it with the covering removed. "I doubt very much if there'll be anyone else."

Part Three

Though it continued to be difficult on her $98 weekly bank teller's wage ($83 take-home after deductions), somehow Juanita managed, week by week, to support herself and Estela and to pay the fees for Estela's nursery school. Juanita had even by August slightly reduced the debt to the finance company which her husband, Carlos, had burdened her with before abandoning her. The finance firm had obligingly rewritten the contract, making the monthly installments smaller, though they now stretched on with heavier interest payments three years into the future.

At the bank, while Juanita had been treated considerately after the false accusations against her last October, and staff members had gone out of their way to be cordial, she had established no close friendships. Intimacy did not come easily to her. She had a natural wariness of people, partly inbred, partly conditioned by experience. The center of her life, the apogee to which each working day progressed, were the evening hours which she and Estela spent together. They were together now.

In the kitchen of their tiny but comfortable Forum East apartment, Juanita was preparing dinner, assisted. and at times hindered by the three-year-old. They had both been rolling and shaping Bisquick baking mix, Juanita to provide a top for the meat pie, Estela manipulating a purloined piece of the dough with her tiny fingers as imagination prompted. "Mommyl Look, I made a magic castle!"

They laughed together. ";Que lindo, mi cielo!" Juanita said affectionately. "We will put the castle in the oven with the pie. Then both will become magic."

For the pie Juanita had used stewing beef, mixing in onions, a potato, fresh carrots, and a can of peas. The vegetables made up in volume for the small quantity of meat, which was all Juanita could afford. But she was an instinctively inventive cook and the pie would be tasty and nutritious.

It had been in the oven for twenty minutes, with another ten to go, and Juanita was reading to Estela from a Spanish translation of Hans Andersen, when a knock sounded on the apartment door. Juanita stopped reading, listening uncertainly. Visitors at any time were rare; it was especially unusual for anyone to call this late. After a few moments the knock was repeated. With some nervousness, motioning Estela to remain where she was, Juanita got up and went slowly to the door.

Her apartment was on a floor by itself at the top of what had once been a single dwelling, but which long ago was divided into separately rented living quarters. The Forum East developers retained the divisions in the building, while modernizing and repairing. But redevelopment alone did not amend the fact that Forum East generally was in an area notorious for a high crime rate, especially muggings and break-ins. Thus, although the apartment complexes were fully populated, at night most occupants locked and bolted themselves in. There was a stout outer door, useful for protection, on the main floor of Juanita'a building, except that other tenants often left it open.

Immediately outside Juanita's apartment was a narrow landing at the head of a flight of stairs. With her ear pressed against~the door, she called out, "Who is there?" There was no answer, but once more the knock soft but insistent was repeated.

She made certain that the inside protective chain was in place, then unlocked the door and opened it a few inches all the chain allowed.

At first, because of dim lighting, she could see nothing, then a face came into view and a voice asked, "Juanita, may I talk to you? I have to please, Will you let me come in?"

She was startled. Miles Eastin. But neither the voice nor the face were those of the Eastin she had known. Instead, the figure which she could see better now was pale and emaciated, his speech unsure and pleading.

She stalled for time to think. "I thought you were in prison."

"I got out. Today." He corrected himself. "I was released on parole." "Why have you come here?" "I remembered where you lived."

She shook her head, keeping the door chain fastened. "It was not what I asked. Why come to me?"

"Because all I've thought about for months, all through that time inside, was seeing you, talking to you, explaining..;" "There is nothing to explain."

"But there is Juanita, I'm begging you. Don't turn me awayl Please!"

From behind her, Estela's bright voice asked, "Mommy, who is it?"

"Juanita," Miles Eastin said, "there's nothing to be frightened about for you or your little girl. I've nothing with me except this." He held up a small battered suitcase. It's just the things they gave me back when I came out."

"Well…" Juanita wavered Despite her misgivings, her curiosity was strong. Why did Miles want to see her? Wondering if she would regret it, she closed the door slightly and released the chain.

"Thank you." He came in tentatively, as if even now he feared Juanita might change her mind. "Hullo,”Estela said, "are you my mommy's friend?"

For a moment Eastin seemed disconcerted, then he answered, "I wasn't always. I wish I had been."

The small, dark-haired child regarded him. "What's your name?" "Miles." Estela giggled. "You're a thin man." "Yes, I know."

Now that he was fully in view, Juanita was even more startled by the change in Miles. In the eight months since she had seen him, he had lost so much weight that his cheeks were sunken, his neck and body scrawny. His crumpled suit hung loosely, as if tailored for someone twice his size. He looked tired and weak. "May I sit down?"

"Yes." Juanita motioned to a wicker chair, though she continued to stand, facing him. She said, illogically accusing, "You did not eat well in prison."

He shook his head, for the first time smiling slightly. "It isn't exactly gourmet living. I suppose it shows." "It shows."

Estela asked, "Have you come for dinner? It's a pie mommy made." He hesitated. "No." Juanita said sharply, "Did you eat today?"

"This morning. I had something at the bus station." The aroma of the almost-cooked pie was wafting from the kitchen. Instinctively Miles turned his head.

"Then you will join us." She began setting another place at the small table where she and Estela took their meals. The action came naturally. In any Puerto Rican home even the poorest tradition demanded that whatever food was available be shared.

As they ate, Estela chattered, and Miles responded to her questions; some of the earlier tension began visibly to leave him. Several times he looked around at the simply furnished but pleasant apartment. Juanita had a flair for homemaking. She loved to sew and decorate. In the modest living room was an old, used sofa bed she had slip covered with a cotton material, brightly patterned in white, red, and yellow. The wicker chair which Miles had sat in earlier was one of two she had bought cheaply and repainted in Chinese red. For the windows she had created simple, inexpensive draperies of bright yellow bark cloth. A primitive painting and some travel posters adorned the walls.

Juanita listened to the other two but said little, within herself still doubtful and suspicion. Why had Miles really come? Would he cause her as much trouble as he had before? Experience warned her that he might. Yet at the moment he seemed harmless certainly weak physically, a little frightened, possibly defeated. Juanita had the practical wisdom to recognize those symptoms.

What she did not feel was antagonism. Though Miles had tried to have her blamed for the theft of money he himself had stolen, time had' made his treachery remote. Even originally, when he was exposed, her principal feeling had been relief, not hate. Now, all Juanita wanted for herself and Estela was to be left alone.

Miles Eastin sighed as he pushed away his plate. He had left nothing on it. 'Thank you. That was the best meal in quite some time." Juanita asked, "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Tomorrow I'll start looking for a job." He took a deep breath and seemed about to say something else, but she motioned. him to wait. "Estelita, vamps, amorcito. Bedtimel"

Soon after, washed, her hair brushed, and wearing tiny pink pajamas, Estela came to say good night. Large liquid eyes regarded Miles gravely. "My daddy went away. Are you going away?" "Yes, very soon."

"That's what I thought." She put up her face to be kissed.

When she had tucked in Estela, Juanita came out of the apartment's single bedroom, closing the door behind her. She sat down facing Miles, hands folded in her lap. "So. You may talk."

He hesitated, moistening his lips. Now that the moment had arrived he seemed irresolute, bereft of words. Then he said, "All this time since I was… put away… I've been wanting to say I'm sorry. Sorry for everything I did, but mostly for what I did to you. I'm ashamed. In one way I don't know how it happened. In another I think I do..”,

Juanita shrugged. 'What happened is gone. Does it matter now?"

"It matters to me. Please, Juanita let me tell you the rest, the way it was."

Then, like a gusher uncapped, words flooded out. He spoke of his awakened conscience, and remorse, of last year's insanity of gambling and debts, and how they had possessed him like a fever which distorted moral values and perception. Looking back, he told Juanita, it seemed as if someone else had inhabited his mind and body. He proclaimed his guilt at stealing from the bank. But worst of all he avowed, was what he had done to her, or tried to. His shame about that, he declared emotionally, had haunted him through every day in prison and would never leave him.

When Miles began speaking, Juanita's strongest instinct was suspicion. As he continued, not all of it left her; life had fooled and shortchanged her too often to permit total belief in anything. Yet her judgment inclined her to accept what Miles had said as genuine, and a sense of pity overwhelmed her.

She found herself comparing Miles with Carlos, her absentee husband. Carlos had been weak; so had Miles. Yet, in a way, Miles's willingness to return and face her penitently argued a strength and manhood which Carlos never had.

Suddenly she saw the humor in it all: The men in her life for one reason or another were flawed and unimpressive. They were also losers, like herself. She almost laughed, Then decided not to because Miles would never understand.

He said earnestly "Juanita, I want to ask you something. Will you forgive met" She looked at him. "And if you do, will you say it to me?"

The silent laughter died; tears filled her eyes. That she could understand. She had been born a Catholic, and Though nowadays she rarely bothered with church, she knew the solace of confession and absolution. She rose to her feet. "Miles," Juanita said. "Stand up. Look at me."

He obeyed her, and she said gently, " Yes, I forgive you."

The muscles of his face twisted and worked. Then she held him as he wept.

When Miles had composed himself, and they were seated again, Juamta spoke practically. "Where will you spend the night?" "I'm not sure. I'll find somewhere."

She considered, then told him, "You may stay here if you wish." As she saw his surprise, she added quickly, "You can sleep in this room for tonight only. I will be in the bedroom with Estela. Our door will be locked." She wanted no misunderstandings.

"If you really don't mind," he said, "I'd like to do that. And you'll have nothing to worry about."

He did not tell her the real reason she had no cause to worry: That there were other problems within himself psychological and sexual which he had not yet faced. All that Miles knew, so far, was that because of repeated homosexual acts between himself and Karl, his protector in prison, his desire for women had evaporated He wondered if he would be a man in any sexual way again.

Shortly after, as tiredness overcame them both, Juanita went to join Estela.

In the morning, through the closed bedroom door; she heard Miles stirring early. A half hour later, when she emerged from the bedroom, he had left. A note was propped up on the living-room table. Juanita With all my heart, thank you, Miles

While she prepared breakfast for herself and Estela, she was surprised to find herself regretting he had gone.

2

In the four and a half months since approval of his savings and branch bank expansion plan by FMA's board of directors, Alex Vandervoort had moved swiftly. Planning and progress sessions between the bank's own staff and outside consultants and contractors had been held almost daily. Work continued during nights, weekends, and holidays, spurred on by Alex's insistence that the program be operating before the end of summer and in high gear by mid-fall

The savings reorganization was easiest to accomplish in the time. Most of what Alex wanted done including launching four new types of savings accounts, with increased interest rates and geared to varying needs had been the subject of earlier studies at his behest. It was merely necessary to translate these into reality. Some fresh ground to be covered involved a strong program of advertising to attract new depositors and this conflict of interest or not the Austin Agency produced with speed and competence. The theme of the savings campaign was:

WE'LL PAY YOU TO BE THRIFTY

AT FIRST MERCANTILE AMERICAN

Now, in early August, double-page spreads in newspapers proclaimed the virtues of savings a la FMA. They also showed locations of eighty bank branches in the state where gifts, coffee, and "friendly financial counseling" were available to anyone opening a new account. The value of a gift depended on the size of an initial deposit, along with agreement not to disturb it for a stated time. Spot announcements on TV and radio hammered home a parallel campaign.

As to the nine new branches "our money shops," as Alex called them two were opened in the last week of July, three more in the first few days of August, and the remaining four would be in business before September. Since all were in rented premises, which involved conversion rather than construction, speed had been possible here, too.

It was the money shops a name that caught on quickly which attracted most attention to begin with. They also produced far greater publicity than either Alex Vandervoort, the bank's PR department, or the Austin Advertising Agency had foreseen. And the spokesman for it all soaring to prominence like an ascending comet was Alex.

He had not intended it to be that way. It simply happened.

A reporter from the morning Times-Register, assigned to cover the new branch openings, dipped into that newspaper's morgue in search of background and discovered Alex's tenuous connection with the previous February's pro-Forum East "bank-in." Discussion with the features editor hatched the notion that Alex would make good copy for an expanded story. This proved true. When you think of modern bankers tthe reporter later wrote] don't think of solemn, cautious functionaries in traditional double-breasted, dark blue suits, pursing their lips and saying "no." Think, instead, of Alexander Vandervoort. Mr. Vandervoort, who's an executive veep at our own First Mercantile American Bank, to begin with doesn't look like a banker. His suits are from the fashion section of Esquire, his mannerisms a la Johnny Carson, and when it comes to loans, especially small loans, he's conditioned with rare exception to pronouncing "yes." But he also believes in thrift and says most of us aren't being as wise about money as our parents and grandparents.

Another thing about Alexander Vandervoort is that he's a leader in modern bank technology, some of which arrived in our city's suburbs just this week.

The new look in banking is embodied in branch banks not having the appearance of banks at all which seems appropriate because Mr. Vandervoort (who doesn't look like a banker, as we said) is the local driving force behind them.

This reporter went along with Alexander Vandervoort this week for a glimpse of what he calls "consumer banking of the future that's here right now."

The bank's public relations chief, Dick Prench, had set up the arrangements. The reporter was a middle-aged, floppy blonde called Jill Peacock, no Pulitzer journalist, but the story interested her and she was friendly.

Alex and Ms. Peacock stood together in one of the new branch banks, located in a suburban shopping plaza It was about equal in size to a neighborhood drugstore, brightly lighted, and pleasantly designed. The principal furnishings were two stainless-steel Docutel automatic tellers, which customers operated themselves, and a closed-circuit television console in a booth. The auto-tellers, Alex explained, were linked directly to computers at FMA Headquarters. "Nowadays," he went on, "the public is conditioned to expect service, which is why there's a demand for banks to stay open longer, and at more convenient hours. Money shops like this one will be open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week." "With staff here all that time?" Ms. Peacock asked.

"No. In daytime we'll have a clerk on hand to handle queries. The rest of the time there'll be no one except customers." "Aren't you afraid of robberies?"

Alex smiled. "The auto-teller machines are built like fortresses, with every alarm system known to man. And TV scanners one in each money shears monitored at a control center downtown. Our immediate problem isn't security it's getting our customers to adapt to new ideas."

"It looks?" Ms. Peacock pointed out? "as if some have adapted already."

Though it was early 9:30 A.M. the small bank already had a dozen people in it and others were arriving. Most were women.

"Studies we've made,?' Alex volunteered, "show that women accept merchandising changes faster, which is probably why retail stores have always been so innovative. Men are slower, but eventually women persuade them."

Short lines had formed in front of the automatic tellers, but there was virtually no delay. Transactions were completed quickly after each customer had inserted a plastic identifying card and pressed a simple selection of buttons. Some were depositing cash or checks, others withdrawing money. One or two had come to pay bank card or utilities bills. Whatever the purpose, the machine swa1lowed paper and cash or spat them out at lightning speed.

Ms. Peacock pointed to the auto-tellers. "Have people learned to use these faster or slower than you expected?"

"Much, much faster. It's an effort to persuade people to try the machines the first time. But once they have, they become fascinated, and love them."

"You always hear that humans prefer dealing with other humans, rather than machines. Why should banking be different?"

'Whose studies I mentioned tell us it's because of privacy." There really is privacy (Jill Peacock acknowledged in her by-lined, Sunday edition feature story), and not lust with those Frankenstein-monster tellers. Sitting alone in a booth in the same money shop, facing a combination TV camera and screen, I opened an account and then negotiated a loan. Other times I've borrowed money from a bank I felt embarrassed. This time I didn't because the face in front of me on the screen was impersonal. The owner of it a disembodied male whose name I didn't know was miles away.

"Seventeen miles, to be exact," Alex had said. 'The bank officer you were talking with is in a control room of our downtown Headquarters Tower. From there he, and others, can contact any branch bank equipped with closed-circuit TV."

Ms. Peacock considered. "How fast, really, is banking changing?"

"Technologically, we're developing more swiftly than aerospace. What you're seeing here is the most important development since introduction of the checking account and, within ten years or less, most banking will be done this way." "Will there still be some human tellers?"

"For a while, but the breed will disappear quickly. Quite soon, the notion of having an individual count out cash by hand, then pass it over a counter will be antediluvian as outmoded as the old-fashioned grocer who used to weigh out sugar, peas, and butter, then put them into paper bags himself." "It's all rather sad," Ms. Peacock said. "Progress often is."

Afterward I asked a dozen people at random how they liked the new money shops. Without exception they were enthusiastic.

Judging by the large numbers using them, the view is widespread and their popularity, Mr. Vandervoort told me, is helping a current savings drive…

Whether the money shops were helping the saving drive, or vice versa, was never entirely clear. What did become clear was that FMA's most optimistic savings targets were being reached and exceeded with phenomenal speed. It seemed as Alex expressed it to Margot Bracken as if the public mood and First Mercantile American's timing had uncannily coincided.

"Stop preening yourself and drink your orange juice," Margot told him. Sunday morning in Margot's apartment was a pleasure. Still in pajamas and a robe, he had been reading, for the first time, Jill Peacock's feature story in the Sunday Times-Register while Margot prepared a breakfast of Eggs Benedict.

Alex was still glowing while they ate. Margot read the Times-Regzster story herself and conceded, "It's not a bad piece." She leaned over and kissed him. "I'm glad for you." "It's better publicity than the last you got me, Bracken."

She said cheerfully, "Can never tell how it'll go. The press giveth and the press taketh away. Tomorrow you and your bank may be attacked."

He sighed. "You're so often right." - But this time she was wrong.

A condensed version of the original news feature was syndicated and used by papers in forty other cities. AP, observing the wide, general interest, did its own report for the national wire; so did UPI. The Wall Street Journal dispatched a staff reporter and several days later featured First Mercantile American Bank and Alex Vandervoort in a front-page review of automated banking. An NBC affiliate sent a TV crew to interview Alex at a money shop and the videotaped result was aired on the network's NBC Nightly News.

With each burst of publicity the savings campaign gained fresh momentum and money shop business boomed.

Unhurriedly, from its lofty eminence, The New York Times brooded and took note. Then, in mid-August, its Sunday Business and Finance section proclaimed: A Banking Radical We May Hear More About.

The Times interview with Alex consisted of questions and answers. It began with automation, then moved to broader terrain.

QUESTION: What's mostly wrong with banking nowadays?

VANDERVOORT: We bankers have had things our own way too long. We're so preoccupied with our own welfare, we give too little thought to the interests of our customers.

QUESTION: Can you quote an example?

VANDERVOORT: Yes. Customers of banks particularly individuals ought to receive much more money in interest than they do. .

QUESTION: In what way?

VANDERVOORT: In several ways - in their savings accounts; also with certificates of deposit; and we should be paying interest on demand deposits that is, checking accounts.

QUBSTION: Let's take savings first. Surely there's a federal law that places a ceiling on savings interest rates at commercial banks.

VANDERVOORT: Yes, and the purpose of it is to protect savings and loan banks. Incidentally, there's another law which prevents savings and loan banks from letting their customers use checks. That's to protect commercial banks. What ought to happen is that laws should stop protecting banks and protect people instead.

QUESTION: By "protecting people" you mean letting those with savings enjoy the maximum interest rate and other services which any bank win give?

VANDERVOORT: Yes, I do.

QUESTION: YOU mentioned certificates of deposit.

VANDERVOORT: The U. S. Federal Reserve has prohibited large banks, like the one I work for, advertising long-term certificates of deposit at high interest rates. These kinds of CDs are especially good for anyone looking ahead to retirement and wanting to defer income tax until later, low income, years. The Fed hands out phony excuses for this ban. But the real reason is to protect small banks against big ones, the big banks being more efficient and able to give better deals. As usual, it's the public which is last to be considered and individuals who lose out.

QUESTION: Let's be clear about this. You're suggesting that our central bank the Federal Reserve cares more about small banks than the general populace?

VANDERVOORT: Damn right.

QUESTION: Let's move on to demand deposits checking accounts. Some bankers are on record as saying they would like to pay interest on checking accounts, but federal law prohibits it.

VANDERVOORT:Next time a banker tells you that, ask him when our powerful banking lobby in Washington last did anything about getting the law changed. If there's ever been an effort in that direction, I've not heard of it.

QUESTION: You're suggesting, then, that most bankers really don't want that law changed?

VANDERVOORT: I'm not suggesting it. I know it. The law preventing payment of interest on checking accounts is very convenient if you happen to own a bank. It was introduced in 1933, right after the Depression, with the object of strengthening banks because so many had failed in the previous few years.

QUESTION: And that was more than forty years ago.

VANDERVOORT: Exactly. The need for such a law has long passed. Let me tell you something. Right at thus moment, if all the checking account balances in this country were added together, they'd total more than $200 billion. You can bet your life the banks are earning interest on this money, but the depositors the bank's customers aren't getting a cent.

QUESTION: Since you yourself are a banker, and your own bank profits from the law we are talking about, How do you advocate change?

VANDERVOORT: For one thing, I believe in fairness For another, banking doesn't need all those crutches id the way of protective laws. In my opinion we can do better by that I mean render improved public service and be more profitable without them.

QUESTION: Haven't there been recommendations in Washington about some of those changes you've spot of?

VANDERVOORT: Yes. The Hunt Commission report of 1971, and proposed legislation resulting from it, which would benefit consumers. But the whole deal is stalled in Congress, with special interests including our own banking lobby holding up progress.

QUBSTION: DO YOU anticipate antagonism from other bankers because of your frankness here? VANDERVOORT: I really hadn't thought about it.

QUESTION: Apart from banking, do you have any overall view on the current economic scenes

VANDERVOORT: Yes, but an over-all view should not be limited to economics.

QUESTION: Please state your view and don't limit it.

VANDERVOORT: Our greatest problem, and our big shortcoming as a nation, is that almost everything nowadays is geared against the individual and in favor of the big institutions big corporations, big business, big unions, big banking, big government. So not only does an individual have trouble getting ahead and staying there, he often has difficulty merely in surviving. And whenever bad things happen inflation, devaluation, depression, shortages, higher taxes, even wars it isn't the big institutions which get hurt, at least not much; it's the individual, all the time.

QUESTION: DO YOU see historical parallels to this?

VANDERVOORT: I do indeed. It may seem strange to say this, but the closest one, I think, is France immediately before the Revolution. At that time, despite unrest and a bad economy, everyone assumed there'd be business as usual. Instead, the mob composed of individuals who rebelled overthrew the tyrants who oppressed them. I'm not suggesting our conditions now are precisely the same, but in many ways we're remarkably close to tyranny, once more, against the individual. And telling people who can't feed their families because of inflation that, "You never had it so good," is uncomfortably like, "Let them eat cake." So I say, if we want to preserve our so-called way of life and individual freedom which we claim to value, we'd better start thinking and acting about the interests of individuals again.

QUESTION: And in your own case, you'd begin by making banks serve individuals more. VANDERVOORT: Yes.

***

"Darling, it's magnificent! I'm proud of you, and I love you more than ever," Margot assured Alex when she read an advance copy a day before the interview was published. "It's the most honest thing I've ever read. But other bankers will hate you. They'll want your balls for breakfast." "Some will," Alex said. "Others won't."

But now that he had seen the questions and replies in print, and despite the wave of success on which he had been riding, he was slightly worried himself.

3

"What saved you from being crucified, Alex," Lewis D'Orsey declaimed, "was that it happened to be The New York Times. If you'd said what you did for any other paper in the country, your bank's directors would have disowned you and cast you out like a pariah. But not with the Times. It clothed you in respectability, though never ask me why."

"Lewis, dear," Edwina D'Orsey said, "could you intetrupt your speech to pour more wine?"

"I'm not making a speech." Her husband rose from the dinner table and reached for a second decanter of Clos de Vougeot '62. Tonight Lewis looked as puny and as underfed as ever. He continued, "I’m talking calmly and lucidly about The New York Times which, in my opinion, is an effete pinko rag, its unwarranted prestige a monument to American imbecility."

"It has a bigger circulation than your newsletter," Margot Bracken said. "Is that a reason you don't like it?" She and Alex Vandervoort were guests of Lewis and Edwina in the D'Orseys' elegant Cayman Manor pentbouse. At the table, in soft candlelight, napery, crystal, and polished silver gleamed. Along one side of the spacious dining room a wide, deep window framed the shimmering lights of the city far below. Through the lights a sinuous blackness marked the river's course.

It was a week since the controversial interview with Alex had appeared in print.

Lewis picked at a medallion of beef and answered Margot disdainfully. "My twice-a-month newsletter represents high quality and superior intellect. Most daily newspapers, including the Times, are vulgar quantity."

"Stop sparring, you twol" Edwina turned to Alex. "At least a dozen people who came into the downtown branch this week told me they'd read what you said and admired your outspokenness. What was the reaction in the Tower?" "Mixed." "I'll bet I know someone who didn't approve."

"You're right." Alex chuckled. "Roscoe did not lead the cheering section."

Heyward's attitude had recently become even icier than before. Alex suspected that Heyward was resentful, not only of the attention Alex was receiving, but also because of successes with the savings drive and money shops, both of which Roscoe Heyward had opposed.

Another downbeat prediction of Heyward and his supporters on the board had concerned the eighteen million dollars in deposits from savings and loan institutions. Though the S&Ls managements had huffed and puffed, they had not withdrawn their deposits from First Mercantile American. Nor, it now seemed, did they intend to.

"Apart from Roscoe and any others," Edwina said, "I bear you've a big following these days among the staff." "Maybe I'm a swiftly passing fad. Like streaking."

"Or an addiction," Margot said. "I've found you habit forming."

He smiled. It had been heartening over the past week to receive congratulations from people whom Alex respected, like Tom Straughan, Orville Young, Dick French, and Edwina, and from others, including junior executives he had not previously known by name. Several directors had telephoned with words of praise. "You're doing the bank's image a power of good," Leonard L. Kingswood had called to say. And Alex's progress through the FMA Tower had, at times, been near triumphant, with clerks and secretaries greeting him and smiling warmly.

"Talking of your staff, Alex," Lewis D'Orsey said, "reminds me you've something missing over in that Headquarters Tower of yours Edwina. It's time she moved higher. While she doesn't, you people are losing out."

"Really, Lewis, how could you?" Even in the candlelight it could be seen that Edwina had flushed deep red. She protested, "This is a social occasion. Even if it weren't, that kind of remark is quite improper. Alex, I apologize."

Lewis, unperturbed, regarded his wife over his halfmoon glasses. "You may apologize, my dear. I won't. I'm aware of your ability and value; who's closer to it? Furthermore, it's my custom to draw attention to anything outstanding which I see."

"Well, three cheers for you, Lewis!" Margot said. "Alex, how about it? When does my esteemed cousin move over to the Tower?"

Edwina was becoming angry. "Stop it, pleaser You're embarrassing me acutely."

"No one need be embarrassed." Alex sipped his wine appreciatively. "Um '62 was a fine year for Burgundy. Every bit as good as '61, don't you think?"

"Yes," his host acknowledged. "Fortunately I put down plenty of both."

"We're all four of us friends,)' Alex said, "so we can speak frankly, knowing it's in confidence. I don't mind telling you I've already been thinking about a promotion for Edwina, and I've a particular job in mind. How soon I can swing that, and some other changes, depends on what happens in the next few months, as Edwina is well aware."

"Yes," she said, "I am." Edwina knew, too, that her personal allegiance to Alex was well known within the bank. Since Ben Rosselli's death, and even before, she realized that Alex's promotion to the presidency would almost certainly advance her own career. But if Roscoe Heyward succeeded instead, it was unlikely she would go any higher at First Mercantile American.

"Something else I'd like to see," Alex said, "is Edwina on the board of directors."

Margot brightened. "Now you're talking! That would be an onward up for women's lib."

"Nor" Edwina reacted sharply. "Don't equate me with women's lib ever! Anything I've achieved has been on my own, competing honestly with men. Women's lib its catchwords, asking for favoritism and preference because you're a woman has set sex equality back, not forward."

"That's nonsense!" Margot seemed shocked. "You can say that now because you've been unusual and lucky." "There was no luck," Edwina said. "I've worked." "No luck?" "Well, not much."

Margot argued. "There has to have been luck involved because you're a woman. For as long as anybody can remember, banking's been an exclusive men's club yet without the slightest reason." "Hasn't experience been a reason?" Alex asked.

"No. Experience is a smokescreen, blown up by men, to keep women out. There's nothing masculine about banking. All it requires is brains which women have, sometimes more abundantly than men. And everything else is either on paper, in the head, or in talk, so the only physical labor is hoisting money in and out of armored cars, which women guards could undoubtedly do, too."

"I won't dispute any of that," Edwina said. "except you're out of date. The male exclusivity has already been broken by people like me and is being penetrated more and more. Who needs women's libbers? I don't."

"You haven't penetrated all that far," Margot shot back. "Otherwise you'd be in the Headquarters Tower already, and not just talking about it, as we are tonight." Lewis D'Orsey chortled. "Touche, my dear."

"Others in banking need women's lib," Margot concluded, "and will for a long time." Alex leaned back as always, enjoying an argument when Margot was involved. "Whatever else might be said about our dinners together," he observed, "they're never dull."

Lewis nodded agreement. "Let me say as the one who started all this I'm glad about your intentions for Edwina."

"All right," his wife said firmly, "and I thank you too, Alex. But that's enough. Let's leave it there." They did.

Margot told them about a legal class action she had brought against a department store which had been systematically cheating charge-account customers. The printed totals on monthly bills, Margot explained, were always a few dollars larger than they should have been. If anyone complained, the difference was explained away as an error, but hardly anyone did. "When people see a machine printed total they assume it has to be right. What they forget, or don't know, is that machines can be programmed to include an error. In this case, one was." Margot added that the store had, profited by tens of thousands of dollars, as she intended to prove in court.

"We don't program errors at the bank," Edwina said, "but they happen, machines or not. It's why I urge people to check their statements."

In her department store investigation, Margot told the others, she had been helped by a private detective named Vernon Jax. He had been diligent and resourceful. She was strong in her praise of him.

"I know of him," Lewis D'Orsey said. "He's done investigation work for the SEC something I put them on to once. A good man."

As they left the dining room, Lewis said to Alex, "Let's get liberated. How about joining me for a cigar and cognac? We'll go to my study. Edwina doesn't like cigar smoke."

Excusing themselves, the men went one floor down the D'Orseys' penthouse occupied two levels to Lewis's sanctum sanctorum. Inside, Alex looked around curiously.

The room was spacious, with bookcases on two sides and, on another, racks for magazines and newspapers. The shelves and racks were overflowing. There were three desks, one with an electric typewriter, and all with papers, books, and files piled high. "When one desk becomes impossible to work at," Lewis explained, "I simply move to the next."

An open door revealed what, in daytime, was a secretary's office and file room. Stepping inside, Lewis returned with two brandy goblets and a bottle of Courvoisier from which he poured.

"I've often wondered," Alex mused, "about the background of a successful financial newsletter."

"I can only speak personally for mine, which is regarded by competent judges as the best there is." Lewis gave Alex a cognac, then motioned to an open box of cigars. "Help yourself they're Macanudos, none better. Also tax deductible." "How do you manage that?"

Lewis chuckled. "Take a look at the band around each cigar. At trifling cost I have the original bands removed and a special one put on which reads The D'Orsey Newsletter. That's advertising a business expense, so every time I smoke a cigar I've the satisfaction of knowing it’s on Uncle Sam."

Without comment, Alex took a cigar which he sniffed appreciatively. He had long since ceased to make moral judgments about tax loopholes. Congress made them the law of the land, and who could blame an individual for using them?

"Answering your question," Lewis said, "I make no secret of the purpose of The D'Orsey Newsletter." He lit Alex's cigar, then his own, and inhaled luxuriously. "It's to help the elite get richer or at worst, keep what they have." "So I've noticed."

Such newsletter, as Alex was aware, contained moneymaking advice securities to buy or sell, currencies to switch into or out of, commodities to deal in, foreign stock markets to favor or avoid, tax loopholes for the wealthy and freewheeling, how to deal through Swiss accounts, political background likely to affect money, impending disasters which those with inside knowledge could turn to profit. The list was always long, the tone of the newsletter authoritative and absolute. There was seldom any hedging.

"Unfortunately," Lewis added, "there are lots of phonies and charlatans in the financial newsletter business, which do the serious, honest letters harm. Some so-called newsletters are skims of newspapers, and therefore valueIess; others tout stocks and take payoffs from brokers and promoters, though in the end that kind of chicanery shows. There are maybe half a dozen worthwhile newsletters, with mine at the apex."

In anyone else, Alex thought, the continual ego-thumping would be offensive. Somehow, with Lewis, it wasn't, perhaps because he had the track record to sustain it. And as to Lewis's extreme right-wing politics, Alex found he could screen them out, leaving a clear financial distillate like tea passed through a strainer. "I believe you're one of my subscribers," Lewis said. "Yes through the bank."

"Here's a copy of my new issue. Take it, even though you'll get yours in the mail on Monday."

'Thank you." Alex accepted the pale blue lithographed sheet four quarto-size pages when folded, and unimpressive in appearance. The original had been closely typewritten, then photographed and reduced. But what the newsletter lacked in visual style, it made up in monetary value. It was Lewis's boast that those who followed his advice could increase whatever capital they had by a quarter to a half in any given year, and in some years double or triple it.

"What's your secret?" Alex said. "How is it you're so often right?"

"I've a mind like a computer with thirty years of input." Lewis puffed at his cigar, then tapped his forehead with a bony finger. "Every morsel of financial knowledge that I've ever learned is stored in there. I also can relate one item to another, and, the future to the past. In addition I've something a computer hasn't instinctive genius." "Why bother with a newsletter then? Why not just make a fortune for yourself!"

"No satisfaction in it. No competition. Besides," Lewis grinned, "I'm not doing badly." "As I recall, your subscription rate

…"

"Is three hundred dollars a year for the newsletter. Two thousand dollars an hour for personal consultations."

"I've sometimes wondered how many subscribers you have." "So do others. It’s a secret I guard carefully." "Sorry. I didn't mean to pry." "No reason not to. In your place, I'd be curious."

Tonight, Alex thought, Lewis seemed more relaxed than at any time before.

"Maybe I'll share that secret with you," Lewis said "Any man likes to boast a little. I've more than five thousand newsletter subscribers."

Alex did mental arithmetic and whistled softly. It meant an annual income of more than a million and a half dollars.

"As well as that," Lewis confided, "I publish a book each year and do about twenty consultations every month. The fees and book royalties cover all my costs, so the newsletter is entirely profit."

"That's amazing!" And yet, Alex reflected, perhaps it really wasn't. Anyone who heeded Lewis's counsel could recoup their outlay hundreds of times over. Besides which, both the newsletter subscription and consultation fee were tax deductible.

"Is there any one piece of over-all guidance," Alex asked, "that you'd give to people with money to invest or save?" "Absolutely, yes, take care of it yourself." "Supposing it's someone who doesn't know…"

"Then find out. Learning isn't all that hard, and looking after your own money can be fun. Listen to advice, of course, though be skeptical and wary, and selective about which advice you take. After a while you'll learn whom to trust, and not. Read widely, including newsletters like mine. But never give anyone else the right to make decisions for you. Especially that means stockbrokers, who represent the fastest way to lose what you already have, and bank trust departments." "You don't like trust departments?"

"Dammit, Alex, you know perfectly well the record of yours and other banks is awful. Big trust accounts get individual service of a sort. Medium and small ones are either in a general pot or are handled by low-salaried incompetents who can't tell a bull market from bearshit."

Alex grimaced, but didn't protest. HE knew too well that with a few honorable exceptions what Lewis had said was true.

Sipping their cognac in the smoke-filled room, both men were silent. Alex turned the pages of the latest Newsletter, skimming its contents, which he would read in detail later, As usual, some material was technical Chartwise we appear to be off on the 3rd leg of the bear mkt. The 200 day mvg avg has been broken in all 3 DJ averages which are in perfect downside synchronization. The AD line is crashing.

More simple was:

Recommended mix of currencies:

Swiss Francs 40%

Dutch Guilders 25%

Deutsche marks 20%

Canadian Dollars 10%

Austrian Schillings 5%

- U.S. Dollars 0%

Also, Lewis advised his readers, they should continue to hold 40% of total assets in gold bullion, gold coins and gold raining shares.

A regular column listed international securities to trade or hold. Alex's eye ran down the "buy" and "hold" lists, then the "sell." He stopped sharply at: "Supranational sell immediately at market."

"Lewis, this Supranational item why sell Supranational? And 'immediately at market'? You've had it for years as a 'long-term hold.'"

His host considered before answering. "I'm uneasy about SuNatCo. I'm getting too many fragments of negative information from unrelated sources. Some rumors about big losses which haven't been reported. Also stories of sharp accounting practices among subsidiaries. An unconfirmed story out of Washington that Big George Quartermain is shopping for a Lockheed-type subsidy. What it amounts to is maybe maybe not… shoal waters ahead. As a precaution, I prefer my people out."

"But everything you've said is rumor and shadow. You can hear it about any company. Where's the substance?"

"There is none. My 'sell' recommendation is on instinct. There are times I act on it. This is one." Lewis D'Orsey placed his cigar stub in an ashtray and put down his empty glass. "Shall we rejoin the ladies?"

"Yes," Alex said, and followed Lewis. But his mind was still on Supranational.

4

"I wouldn't have believed," Nolan Wainwright said harshly, "that you'd have the nerve to come here."

"I didn't think I would either." Miles Eastin's voice betrayed his nervousness. "I thought of coming yesterday, then decided I just couldn't. Today I hung around outside for half an hour, getting up courage to come in."

"You may call it courage. I call it gall. Now you're here, what do you want?" The two men faced each other, both standing, in Nolan Wainwright's private office.. They were sharply in contrast: the stern, black, handsome bank vice-president of security, and Eastin, the ax-convict shrunken, pale, unsure, a long way from the bright and affable assistant operations manager who had worked at FMA only eleven months ago.

Their surroundings at this moment were spartan, compared with most other departments in the bank. Here were plain painted walls and gray metal furniture, including Wainwright's desk. The floor was carpeted, but thinly and economically. The bank lavished money and artistry on revenue-producing areas. Security was not among them. "Well," Wainwright repeated, "what do you want?" "I came to see if you'll help me." 'Why should I?"

The younger man hesitated before answering, then said, still nervously, "I know you tricked me with that first confession. The night I was arrested. My lawyer said it was illegal, it could never have been used in court. You knew that. But you let me go on thinking it was a legit confession, so I signed that second one for the FBI not knowing there was any difference…"

Wainwright's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Before I answer that, I want to know something. Are you carrying a recording device?" "No." "Why should I believe you'

Miles shrugged, then held his hands above his head in the way he had learned from law-enforcement friskings and in prison.

For a moment it seemed as if Wainwright would refuse to search him, then quickly and professionally he patted down the other man. Miles lowered his arms.

"I'm an old fox," Wainwright said. "Guys like you think they can get smart and catch someone out, then start a legal suit. So you got to be a jailhouse lawyer?" "No. All I found out about was the confession."

"All right, you've brought it up, so I'll tell you about that. Sure I knew it might not hold water legally. Sure I tricked you. And something else: In the same circumstances, I'd do the same again. You were guilty, weren't you? You were about to send the Nunez girl to jail. What difference do the niceties make?" "I only thought…"

"I know what you thought. You thought you'd come back here, and my conscience would be bleeding, and I'd be a pushover for some scheme you have or whatever else you want. Well, it isn't and I'm not."

Miles Eastin mumbled, "I had no scheme. I'm sorry I came." "What do you want?"

There was a pause while they appraised each other. Then Miles said, "A job." "Here? You must be mad."

"Why? I'd be the most honest employee the bank ever had." "Until somebody put pressure on you to steal again."

"It wouldn't happent" Briefly, a flash of Miles Eastin's former spirit surfaced. "Can't you, can't anybody, believe I've learned something? Learned about what happens when you steal. Learned never, ever, to do the same again. Don't you think there's not a temptation in the world I wouldn't resist now, rather than take a chance of going back to prison?"

Wainwright said gruffly, "What I believe or disbelieve is immaterial. The bank has policies. One is not to employ anyone with a criminal record. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't change that."

"But you could try. There are jobs, even here, where a criminal record would make no difference, where there's no way to be dishonest. Couldn't I get some kind of work like that?"

"No." Then curiosity intruded. "Why are you so keen to come back, anyway?"

"Because I can't get any kind of work, not anything, not a look-in, not a chance, anywhere else." Miles's voice faltered. "And because I'm hungry." "You're what?" "Mr. Wainwright, it's been three weeks since I came out on parole. I've been out of money for more than a week. I haven't eaten in three days. I guess I'm desperate." The voice which had faltered cracked and broke. "Coming here… having to see you, guessing what you'd say… it was the last…"

While Wainwright listened, some of the hardness left his face. Now he motioned to a chair across the room. "Sit down."

He went outside and gave his secretary five dollars. "Go to the cafeteria," he instructed. "Get two roast beef sandwiches and a pint of milk."

When he returned, Miles Eastin was still sitting where he had been told, his body slumped, his expression listless. "Has your parole officer helped?"

Miles said bitterly, "He has a case load so he told me of a hundred and seventy-five parolees. He has to see everybody once a month, and what can he do for one? There are no jobs. All he gives is warnings."

From experience, Wainwright knew what the warnings would be: Not to associate with other criminals whom Eastin might have met in prison; not to frequent known haunts of criminals. To do either, and be officially observed, would ensure a prompt return to prison. But in practice the rules were as unrealistic as they were archaic. A prisoner without financial means had the dice loaded against him so that association with others like himself was frequently his only method of survival. It was also a reason why the rate of recidivism among ax-convicts was so high. Wainwright asked, "You've really looked for work?"

"Everywhere I could think of. And I haven't been fussy either."

The closest Miles had been to a job in three weeks of searching had been as a kitchen helper in a third-rate, crowded Italian restaurant. The job was vacant and the proprietor, a sad whippet of a man, had been inclined to hire him. But when Miles revealed his prison record, as he knew he had to, he had seen the other glance at the cash register nearby. Even then the restaurateur had hesitated but his wife, a female drill sergeant, ruled, "No! We can't afford to take a chance." Pleading with them both had done no good.

Elsewhere, his parolee status had eliminated possibilities even faster.

"If I could do something for you, maybe I would." Wainwright's tone had softened since the beginning of the interview. "But I can't. There's nothing here. Believe me." Miles nodded glumly. "I guess I knew anyway." "So what will you try next?"

Before there was time to answer, the secretary returned, handing Wainwright a paper sack and change. When the girl had gone, he took out the milk and sandwiches and set them down as Eastin watched, moistening his lips. "You can eat those here if you like."

Miles moved quickly, removing the wrapping from the first sandwich with plucking fingers. Any doubts about the truth of his statement that he was hungry were banished as Wainwright observed the food devoured silently, with speed. And while the security chief watched, an idea began to form.

At the end, Miles emptied the last of the milk from a paper cup and wiped his lips. Of the sandwiches, not a crumb remained.

"You didn't answer my question," Wainwright said. "What will you try next?"

Perceptibly Eastin hesitated, then said flatly, "I don't know."

"I think you do know. And I think you're lying for the first time since you came in." Miles Eastin shrugged. "Does it matter any more?"

"My guess is this," Wainwright said; he ignored the question. "Until now you've stayed away from the people you knew in prison. But because you gained nothing here you've decided to go to them. You'll take a chance on being seen, and your parole."

"What the hell other kind of chance is there? And if you know so much, why ask?" "So you do have those contacts."

"If I say yes," Eastin said contemptuously, "the first thing you'll do when I've gone is telephone the parole board."

"No." Wainwright shook his head. "Whatever we decide, I promise you I won't do that." "What do you mean: 'Whatever we decide'?"

"There might just be something we could work out. If you were willing to run some risks. Big ones." "What kind of risks?"

"Leave that for now. If we need to, we'll come back to it. Tell me first about the people you got to know inside and those you can make contact with now." Sensing continued wariness, Wainwright added, "I give you my word I won't take advantage without your agreement of anything you tell me."

"How do I know this isn't a trick the way you tricked me once before?"

"You don't. You'll take a chance on trusting me. Either that, or walk out of here and don't come back."

Miles sat silent, thinking, occasionally moistening his lips in the nervous gesture he had exhibited earlier. Then abruptly, without outward sign of a decision, he began to talk.

He revealed the approach first made to him in Drummonburg Penitentiary by the emissary from Mafia Row The message relayed to Miles Eastin, he told Wainwright, had originated with the outside loan shark, Igor (the Russian) Ominsky and was to the effect that he, Eastin, was a "stand-up guy" because he had not disclosed the identity of the shark or the bookmaker at the time of his arrest or afterward. As a concession, interest on Eastin's loan would be waived during his time in prison. "Mafia Row's messenger boy said that Orninsky stopped the clock while I was inside."

"But you're not inside now," Wainwright pointed out. "So the clock is running again."

Miles looked worried. "Yes, I know." He had realized that, and tried not to think about it while he searched for work. He had also stayed away from the location he had been told of where he could make contact with the loan shark Ominsky and others. It was the Double-Seven Health Club near the city's center, and the information had been passed to him a few days before leaving prison. He repeated it now under Wainwright's probing

"Figures. I don't know the Double-Seven," the bank security chief mused, "but I've heard of it. It has the reputation of being a mob hangout."

The other thing Miles had been told at Drummonburg was that there would be ways for him, through contacts he would make, to earn money to live and begin paying off his debt. He had not needed a diagram to know that such "ways" would be outside the law. That knowledge, and his dread of a return to prison, had kept him resolutely removed from the Double-Seven. So far.

"My hunch was right then. You would have gone there from here."

"Oh, God, Mr. Wainwright, I didn't want to! I still don't." "Maybe, between us, you can cut it both ways." "How?" "You've heard of an undercover agent?" Miles Eastin looked surprised before admitting, "Yes.. "”Then listen carefully." Wainwright began talk ng.

Pour months earlier, when the bank security chief viewed the drowned and mutilated body of his informer, Vic, he had doubted if he would send anyone undercover again. At that moment, shocked and with a sense of personal guilt, he had meant what he said and had done nothing since to recruit a replacement. But this opportunity Eastin's desperation and ready-made connections was too promising to be ignored.

Equally to the point: More and more counterfeit Keycharge credit cards were appearing, in what seemed a deluge, while their source remained unknown. Conventional methods of locating the producers and distributors had failed, as Wainwright knew; also hampering investigation was the fact that credit-card counterfeiting, under federal law, was not a criminal offense. Fraud had to be proven; intention to defraud was not enough. For all these reasons, law-enforcement agencies were more interested in other forms of counterfeiting, so their concern with credit cards was only incidental. Banks to the chagrin of professionals like Nolan Wainwright had made no serious effort to get this situation changed.

Most of this, the bank security chief explained at length to Miles Eastin. He also unfolded a basically simple plan. Miles would go to the Double-Seven Health Club, making such contacts as he could. He would try to ingratiate himself, and would also take whatever opportunities occurred to earn some money.

"Doing that will mean a risk two ways, and you'll have to realize it," Wainwright said. "If you do something criminal and get caught, you'll be arrested, tried, and no one else can help you. The other risk is, even if you don't get caught and the parole board hears rumors, that'll put you back in prison just as surely."

However, Wainwright continued, if neither mischance happened,, Miles should try to widen his contacts, listening hard and accumulating information. At first, he should be wary of appearing curious. "You'd take it easy," Wainwright cautioned. "Don't hurry, be patient. Let word get around; let people come to you."

Only after Miles was accepted, would he work harder at learning more. At that time he could begin discreet inquiries about fake credit cards, exhibiting an interest for himself and seeking to move closer to wherever they were traded. "There's always somebody," Wainwright advised, "who knows somebody else, who knows some other guy who has a rumble of some action. That's the way you'd weasel in."

Periodically, Wainwright said, Eastin would report to him. Though never directly.

The mention of reporting was a reminder to Wainwright of his obligation to explain about Vic. He did so bluntly, omitting no details. As he spoke, he saw Miles Eastin go pale and remembered the night in Eastin's apartment, the time of the confrontation and exposure, when the younger man's instinctive fear of physical violence showed so clearly.

"Whatever happens," Wainwright said sternly, "I don't want you to say or think, later on, that I didn't warn you of the dangers." He paused, considering. "Now, about money."

If Miles agreed to go undercover on the bank's behalf, the security chief stated, he would guarantee a payment of five hundred dollars a month until one way or another the assignment ended. The money would be paid through an intermediary.

"Would I be employed by the bank?"

"Absolutely no."

The answer was unequivocal, emphatic, final. Wainwright elaborated: Involvement of the bank officially would be nil. If Miles Eastin agreed to assume the role suggested, he would be entirely on his own. If he ran into trouble and tried to implicate First Mercantile American, he would be disowned and disbelieved. "Since you were convicted and went to jail," Wainwright declared,

"we never even heard of you."

Miles grimaced. "It's one-sided."

"Damn rightl But remember this: You came here. I didn't come to you. So what's your answer yes or no?"

"If you were me, which would it be?"

"I'm not you, nor likely to be. But I'll tell you how I see it. The way things are, you don't have many choices."

For a moment the old Miles Eastin humor and good nature flashed. "Heads I lose; tails I lose. I guess I hit the loser's jackpot. Let me ask one thing more,"

"What?"

"If it all works out, if I get if you get the evidence you need, afterward will you help me find a job at FMA?"

"I can't promise that. I already said I didn't write the rules."

"But you've influence to bend them."

Wainwright considered before answering. He thought:

If it came to it, he could go to Alex Vandervoort and present a case on behalf of Eastin. Success would be worth it. He said aloud, "I'll try. But that's all I promise."

"You're a hard man," Miles Eastin said. "All right, I'll do it." They discussed an intermediary.

"After today," Wainwright warned, "you and I won't meet again directly. It's too dangerous; either one of us may be watched. What we need is someone who can be a conduit for messages both ways and money; someone whom we both trust totally."

Miles said slowly, "There's Juanita Nunez. If she'd do it."

Wainwright looked incredulous. "The teller who you…

"Yes. But she forgave me." There was a mixture of elation and excitement in his voice. "I went to see her and Heaven bless her, she forgave met" "I'll be damned."

"You ask her," Miles Eastin said. "There's not a single reason why she should agree. But I think… just think, she might."

5

How sound was Lewis D'Orsey's instinct about Supranational Corporation? How sound was Supranational? That worry continued to vex Alex Vandervoort.

It was on Saturday night that Alex and Lewis had talked about SuNatCo. Over what remained of the weekend, Alex pondered The D'Orsey Newsletter recommendation to sell Supernational shares at whatever the market would pay and Lewis's doubts about the conglomerate's solidity.

The entire subject was exceedingly important, even vital, to the bank. Yet it could be a delicate situation in which, Alex realized, he would need to move cautiously.

For one thing, Supranational was now a major client and any client would be righteously indignant if its own bankers circulated adverse rumors about it, particularly if false. And Alex had no illusions: Once he began asking questions widely, word of them, and their source, would travel fast.

But were the rumors false? Certainly as Lewis D'Orsey had admitted they were insubstantial. But then so had the original rumors been about such spectacular business failures as Penn Central, Equity Funding, Franklin National Bank, Security National Bank, American Bank & Trust, U.S. National Bank of San Diego, and others. There was also Lockheed, which hadn't failed, but came close to it, being bailed out by a U.S. government handout. Alex remembered with disquieting clarity Lewis D'Orsey's reference to SuNatCo's chairman, Quartermain, shopping in Washington for a Lockheed-type loan except that Lewis used the word "subsidy," which wasn't far from truth.

It was possible, of course, that Supranational was merely suffering a temporary cash shortage, which sometimes happened to the soundest of companies. Alex hoped, that that or something less was true. However, as an officer of FMA he could not afford to sit back and hope. Fifty million dollars of bank money had been funneled into SuNatCo; also, using funds which it was the bank's job to safeguard, the trust department had invested heavily in Supranational shares, a fact which still made Alex shiver when he thought about it.

He decided the first thing he should do, in fairness, was inform Roscoe Heyward.

On Monday morning he walked from his office, down the carpeted 36th floor corridor, to Heyward's. Alex took with him the latest issue of The D'Orsey Newsletter which Lewis had given him on Saturday night. Heyward was not there. With a friendly nod to the senior secretary, Mrs. Callaghan, - Alex strolled in and put the newsletter directly on Heyward's desk. He had already ringed the item about Supranational and clipped on a note which read: Roscoe I thought you should see this. Then Alex returned to his own offlce.

Half an hour later, Heyward stormed in, his face flushed. He tossed down the newsletter. "Did you put this disgusting insult-to-intelligence on my desk?"

Alex pointed to his own handwritten note. "It rather looks like it."

"Then do me the favor of not sending me any more drivel written by that conceited ignoramus."

"Oh, come onl Sure, Lewis D'Orsey is conceited, and I dislike part of what he writes, just as you obviously do. But he isn't an ignoramus, and some of his viewpoints are at least worth hearing."

"You may think so. Others don't. I suggest you read this." Heyward slapped an opened magazine on top of the newsletter.

Alex looked down, surprised at the other's vehemence. "I have read it."

The magazine was Forbes, the two-page article in question a slashing attack on Lewis D'Orsey. Alex had found the piece long on spite, short on fact. But it underscored what he already knew that attacks on The D'Orsey Newsletter by the financial establishment press were frequent. Alex pointed out, "The Wall Street Journal had something similar a year ago."

"Then I'm amazed you don't accept the fact that D'Orsey has absolutely no training or qualifications as an investment adviser. In a way, I'm sorry his wife works for us."

Alex said sharply, "Edwina and Lewis D'Orsey make a point of keeping their occupations entirely separate, as I'm sure you know. As to qualifications, I'll remind you that plenty of degree-loaded experts haven't done well in financial forecasting Quite frequently, Lewis D'Orsey has." "Not where Supranational is concerned." "Do you still think SuNatCo is sound?"

Alex asked the last question quietly, not from antagonism, but seeking information. But its effect on Roscoe Heyward seemed near-explosive. Heyward glared through his rimless glasses; his face suffused an even deeper red. "I'm sure that nothing would delight you more than to see a setback for SuNatCo, and thereby me." "No, that isn't…"

"Let me finish!" Heyward's facial muscles twitched as anger poured out. "I've observed more than enough of your petty conniving and doubt-casting, like passing around this garbage" he motioned to The D'Orsey Newsletter "and now I'm telling you to cease and desist. Supranational was, and is, a sound, progressive company with high earnings and good management. Getting the SuNatCo account much as you may be jealous about it personally was my achievement; it's my business. Now I'm warning you: Stay out of it!" Heyward wheeled and stalked out.

For several minutes Alex Vandervoort sat silently thoughtful, weighing what had just occurred. The outburst had amazed him. In the two and a half years that he had known and worked with Roscoe Heyward, the two of them had suffered disagreements and occasionally revealed their mutual dislike. But never before had Heyward lost control as he had this morning.

Alex thought he knew why. Underneath the bluster, Roscoe Heyward was worried. The more Alex thought about it, the more he was convinced.

Earlier, Alex had been worried himself about Supranational. Now the question posed itself: Was Heyward worrying about SuNatCo, too? If so, what next?

As he pondered, memory stirred. A fragment from a recent conversation. Alex pressed an intercom button and told his secretary, "See if you can locate Miss Bracken." It took fifteen minutes before Margot's voice said brightly, 'This had better be good. You got me out of court."

'Trust me, Bracken." He wasted no time. "In your department store class action the one you talked about on Saturday night you told us you used a private investigator." "Yes. Vernon Jax." "I think Lewis knew him, or of him." 'That's right."

"And Lewis said he was a good man who'd done work for the SEC."

"I heard that, too. Probably it's because Vernon has a degree in economics."

Alex added the information to notes he had already made! "Is Jax discreet? Trustworthy?" 'Totally." "Where do I find him?" 'All find hirn. Tell me where and when you want him." "In my office, Bracken. Today without fail."

Alex studied the untidy, balding, nondescript man seated opposite him in his office conference area. It was mid-afternoon.

Jax, Alex guessed, was in his early fifties. He looked like a small-town grocer, not too prosperous. His shoes were scuffed and there was a food stain on his jacket. Alex had already learned that Jax had been a staff investigator for the IRS before going into business for himself.

"I'm told you also have a degree in economics," Alex said,

The other shrugged deprecatingly. "Night school. You know how it is. Time on your hands." His voice tailed off, leaving the explanation incomplete.

"How about accounting? Do you have much knowledge there?" "Some. Studying for CPA exams right now."

"Night school, I suppose." Alex was beginning to catch on. "Yep." A pale ghost of a smile. "Mr. Jax," Alex began.

"Most folks just call me Vernon."

"Vernon, I'm considering having you undertake an inquiry. It will require absolute discretion and speed is essential. You've heard of Supranational Corporation?" "Sure."

"I want a financial investigation of that company. But it will have to be I'm afraid there's no other word for it an outside snooping job."

Jax smiled again. "Mr. Vandervoort" this time his tone was crisper "that's precisely the business I'm in."

It would require a month, they agreed, though an interim report would be made to Alex if it seemed warranted. Complete confidentiality concerning the bank's investigative role would be preserved. Nothing illegal would be done. The investigator's fee was to be fifteen thousand plus reasonable expenses, half the fee payable immediately, the balance after a final report. Alex would arrange payment from FMA operating funds. He realized he might have to justify the expense later, but would worry about it when the time came.

Late in the afternoon, when Jax had gone, Margot phoned. "Did you hire him?" `Yes, "Were you impressed?" Alex decided he would play the game. "Not really." Margot laughed softly. "You will be. You'll see."

But Alex hoped he wouldn't. He hoped fervently that Lewis D'Orsey's instincts were wrong, that Vernon Jax would discover nothing, and that adverse rumors about Supranational would prove rumors nothing more.

That night, Alex paid one of his periodic visits to Celia at the Remedial Center. He had come to dread the visits even more; he always came away deeply depressed, but continued them out of a sense of duty. Or was it guilt? He was never sure.

As usual, he was escorted by a nurse to Celia's private room in the institution. When the nurse had gone, Alex sat talking, chatting in an inane, one-sided conversation about whatever things occurred to him, though Celia gave no sign of hearing, or even an awareness of his presence. Once, on an earlier occasion, he spoke gibberish just to see if her blankness of expression changed. It hadn't. Afterward he felt ashamed and hadn't done it since.

Even so, he had formed the habit during these sessions with Celia, of prattling on, scarcely listening to himself, while half his mind was wandering elsewhere. Tonight, among other things, he said, "People have all kinds of problems nowadays, Celia, problems which no one ever thought of a few years ago. Along with every clever thing mankind discovers or invents, come dozens of questions and decisions we never had to face before. Take electric can openers. If you have one and I do in my apartment there's a problem of where to plug it, when to use it, how to clean it, what to do when it goes wrong; all problems nobody would have if there weren't electric can openers and, after all, who needs them? Speaking of problems, I have several at this moment personal and at the bank. A big one came up today. In some ways you may be better off in here…"

Alex checked himself, realizing he was talking, if not gibberish, then rubbish. No one was better off here, in this tragic twilight quarter-life;

Yet nothing else was left for Celia; in the past few months that fact had become even clearer than before. As recently as a year ago there had been traces of her former girlish, fragile beauty. Now they were gone. Her once-glorious fair hair was dull and sparse. Her skin had a grayish texture; in places eruptions showed where she had scratched herself.

Where once her curled-up fetal position had been occasional, now she adopted it most of the time. And though Celia was ten years younger than Alex, she appeared hag-like and twenty years older.

It was nearly five years since Celia had entered the Remedial Center. In the meantime she had become totally institutionalized, and was likely to remain so.

Watching his wife, and continuing to talk, Alex felt compassion and sadness, but no sense of attachment or affection any more. Perhaps he ought to experience some of those emotions but, being honest with himself, he no longer found it possible. Yet he was tied to Celia, he recognized, by bonds he would never sever until one or the other of them died.

He remembered his conversation with Dr. McCartney, head of the Remedial Center, almost eleven months ago, the day after Ben Rosselli so dramatically announced his impending death. Answering Alex's question about the effect on Celia of a divorce and Alex's remarriage, the psychiatrist had said: It might drive her over the brink into a totally demented state.

And, later, Margot had declared: What I won't have on my conscience, or yours, is shoving what's left of Celia sanity into a Bottomless pit.

Tonight, Alex wondered if Celia's sanity was in some bottomless pit already. But even if true, it didn't change his reluctance to set in motion the final, ruthless machinery of divorce.

Nor had he gone to live permanently with Margot Bracken, or she with him. Margot remained agreeable to either arrangement, though Alex still wanted marriage which obviously he couldn't have without divorcing Celia. Lately, though, he had sensed Margot's impatience at the lack of a decision.

How strange that he, accustomed at First Mercantile American to taking large decisions swiftly in stride, should wrestle with indecision in lapis private lifer

The essence of the problem, Alex realized, was his old ambivalence_about his personal guilt. Could he, years ago, by greater effort, love, and understanding, have saved his young, nervous, insecure bride from what she had become? If he had been more a devoted husband, less a devoted banker, he still suspected that he might.

It was why he came here, why he continued doing the little that he could.

When it was time to leave Celia, he rose and went toward her, intending to kiss her forehead as he did whenever she allowed hi But tonight she shrank away, curling her body even tighter, her eyes alert with sudden fear. He sighed and abandoned the attempt. "Good night, Celia," Alex said.

There was no answer and he went out, leaving his wife to whatever lonely world she now inhabited.

Next morning Alex sent for Nolan Wainwright. He told the security chief that the investigator's fee to be paid Vernon fax would be remitted through Wainwright's department. Alex would authorize the expense. Alex didn't state, and Wainwright didn't ask, the specific nature of Jax's investigation. For the moment, Alex decided, the fewer people who knew the target, the better.

Nolan Wainwright had a reciprocal report for Alex. It concerned his arrangement that Miles Eastin would be an undercover agent for the bank. Alex's reaction was immediate. "No. I don't want that man ever again on our payroll."

"He won't be on the payroll," Wainwright argued. "I've explained to him that as far as the bank is concerned, he has no status. Any money he'll receive will be in cash, with nothing to show where it came from."

"That's hairsplitting, Nolan. One way or the other he'd be employed by us, and that I can't agree to."

"If you don't agree," Wainwright objected, "you'll be tying my hands, not letting me do my job."

"Doing your job doesn't require you to hire a convicted thief." "Ever hear of using one to catch ones" "Then use one who didn't personally defraud this bank."

They argued back and forth, at moments heatedly. In the end, Alex reluctantly conceded. Afterward he asked, "Does Eastin realize how much of a risk he's taking?" "He knows."

"You told him about the dead man?" Alex had learned about Vic, from Wainwright, several months ago. "Yes." "I still don't like the idea any of it."

"You'll like it even less if Keycharge fraud losses keep increasing, as they are."

Alex sighed. "All right. It's your department and you're entitled to run it your way, which is why I've given in. But I'll impress one thing on you: If you've reason to believe Eastin is in immediate danger, then pull him out at once." "I intended that."

Wainwright was glad that he had won, though it had been a tougher argument than he expected. However, it seemed unwise right now to mention anything else for example, his hope of enlisting Juanita Nunez as an intermediary. After all, he rationalized, the principle was established, so why bother Alex with details?