The Moneychangers

6

Juanita Nunez was torn between suspicion and curiosity. Suspicion because she disliked and distrusted the bank's vice-president of security, Nolan Wainwright. Curiosity because she wondered why he wanted to see her, apparently in secrecy.

There was nothing for her to be concerned about personally, Wainwright had assured Juanita on the telephone yesterday when he called her at the main downtown branch. He would merely like the two of them, he said, to have a confidential talk. "It's a question of whether you'd be willing to help someone else." "Like you?" "Not exactly." "Then who?" "I'd prefer to tell you privately."

Prom his voice, Juanita sensed that Wainwright was trying to be friendly. But she parried the friendliness, still remembering his unfeeling harshness when she had been under suspicion of theft. Not even his subsequent apology had wiped out that memory. She doubted if anything ever would.

Just the same, he was a senior officer of FMA and she a junior employee. "Well," Juanita said, "I'm here, and last time I looked the tunnel was open." She assumed that either Wainwright would walk over from the Headquarters Tower or she would be told to report there. However, he surprised her.

"It would be best if we didn't meet in the bank, Mrs. Nunez. When I've explained, you'll understand why. Suppose I pick you up in my car from your home this evening, and we talk while we drive." "I can't do that." She was more wary than ever. "You mean, not tonight?" "Yes." "How about tomorrow?"

Juanita was stalling, trying to decide. "I'll have to let you know."

"All right, call me tomorrow. As early as you can. And meanwhile, please don't tell anyone else we had this conversation." Wainwright hung up.

Now it was tomorrow Tuesday in the third week of September. At midmorning, Juanita knew that if she failed to call Wainwright soon, he would call her.

She was still uneasy. Sometimes, she thought, she had a nose for trouble and scented it now. Earlier Juanita had considered asking the advice of Mrs. D'Orsey whom she could see, on the other side of the bank, at the manager's desk on the platform. But she hesitated, remembering Wainwright's cautionary words about not telling anyone else. That, as much as anything, had piqued her curiosity.

Today Juanita was working on new accounts. Beside her was a phone. She stared at it, picked it up, and dialed the internal number of Security. Moments later, Nolan Wainwright's deep voice asked, "Can you make it tonight?"

Curiosity won out. "Yes, but not for long." She explained that she would leave Estela alone for half an hour; no more. 'what will be long enough. What time and where?"

Dusk was settling in when Nolan Wainwright's Mustang nosed to the curb outside the Forum East apartment building where Juanita Nunez lived. Moments later she emerged through the main floor entranceway, closing it carefully behind her. Wainwright reached over from belund the wheel to open the nearside door and she climbed in.

He helped fasten her seat harness, then said, "Thank you for coming."

"Half an hour," Juanita reminded him. "That's all." She made no attempt to be friendly and was already nervous about leaving Estela alone.

The bank security chief nodded as he eased the car away from the curb and into traffic. They drove two blocks in silence, then made a left turn onto a busier, divided road, lined with brightly lighted stores and eateries. Still driving, Wainwright said, "I hear young Eastin came to see you." She responded sharply, "How did you know?" "He told me. He also said that you've forgiven him." "If he said it, then you know." "Juanita may I call you that?" "It is my name. I suppose so."

Wainwright sighed. "Juanita, I already told you I'm sorry about the way things went between us once before. If you still hold that against me, I don't blame you."

She thawed slightly. "Bueno, you had better tell me what it is you want." "I want to know if you'd be willing to help Eastin." "So he is the one." "Yes." "Why should I? Isn't forgiving him enough?"

"If you ask my opinion more than enough. But he was the one who said you might…" She interrupted. "What kind of help?"

"Before I tell you, I'd like your promise that what we say tonight will go no further than the two of us."

She shrugged. "There is no one to tell. But you have the promise."

"Eastin is going to do some investigative work. It's for the bank, though unofficial. If he succeeds it may help him get rehabilitated, which is what he wants." Wainwright paused while he maneuvered the car around a slow-moving tractor-trailer. He continued, "The work is risky. It would be riskier still if Eastin reported directly to me. What the two of us need is someone to carry messages both ways an intermediary." "And you decided it should be me?"

"No one's decided. It's a question of whether you'd be willing. If you were, it would help Eastin help himself." "And is Miles the only one this would help?"

"No," Wainwright admitted. "It would help me; also the bank." "Somehow that is what I thought."

They had left the bright lights now and were crossing the river by a bridge; in the gathering darkness the water gleamed blackly far below. The road surface was metallic and the car wheels hummed. At the end of the bridge was the entrance to an interstate highway. Wainwright turned onto it.

"The investigation you speak of," Juanita prompted. 'Yell me more about it." Her voice was low, expressionless.

"All right." He described how Miles Eastin would operate under cover, using his contacts made in prison, and the kind of evidence Miles would search for. There was no point, Wainwright decided, in holding anything back because what he didn't tell Juanita now she would find out later. So he added the information about the murder of Vic, though omitting the more unpleasant details. "I'm not saying the same will happen to Eastin," he concluded. "I'll do everything possible to make sure it won't. But I mention it so you know the risk he's running, and he understands it, too. If you were to help him, as I said, it would keep him safer."

"And who will keep me safe?"

"For you there'd be virtually no risk. The only contact you'd have would be with Eastin and with me. No one else would know, and you wouldn't be compromised. We'd make sure of that."

- "If you are so sure, why are we meeting this way now?"

- "Simply a precaution. To make certain we're not seen together and can't be overheard."

Juanita waited, then she asked, "And that is all? There is nothing more to tell me?" Wainwright said, "I guess that's it."

They were on the interstate now and he held the car at a steady 45, staying in the right-hand lane while other vehicles speeded past. On the opposite side of the divided highway three lines of headlights streamed toward them, passing in a blur. Soon he would turn off at an exit ramp and return the way they had come. Meanwhile, Juanita sat silently beside him, her eyes directed straight ahead.

He wondered what she was thinking and what her answer would be. He hoped it would be yes. As on earlier occasions he found this petite, elfin girl-woman provocative and sexually attractive. Her perversity was part of it; so was the smell of her a bodily feminine presence in the small closed car. There had been few women in Nolan Wainwright's life since his divorce, and at any other time he might have tried his luck. But what he wanted from Juanita now was too important to take a chance with self-indulgence.

He was about to break the silence when Juanita turned to face him. Even in the semidarkness he could see her eyes were blazing. "You must be mad, mad, mad!" Her voice rose heatedly. "Do you think I am a little fool? Una boba! tonta! No risk for me, you say! Of course there is a risk, and I take all of it. And for what? For the glory of Mr. Security Wainwright and his bank." "Now wait…"

She brushed aside the interruption, storming on, her anger spilling out like lava. "Am I such an easy target? Does being alone or Puerto Rican qualify me for all the abuses of this world? Do you not care who you use, or how? Take me home What kind of pendejada is this anyway?"

"Hold it!" Wainwright said; the reaction had astonished him. "What's pendejada?"

"Idiocy! Pendejada that you would throw a man's life away for your selfish credit cards. Pendejada that Miles would agree to do it." "He came to me asking for help. I didn't go to him." "You call that help?"

"He'll be paid for what he does. He wanted that, too. And it was he who suggested you."

"Then what is wrong with him that he cannot ask me himself? Has Miles lost his tongue? Or is he ashamed, and hiding behind your skirts?"

"Okay, okay," Wainwright protested. "I get the message. I'll take you home." An off ramp was close ahead; he turned onto it, crossed an overpass and headed back toward the city. Juanita sat fuming.

At first, she had tried to consider calmly what Wainwright was suggesting. But while he had talked, and she had listened, doubts and questions besieged her, then afterward, as she considered each, her anger and emotion grew, and finally exploded. Coupled with her outburst was a fresh hate and disgust for the man beside her. All the old painful feelings of her earlier experience with him now returned and were augmented. And she was angry, not only for herself, but about the use which Wainwright and the bank proposed to make of Miles.

At the same time Juanita was incensed at Miles. Why had he not approached her himself, directly? Was he not man enough? She remembered that less than three weeks ago she had admired his courage in coming to her, facing her penitently, and asking forgiveness. But his actions now, the method of working on her through someone else, seemed more in keeping with his earlier deceit when he had blamed her for his own malfeasance. Suddenly her thinking veered. Was she being harsh, unjust? Looking inside herself, Juanita asked: Wasn't part of her frustration at this moment a disappointment that Miles had not returned after the encounter in her apartment? And wasn't there exacerbating that disappointment here and now a resentment that Miles, whom she liked despite everything, was being represented to her by Nolan Wainwright, whom she didn't?

Her anger, never long sustained, diminished. Uncertainty replaced it. She asked Wainwright, "So what will you do now?" "Whatever I decide, I'm certainly not likely to confide in you." His tone was curt, the attempt at friendliness i gone.

With sudden alarm, Juanita wondered if she had been needlessly belligerent. She could have turned down the request without the insults. Would Wainwright find some way to retaliate within the bank? Had she put her job in jeopardy? the job she depended on to support Estela. Juanita's anxiety increased. She had a sense, after all, of being trapped.

And something else, she thought: If she were honest which she tried to be she regretted that because of her decision she would see no more of Miles.

The car had slowed. They were near the turnoff which would take them back across the river bridge.

Surprising herself, Juanita said in a flat, small voice, "Very well, I will do it." "You'll what?" "I will be whatever it was an…"

"Intermediary." Wainwright glanced sideways at her. "You're sure?" "Si, estoy segura. I am sure."

Por the second time tonight he sighed. "You're a strange one." "I am a woman."

"Yes," he said, and some of the friendliness was back "I'd noticed."

A block and a half from Forum East, Wainwright stopped the car, leaving the motor running. He removed two envelopes from an inside jacket pocket one fat, the other smaller and handed the first to Juanita. "That's money for Eastin. Keep it until he gets in touch with you." The envelope, Wainwright explained, contained four hundred and fifty dollars in cash the agreed monthly payment, less a fifty-dollar advance which Wainwright had given Miles last week.

"Later this week," he added, "Eastin win phone me and I'll announce a code word we've already arranged. Your name win not be mentioned. But he'll know that he's to contact you, which he'll do soon after."

Juanita nodded, concentrating, storing the information away.

"After that phone call, Eastin and I won't contact each other directly again. Our messages, both ways, will go through you. It would be best if you didn't write them down, but carry them in your head. I happen to know your memory is good."

Wainwright smiled as he said it, and abruptly Juanita laughed. How ironic that her remarkable memory, which was once a cause of her troubles with the bank and Nolan Wainwright, should be relied on by him nowl

"By the way," he said, "I'D need to know your home phone number. I couldn't find it listed."

"That is because I do not have a telephone. It costs too much."

"Just the same, you'll need one. Eastin may want to call you; so might I. If you'll have a phone installed immediately, I'll see that the bank reimburses you."

"I will try. But I have heard from others that phones are slow to be put in at Forum East."

'When let me arrange it. I’ll call the phone company tomorrow. I guarantee fast action." "Very well."

Now Wainwright opened the second, smaller envelope. "When you give Eastin the money, also give him this."

"This" was a Keycharge bank credit card, made out in the name of H. E. LINCOLP. On the rear of the card a space for signature was blank.

"Have Eastin sign the card, in that name, in his normal handwriting. Tell him the name is a fake, though if he looks at the initials and the last letter, he'll see they spell H-E-L-P. That's what the card is for."

The bank security chief said that the Keycharge computer had been programmed so that if this card was presented anywhere, a purchase of up to a hundred dollars would be approved, but simultaneously an automatic alert would be raised within the bank. This would notify Wainwright that Eastin needed help, and where he was.

"He can use the card if he's on to something hot and wants support, or if he knows he's in danger. Depending on what's happened up to then, I'll decide what to do. Tell him to buy something worth more than fifty dollars; that way the store will be certain to phone in for confirmation. After that phone call, he should dawdle as much as he can, to give me time to move."

Wainwright added, "He may never need the card. But if he does, it's a signal no one else will know about."

At Wainwright's request, Juanita repeated his instructions almost word for word. He looked at her admiringly. "You're pretty bright." "`De que me vale, muerta?" "What does that mean?"

She hesitated, then translated, "What good will it do me if I'm dead?"

"Stop worrying!" Reaching across the car he gently touched her folded hands. "I promise it'll all work out."

At that moment his confidence was infectious. But later, back in her apartment with Estela sleeping, Juanita's instinct about impending trouble persistently returned. .

The Double-Seven Health Club smelled of boiler steam, stale urine, body odor, and booze. After a while, though, to anyone inside, the various effluvia merged into a single pungency, curiously acceptable, so that fresh air which occasionally blew in seemed alien.

The club was a boxlike, four-story brown brick building in a decaying, dead-end street on the fringes of downtown. Its facade was scarred by a half century of wear, neglect, and more recently graffiti. At the building's peak was an unadorned stub of flagpole which no one remembered seeing whole. The main entrance consisted of a single, solid, unmarked door abutting directly on a sidewalk notable for cracks, overturned garbage cans, and innumerable dog turds. A paint-flaking lobby just inside was supposed to be guarded by a punch-drunk bruiser who let members in and churlishly kept strangers out, but he was sometimes missing, which was why Miles Eastin wandered in unchallenged.

It was shortly before noon, midweek, and a dissonance of raised voices drifted back from somewhere in the rear. Miles walked toward the sound, down a main-floor corridor, none too clean and hung with yellowed prizefight pictures. At the end was an open door to a semi-darkened bar from where the voices came. Miles went in.

At first he could scarcely see in the dimriess and moved uncertainly so that a hurrying waiter with a tray of drinks caromed into him. The waiter swore, somehow managed to keep the glasses upright, and moved on. Two men perched on barstools turned their heads. One said, "This is a private club, buster. If you aina member out!"

The other complained, " 'S 'at lazy bum Pedro goofin' off. Some doorman! Hey, who are ye? Wadda ya want?" Miles told him, "I was looking for Jules LaRocca."

"Look someplace else," the first man ordered. "No wunna that name here."

"Hey, Milesy baby" A squat pot-bellied figure bustled forward through the gloom. The familiar weasel face came into focus. It was LaRocca who in Drummonburg Penitentiary had been an emissary from Mafia Row, and later attached himself to Miles and his protector Karl. Karl was still inside, and likely to remain there. Jules LaRocca had been released on parole shortly before Miles Eastin. "Hi, Jules," Miles acknowledged.

"Come over. Meet some guys." LaRocca seized Miles's arm in pudgy fingers. "Frenna mine," he told the two men on barstools who turned their backs indifferently.

"Listen," Miles said, "I won't come over. I'm out of bread. I can't buy." He slipped easily into the argot he had learned in prison.

"forget it. Hava couple beers on me." As they passed between tables, LaRocca asked, "Whereya bin?"

"Looking for work. I'm all beat, Jules. I need some help. Before I got out you said you'd give it to me."

"Sure, sure." They stopped at a table where two other men were seated. One was skinny with a mournful, pockmarked face; the other had long blond hair, cowboy boots, and wore dark glasses. LaRocca pulled up an extra chair. "Thissa my buddy, Milesy."

The man with dark glasses grunted. The other said, '.The guy knows about dough?"

"That's him." LaRocca shouted across the room for beer, then urged the man who had spoken first to,-"Ask him sumpum." "Like what?"

"Like about money, asshole," dark glasses said. He considered. "Where'da first dollar get started'

"That's easy," Miles told him. "Lots of people think America invented the dollar. Well, we didn't. It came from Bohemia in Germany, only first it was called a thaler, which other Europeans couldn't pronounce, so they corrupted it to dollar and it stayed that way. One of the first references to it is in Macbeth 'ten thousand dollars to our general use."' "Mac who?"

"Macshit," LaRocca said. "You wanna printed program?" He told the other two proudly, "See what I mean? This kid knows it all."

"Not quite," Miles said, "or I'd know how to make some money at this moment."

Two beers were slapped in front of him. LaRocca fished out cash which he gave the waiter.

"Before ya make dough," LaRocca said to Miles, "ye gotta pay Ominsky." He leaned across confidingly, ignoring the other two. 'The Russian knows ya outta the can. Bin askin' for ye."

The mention of the loan shark, to whom he still owed at least three thousand dollars, left Miles sweating. There was another debt, too roughly the same amount to the bookie he had dealt with, but the chance of paying either seemed remote at this moment. Yet he had known that coming here, making himself visible, would reopen the old accounts and that savage reprisals would follow if he failed to pay.

He asked LaRocca, "How can I pay any of what I owe if I can't get work?"

The pot-bellied man shook his head. "First off, ya got ta see the Russian."

"Where?" Miles knew that Ominsky had no office but operated wherever business took him.

LaRocca motioned to the beer. "Drink up, then you in me go look."

"Look at it from my point of view," the elegantly dressed man said, continuing his lunch. His diamond ringed hands moved deftly above his plate. "We had a business arrangement, you and me, which both of us agreed to. I kept my part. You've not kept yours. I ask you, where does that leave me?"

"Look," Miles pleaded, "you know what happened, and I appreciate your stopping the clock the way you did. But I can't pay now. I want to, but I can't. Please give me time. Ominsky shook his expensively barbered head; manicured fingers touched a pink clean-shaven cheek. He was vain about his appearance, and lived and dressed well, as he could afford to.

'Time," he said softly, "is money. You've had too much of both already."

On the opposite side of the booth, in the restaurant where LaRocca had brought him, Miles had the-feeling of being a mouse before a cobra. There was no food on his side of the table, not even a glass of water, which he could have used because his lips were dry and fear gnawed at his stomach. If he could have gone to Nolan Wainwright now and canceled their arrangement, which had exposed him in this way, Miles would have done it instantly. As it was, he sat sweating, watching, while Ominsky continued his meal of Sole Bonne Femme. Jules LaRocca had strolled discreetly away to the restaurant's bar. - The reason for Miles's fear was simple. He could guess the size of Ominsky's business and knew the absoluteness of his power.

Once, Miles had watched a TV special on which an authority on American crime, Ralph Salerno, was asked the question: If you had to live illegally, what kind of criminal would you be? The expert's answer instantly: A loan shark. What Miles knew, from his contacts in prison and before, confirmed this view.

A loan shark like Russian Ominsky was a banker harvesting a staggering profit with minimal risk, dealing in loans large and small, unhampered by regulations. His customers came to him; he seldom sought them out, or needed to. He rented no expensive premises and did his business in a car, a bar or at lunch, as now. His record keeping was the amplest, usually in code, and his transactions largely in cash were untraceable. His losses from bad debts were minor. He paid no federal, state, or city taxes. Yet interest rates or "vig" he charged were normally 100 percent p.a., and often higher.

At any given time, Miles guessed, Ominsky would have at least two million dollars "on the street." Some of it would be the loan shark's own money, the rest invested with him by bosses of organized crime for whom he made a handsome profit, taking a commission for himself. It was normal for an initial $100,000 invested in loan-sharking to be pyramided, within five years, to $1.5 million a 1,400 percent capital gain. No other business in the world could equal it.

Nor were a loan shark's clients always small-time. With surprising frequency, big names and reputable businesses borrowed from loan sharks when other credit sources were exhausted. Sometimes, in lieu of repayment, a loan shark would become a partner or owner of another business. Like a sea shark, his bite was large,

The loan shark's main expenses were for enforcement, and he kept those minimal, knowing that broken limbs and hospitalized bodies produced little, if any, money; and knowing, too, his strongest collection aide was fear.

Yet the fear needed a basis in reality; therefore when a borrower defaulted, punishment by hired goons was swift and savage.

As to risks a loan shark ran, these were slight compared with other forms of crime. Few loan sharks were ever prosecuted, fewer still convicted. Lack of evidence was the reason. A loan shark's customers were closemouthed, partly from fear, some from shame that they needed bus services at all. And those who were physically beaten never lodged complaints, knowing that if they did there would be more of the same to come.

Thus, Miles sat, apprehensive, while Ominsky finished his sole.

Unexpectedly, the loan shark said, "Can you keep a set of books'

"Bookkeeping? Why, yes; when I worked for the bank., He was waved to silence; cold, hard eyes appraised him. "Maybe I can use you. I need a bookkeeper at the Double-Seven."

"The health club?" It was news to Miles that Ominsky owned or managed it. He added, "I was there today, before…"

The other cut him off. "When I'm talking, stay quiet and listen; just answer questions when you're asked. LaRocca says you want to work. If I give you work, everything you earn goes to me to pay your loan and vig. In other words, I own you. I want that understood."

"Yes, Mr. Ominsky." Relief flooded Miles. He was to be given time after all. The how and why were unimportant.

"You'll get your meals, a room," Russian Ominsky said, "and one thing I'll warn you keep your fingers out of the till. If I ever find you didn't, you'll wish you'd stolen from the bank again, not me."

Miles shivered instinctively, less for concern about stealing which he had no intention of doing than his awareness of what Ominsky would do if he ever learned a Judas had come into his camp.

"Jules will take you and get you set up. You'll be told what else to do. That's all." Ominsky dismissed Miles with a gesture and nodded to LaRocca who had been watching from the bar. While Miles waited near the restaurant's outer door, the other two conferred, the loan shark issuing instructions and LaRocca nodding.

Jules LaRocca rejoined Miles. "You gotta swell break, Kid. Let's move ass."

As they left, Ominsky began to eat dessert while another waiting figure slipped into the seat facing him.

The room at the Double-Seven was on the building's top floor and little more than a shabbily furnished cubicle. Miles didn't mind. It represented a frail beginning, a chance to reshape his life and regain something of what he had lost, though he knew it would take time, grave risk, and enterprise. For the moment, he tried not to think too much about his dual role, concentrating instead on making himself useful and becoming accepted, as Nolan Wainwright had cautioned him to do. .'

He learned the geography of the club first. Most of the main floor apart from the bar he had been in originally was taken up by a gymnasium and handball courts. On the second floor were steam rooms and massage parlors. The third comprised offices; also several other rooms which he learned the use of later. The fourth floor, smaller than the others, contained a few more cubicles like Miles's where club members occasionally slept overnight.

Miles slipped easily into the bookkeeper's work. He was good at the jobs up on a backlog and improving postings which had been done sloppily before. He made suggestions to the club manager for making other record keeping more efficient, though was careful not to seek credit for the changes.

The manager, an ex-fight promoter named Nathanson, to whom office work did not come easily, was grateful. He was even more appreciative when Miles offered to do extra chores around the club, such as reorganizing stores and inventory procedures. Nathanson, in return, allowed Miles use of the handball courts during some of his free time? which provided an extra chance of meeting members.

The club's all-male membership, as far as Miles could see, was divided broadly into two groups. One comprised those who seriously used the club's athletic facilities, including the steam baths and massage parlors. These people came and went individually, few of them appearing to know each other, and Miles guessed they were salaried workers or minor business executives who belonged to the Double-Seven simply to keep fit. He suspected, too, that the first group provided a conveniently legitimate front for the second, which usually didn't use the athletic facilities, except the steam baths on occasion.

Those in this second group congregated mainly in the bar or the upstairs rooms on the third floor. They were present in greatest numbers late at night, when the exercise-seeking members seldom used the club. It became evident to Miles that this second element was what Nolan Wainwright had in mind when he described the DoubleSeven as a "mob hangout."

Something else Miles Eastin learned quickly was that the upstairs rooms were used for illegal, high stakes card and dice games. By the time he had worked a week, some of the night regulars had come to know Miles, and were relaxed about him, being assured by Jules LaRocca that he was "okay, a stand-up guy."

Shortly after, and pursuing his policy of being useful, Miles began helping out when drinks and sandwiches had to be carried to the third floor. The first time he did, one of a half-dozen burly men standing outside the gaming rooms, who were obviously guards, took the tray from him and carried it in. But next night, and on subsequent ones, he was allowed into the rooms where gambling was taking place. Miles also obliged by buying cigarettes downstairs and bringing them up for anyone who needed them, Including the guards. He knew he was becoming liked.

One reason was his general willingness. Another was that some of his old cheerfulness and good nature were returning, despite the problems and dangers of being where he was. And a third was that Jules LaRocca, who seemed to flit around the fringes of everything, had become Miles's sponsor, even though LaRocca made Miles feel, at times, like a vaudeville performer.

It was Miles Eastin's knowledge about money and its history which fascinated it seemed endlessly LaRocca and his cronies. A favorite item was the saga of counterfeit money printed by governments, which Miles had first described in prison. In his early weeks at the club he repeated it, under LaRocca's prodding, at least a dozen times. It always produced nods of belief, along with comments about "stinkin' hypocrites" and "goddam gumment crooks."

To supplement his fund of stories, Miles went one day to the apartment block where he had lived before imprisonment, and retrieved his reference books. Most of his other few possessions had long since been sold to pay arrears of rent, but the janitor had kept the books and let Miles have them. Once, Miles had owned a coin and banknote collection, then sold it when he was heavily in debt. Someday, he hoped, he might become a collector again, though the prospect seemed far away.

Able to dip into his books, which he kept in the fourth-floor cubicle, Miles talked to LaRocca and the others about some of the stranger forms of money. The heaviest currency ever, he told them, was the agronite stone discs used on the Pacific island of Yap up to the outbreak of World War II. Most of the discs, he explained, were one foot wide, but one denomination had a width of twelve feet and, when used for purchasing, was transported on a pole. "Waddabout change?" someone asked amid laughter, and Miles assured them it was given in smaller stone discs.

In contrast, he reported, the lightest-weight money was scarce types of feathers, used in New Hebrides. Also, for centuries salt circulated as money, especially in Ethiopia, and the Romans used it to pay their workers, hence the word "salary" which evolved from "salt." And in Borneo, as recently as the nineteenth century, Miles told the others, human skulls were legal tender.

But invariably, before such sessions ended, the talk swung back to counterfeiting.

After one such occasion, a hulking driver-bodyguard who hung around the club while his boss played cards upstairs, took Miles aside.

"Hey, kid, you talk big about counterfeit. Take a looka this." He held out a clean, crisp twenty-dollar bill.

Miles accepted the banknote and studied it. The experience was not new to him. When he worked at First Mercantile American Bank, suspected bogus bills were usually brought to him because of his specialist knowledge. The big man was grinning. "Pretty good, huh?"

"If this is a fake," Miles said, "it's the best I've ever seen."

"Wanna buy a few?" From an inner pocket the bodyguard produced nine more twenties. "Gimme forty bucks in real stuff, kid, that whole two hunnert's yours."

It was about the going rate, Miles knew, for high-grade queer. He observed, too, that the other bills were just as good as the first.

About to refuse the offer, he hesitated. He had no intention of passing any fake money, but realized it was something he could send to Wainwright.

"Hold it!" he told the burly man, and went upstairs to his room where he had squirreled away slightly more than forty dollars. Some of it had been left over from Wainwright's original fifty-dollar stake; the rest was from tips Miles had been given around the gaming rooms. He took the money, mostly in small bills, and exchanged it downstairs for the counterfeit two hundred. Later that night he hid the counterfeit money in his room.

The next day, Jules LaRocca, grinning, told him, "Hear ya didda stroke business." Miles was at his bookkeeper's desk in the third floor offices.. "A little," he admitted

LaRocca moved his pot belly closer and lowered his voice. "Ya wanna piece more action?" Miles said cautiously, "It depends what kind."

"Like makin' a trip to Louisville. Movin' summa the stuff you bought last night."

Miles felt his stomach tighten, knowing that if he agreed and were caught, it would not only put him back in prison, but for much longer than before. Yet if he didn't take risks, how could he continue learning, and gaining the confidence of others here?

"All it is, is drivin' a car from here to there. You get paid two C notes."

"What happens if I'm stopped? I'm on parole and not allowed a driver's license."

"A license ain't no problem if you gotta photo front view, head 'n shoulders." "I haven't, but I could get one." "Do it fast."

During his lunch break, Miles walked to a downtown bus station and obtained a photograph from an automatic machine. He gave it to LaRocca the same afternoon.

Two days later, again while Miles was working, a hand silently placed a small rectangle of paper on the ledger in front of him. With amazement he saw it was a state driver's license, embodying the photo he had supplied. When he turned, LaRocca stood behind him, gnnning. "Better service than the License Bureau, oh?" Miles said incredulously, "You mean it's a forgery?" "Can ya tella difference?"

"No, I can't." He peered at the license which appeared to be identical with an official one. "How did you get it" "Never mind."

"No," Miles said, "I'd really like to know. You know how interested I am in things like this."

LaRocca's face clouded; for the first time his eyes revealed suspicion. "Why ye wanna know?"

"Just interest. The way I told you." Miles hoped a sudden nervousness didn't show.

"Some questions ain't smart. A guy asks too many, people start wondering. He might get hurt. He might get hurt bad."

Miles stayed silent, LaRocca watching. Then, it seemed, the moment of suspicion passed.

"It'll be tomorrow night," Jules LaRocca informed him "You'll be told wotta do, and when."

Next day, in the early evening, the instructions were delivered again by the perennial messenger, LaRocca, who handed Miles a set of car keys, a parking receipt from a city lot, and a one-way airline ticket. Miles was to pick up the car a maroon Chevrolet Impala drive it off the lot, then continue through the night to Louisville. On arrival he would go to Louisville airport and park the car there, leaving the airport parking ticket and keys under the front seat. Before leaving the car he was to wipe it carefully to remove his own fingerprints. Then he would take an early-morning flight back.

The worst minutes for Miles were early on, when he had located the car and was driving it from the city parking lot. He wondered tensely: Had the Chevrolet been under surveillance by police? Perhaps whoever parked the car was suspect, and was followed here. If so, now was the moment the law was most likely to close in. Miles knew there had to be a high risk; otherwise someone like himself would not have been sought as courier. And although he had no actual knowledge, he presumed the counterfeit money probably a lot of it was in the trunk.

But nothing happened though it was not until he had left the parking lot well behind and was near the city limits that he began to relax.

Once or twice on the highway, when he encountered state police patrol cars, his heart beat faster, but no one stopped him, and he reached Louisville shortly before dawn after an uneventful journey.

Only one thing happened which was not in the plan. Thirty miles or so from Louisville, Miles pulled off the highway and, in darkness, aided by a flashlight, opened the car's trunk. It contained two heavy suitcases, both securely locked. Briefly he considered forcing one of the locks, then commonsense told him he would jeopardize himself by doing so. After that he closed the trunk, copied down the Impala's license number, and continued on.

He found the Louisville airport without difficulty and after observing the rest of his instructions, boarded a flight back and was at the Double-Seven Health Club shortly before 10 A.M. No questions were asked about his absence.

Through the remainder of the day Miles was weary from the lack of sleep, though he managed to keep working. In the afternoon LaRocca arrived, beaming and smoking a fat cigar.

"Ya whacked off a clean job, Milesy. Nobody's pissed off. Everybody pleased."

"That's good," Miles said. "When do I get paid the two hundred dollars?"

"Y' awready did. Ominsky took it Goes toward what ya owe him."

Miles sighed. He supposed he should have expected something of the kind, though it seemed ironic to have risked so much, solely for the loan shark's benefit. He asked LaRocca, "How did Ominsky know7" "Ain't much he don't."

"A minute ago you said everybody was pleased. Who's 'everybody'? If I do a job like yesterday's, I like to know who I'm working for."

"Like I told ye, there's some things it ain't smart to know or ask."

"I suppose so." Obviously he would learn nothing more and he forced a smile for LaRocca's benefit, though today Miles's cheerfulness was gone and depression had replaced it. The overnight trip had been a strain and, despite the horrendous chances he had taken, he realized how little he had really learned.

Some forty-eight hours later, still weary and disheartened, he communicated his misgivings to Juanita.

8

Miles Elastin and Juanita had met on two earlier occasions during the month he had been working at the DoubleSeven Health Club.

The first time a few days after Juanita's evening ride with Nolan Wainwright and her agreement to act as intermediary had been an awkward, uncertain encounter for them both. Although a telephone had been instated promptly in Juanita's apartment, as Wainwright promised, Miles had not known about it and came unannounced, at night, having traveled there by bus. After a cautious inspection through the partially opened apartment door, Juanita had taken off the safety chain and let him in.

"Hugo," Estela said. The small, dark child a miniature Juanita looked up from a coloring book, her large, liquid eyes regarding Miles. "You're the thin man who came before. You're fatter now."

"I know," Miles said. "I've been eating magic giant food." '- Estela giggled, but Juanita was frowning. He told her apologetically, "There was no way to warn you I was coming. But Mr. Wainwright said you'd be expecting me." "That hypocrite!" "You don't like him?"

"I hate him."

"He isn't my idea of Santa Claus," Miles said. "But I don't hate him either. I guess he has a job to do." "Then let him do it. Not make use of others." "If you feel so strongly, why did you agree…?"

Juanita snapped, "Do you think I have not asked myself? Maldito sea el diva que lo conoc`. Making the promise that I did was an instant's foolishness, to be regretted."

"There's no need to regret it. Nothing says you can't back down." Miles's voice was gentle. "I'll explain to Wainwright." He made a move toward the door.

Juanita flared at him, "And what of you? Where will you pass your messages?" She shook her head in exasperation. "Were you insane when you agreed to such stupidity?"

"No," Miles said. "I saw it as a chance; in a way the only chance, but there's no reason it should involve you. When I suggested that it might, I hadn't thought it through. I'm sorry." "Mommy," Estela said, "why are you so angry?"

Juanita reached down and hugged her daughter. "No te preocupes, mi cielo. I am angry at life, little one. At what people do to each other." She told Miles abruptly, "Sit, sit!" "You're sure?"

"Sure of what? That you should sit down? No, I am not even sure of that. But do ill" He obeyed her.

"I like your temper, Juanita." Miles smiled, and for a moment, she thought, he looked the way he used to at the bank. He went on, "I like that and other things about you. If you want the truth, the reason I suggested this arrangement was that it would mean I'd have to see you."

"Well, now you have." Juanita shrugged. "And I suppose you will again. So make your secret agent's report and I will give it to Mr. Spider Wainwright, spinning webs."

"My report is that there isn't any report. At least, not yet." Miles told her about the Double-Seven Health Club, the way it looked and smelled, and saw her nose wrinkle in distaste. He described, too, his encounter with Jules LaRooca, then the meeting with the loan shark, Russian Ominsky, and Miles's employment as the health dub bookkeeper. At that point, when Miles had worked at the Double-Seven only a few days, that was all he knew. "But I'm in," he assured Juanita "That was what Mr. Wainwright wanted."

"Sometimes it is easy to get in," she said. "As with a lobster trap, getting out is harder." lintels had listened gravely. Now she asked Miles, "Will you come again?"

"I don't know." He glanced inquiringly at Juanita who surveyed them both, then sighed. "Yes, amorcito," she told Estela. "Yes, he will come."

Juanita went into the bedroom and returned with the two envelopes Nolan Wainwright had given her. She handed them to Miles. 'These are for you."

The larger envelope contained money, the other the Keycharge credit card in the fictitious name of H. E. LINCOLP. She explained the purpose of the card a signal for help.

Miles pocketed the plastic credit card but replaced the money in the first envelope and gave it back to Juanita. "You take this. If I'm seen with it, someone might become suspicious. Use it for yourself and Estela. I owe it to you."

Juanita hesitated. Then, her voice softer than before, she said, "I will keep it for you."

Next day, at First Mercantile American Bank, Juanita had called Wainwright on an internal telephone and made her report. She was careful not to identify by name either herself, Miles, or the DoubleSeven Health Club. Wainwright listened, thanked her, and that was all

The second encounter between Juanita and Miles occurred a week and a half later, on Saturday afternoon.

This time Miles had telephoned in advance and when he arrived both Juanita and Estela seemed pleased to see him. They were about to go shopping and he joined them, the three browsing through an open-air market where Juanita bought Polish sausage and cabbage. She told him, "It is for our dinner. Will you stay?"

He assured her he would, adding that he need not return to the health club until late that night, or even the following morning

While they walked, Estela said suddenly to Miles, I like you." She slipped her tiny hand into his and kept it there. Juanita, when she noticed, smiled.

Through dinner there was an easy camaraderie. Then Estela went to bed, kissing Miles good night, and when he and Juanita were alone he recited his report for Nolan Wainwright. They were seated, side by side, on the sofa bed. Turning to him when he had finished, she said, "If you wish, you may stay here tonight."

"Last time I did, you slept in there." He motioned to the bedroom.

"This time I will be here. Estela sleeps soundly. We shall not be disturbed."

He reached for Juanita and she came to him eagerly. Her lips, slightly parted, were warm, moist, and sensual, as if a foretaste of still sweeter things to come. Her tongue danced and delighted him. Holding her, he could hear her breathing quicken and felt the small, slim girl-woman body quiver with pent-up passion, responding fiercely to his own. As they drew closer and his hands began exploring, Juanita sighed deeply, savoring the waves of pleasure now, anticipating her ecstasy ahead. It had been a long time since any man had taken her. She made clear she was excited, urgent, waiting. Impatiently they opened the sofa bed.

What followed next was a disaster. Miles had wanted Juanita with his mind and he believed his body. But when the moment came in which a man must prove himself, his body failed to function as it should. Despairingly, he strained, concentrated, closed his eyes and wished, but nothing changed. What should have been a young man's ardent, rigid sword was flaccid, ineffectual. Juanita tried to soothe and aid him. "Stop worrying, Miles darling, and be patient. Let me help, and it win happen."

They tried, and tried again. In the end, it was no use. Miles lay back, ashamed and close to tears. He knew, unhappily, that behind his impotence was the awareness of his homosexuality in prison. He had believed, and hoped, it would not inhibit him with a woman, but it had. Miles concluded miserably: Now he knew for sure what he had feared. He was no longer a man. At last, weary, unhappy, unfulfilled, they slept.

In the night Milw awoke, tossed restlessly for a while, and then got up. Juanita heard him and switched on a light beside the sofa bed. She asked, "What is it now?" "I was thinking," he said. "And couldn't sleep." 'thinking of what?"

It was then he told her sitting upright, his head turned partially away so as not to meet Juanita's eyes; told her the totality of his experience in prison, beginning with the gang rape; then his "boy friend" relationship with Karl as a means of self-protection; the sharing of the big black man's cell; the homosexuality continuing, and Miles beginning to enjoy it. He spoke of his ambivalent feelings about Karl, whose kindness and gentleness Miles still remembered with… affection?… love? Even now he wasn't sure.

It was at that point Juanita stopped him. "No morel I have heard enough. It makes me sick." He asked her, "How do you think I feel?"

"No quiero- saber. I neither know nor care." All the horror and disgust she felt was in her voice. As soon as it was light, he dressed and left.

Two weeks later. Again a Saturday afternoon the best time, Miles had discovered, for him to slip away unnoticed from the health club. He was still tired from his nerve-straining trip to Louisville the night before last, and dispirited at his lack of progress.

He had worried, too, about whether he should go to Juanita again; wondered if-she would want to see hunt But then he decided that at least one more visit was necessary, and when he came she was matter-of-fact and businesslike, as if what had happened on the last occasion had been put behind her.

She listened to his report, then he told her of his doubts. "I'm just not finding out anything important. Okay, so I deal with Jules LaRocca and the guy who sold me those counterfeit twenties, but both are small fry. Also, when I ask LaRocca questions such as where the fake driver's license came from he clams up tight and gets suspicious. I've no more idea now than when I started of any bigger people in the rackets, or what goes on beyond the DoubleSeven."

"You cannot find out everything in a month," Juanita said.

"Perhaps there isn't anything to be found at least, not what Wainwright wants."

"Perhaps not. But if so, it is not your fault. Besides, it is possible you have discovered more than you know. There is the forged money you have given me, the license number of the car you drove…" "Which was probably stolen."

"Let Mr. Sherlock Holmes Wainwright find that out." A thought struck Juanita. "What about your airline ticket? The one they gave you to come back?" "I used it." "There is always a copy that you keep."

"Maybe I…" Miles felt in his jacket pocket; he had worn the same suit when he went to Louisville. The airline envelope was there, the ticket counterfoil inside.

Juanita took both. "Perhaps it will tell somebody something And I will get your forty dollars back that you paid for the bad money." "You're taking good care of me." "'por qui ? It appears someone must."

Estela, who had been visiting a friend in a nearby apartment, came in. "Hullo," she said, "are you going to stay again?" "Not today," he told her. "I'll be leaving soon." Juanita asked sharply, "Why do you need to?"

"No reason. I just thought…" "Then you will have dinner here. Estela will like it."

"Oh, good," Estela said. She asked Miles, "Will you read me a story?"

When he said he would, she brought a book and perched herself happily on his knee.

After dinner, before Estela said good night and went to bed, he read to her again. ~

"You are a kind person, Miles," Juanita said as she emerged from the bedroom, closing the door behind her. While she had been helping Estela into bed, he had risen to go, but she motioned to him, "No, stay. There is something I wish to say."

As before, they sat beside each other on the living-room sofa. Juanita spoke slowly, choosing her words.

"Last time, after you had gone, I regretted the harsh things I thought and said while you were here. One should not judge too much, yet that is what I did. I know that in prison you suffered. I have not been there, but perhaps can guess how bad it was, and how can anyone know unless they themselves were there what they might do? As to the man you spoke of, Karl, if he was kind when so much else was cruel, that is what should matter most."

Juanita stopped, considered, then went on, "For a woman, it is hard to understand how men could love each other in the way you said, and do to each other what you did. Yet I know there are women who love each other in that way, as well as men, and perhaps when all is said, love like that is better than none, better than to hate. So wipe out, please, the hurtful words I spoke, and go on remembering your Karl, admitting to yourself you loved him." She raised her eyes and looked at Miles directly. "You did love him, didn't you?" "Yes," he said; his voice was low. "I loved him."

Juanita nodded. "Then it is better said. Perhaps now you will love other men. I do not know. I do not understand these things only that love is better, wherever it is found."

'Thank you, Juanita." Miles saw that she was crying and found his own face wet with tears.

They stayed silent a long time listening to the Saturday evening hum of traffic and voices from the street outside. Then both began to talk as friends, closer than they had ever been before. They talked on, forgetting time, and where they were; talked far into the night, about themselves, their experiences, lessons learned, their once-held dreams, their present hopes, objectives they might yet attain. They talked until drowsiness eclipsed their voices. Then, still beside each other, holding hands, they drifted into sleep.

Miles awoke first. His body was uncomfortable and cramped… but there was something else which filled him with excitement.

Gently he awakened Juanita, guiding her from the sofa to the rug in front of it where he placed cushions for their pillows. Tenderly and lovingly he undressed her, then himself, and after that he kissed, embraced and confidently mounted her, thrusting himself strongly forward, gloriously inward, while Juanita seized and clasped hired and cried aloud with joy. ~ "I love you, Miles Carino mio, I love your"

Then he knew that, through her, he had found his manhood once again.

9

"I'll ask you two questions," Alex Vandervoort said. He spoke less crisply than usual; his mind was preoccupied and somewhat dazed by what he had just read. "First, ..

how in God's name did you get all this information? Second, how reliable is it?"

"If you don't mind," Vernon Jax acknowledged, "I'll answer those in reverse order."

They were in Alex's office suite in FMA Headquarters Tower, in the late afternoon. It was quiet outside. Most of the staff from the 36th door had already gone home.

The private investigator whom, a month ago, Alex had retained to make an independent study of Supranational Corporation an "outside snooping job," as they agreed had stayed quietly seated, reading an afternoon newspaper, while Alex studied the seventy-page report, induding an appendix of photocopied documents, which Jax had brought in personally.

Today, Vernon Jax was, if anything, more unimpressive in appearance than the last time. The shiny blue suit he was wearing might have been donated to the Salvation Army and rejected. His socks drooped around his ankles, above shoes even less cared for than before. What hair remained on his balding head stuck out untidily like well-used Brillo pads. Just the same, it was equally clear that what Jax lacked in sartorial style he made up in espionage skill.

"About reliability," he said. "If you're asking me whether the facts I've listed could be used, in their present form, as evidence in court, the answer's no. But I'm satisfied the information's all authentic, and I haven't included anything which wasn't checked with at least two good sources, in some cases three. Another thing, my reputation for getting at the truth is my most important business asset. It's a good reputation. I intend to keep it that way.

"Now then, how do I do it? Well, people I work for usually ask me that, and I suppose you're entitled to an explanation, even though I'll be holding some things back which come under the heading of 'trade secrets' and 'protecting sources.'

"I worked for the U. S. Treasury Department for twenty years, most of it as an IRS investigator, and I've kept my contacts green, not only there but in a lot of other places. Not many know it, Mr. Vandervoort, but a way investigators work is by trading confidential information, and in my business you never know when you'll need someone else or they'll need you. You help another man this week, sooner or later he'll come through for you. That way, too, you build up debts and credits, and the payoffs in tip-offs and intelligence go both ways. So what I'm selling when you hire me is not just my financial savvy, which I like to think is pretty fair, but a web of contacts. Some of them might surprise you."

"I've had all the surprises I need today," Alex said. He touched the report in front of him.

"Anyway," fax said, "that's how I got a lot of what's in there. The rest was drudgery, patience, and knowing which rocks to look under." "I see."

'There's one other thing I'd like to clear up, Mr. Vandervoort, and I guess you'd call it personal pride. I've watched you look me over both times we've met, and you haven't much cared for what you've seen. Well, that's the way I prefer people to see me because a man who's nondescript and down-at-the-heel isn't as likely to be noticed or taken seriously by those he's trying to investigate. It works another way, too, because people I talk to don't think I'm important and they aren't on guard. If I looked anything like you, they would be. So that's the reason, but I'll also tell you this: The day you invite me to your daughter's wedding I'll be as well turned out as any other guest."

"If I should ever have a daughter," Alex said, "I’ll bear that in mind."

When fax had gone, he studied the shocking report again. It was, he thought, fraught with the gravest implications for First Mercantile American Bank. The mighty edifice of Supranational Corporation SuNatCo was crumbling and about to topple.

Lewis D'Orsey, Alex recalled, had spoken of rumors about "big losses which haven't been reported… sharp accounting practices among subsidiaries

… Big George Quartermain shopping for a Lockheed-type subsidy." Vernon Jax had confirmed them all and discovered much, much more.

It was too late to do anything today, Alex decided. He had overnight to consider how the information should be used.

10

Jerome Patterton's normally ruddy face suffused an even deeper red. He protested, "Dammit! what you're asking is ridiculous."

"I'm not asking." Alex Vandervoort's voice was tight with anger which had simmered since last night. "I'm telling you do it"

"Asking, telling what's the difference? You want me to take - an arbitrary action without substantial reason."

"I'll give you plenty of reasons later. Strong ones. Right now there isn't time."

- They were in the FMA president's suite where Alex had been waiting when Patterton arrived this morning.

"The New York stock market has already been open fifty minutes," Alex warned. "We've lost that much time, we're losing more. Because you're the only one who can give an order to the trust department to sell every share of Supranational we're holding."

"I won't!" Patterton's voice rose. "Besides, what the devil is this? Who do you think you are, storming in here, giving orders…"

Alex glanced over his shoulder. The office door was open. He walked to close it, then returned.

"I'll tell you who I am, Jerome. I'm the guy who warned you, and warned the board; against in-depth

involvement with SuNatCo. I fought against heavy trust department buying of the shares, but no one including you would listen. Now Supranational is caving in." Alex leaned across the desk and slammed a fist down hard. His face, eyes blazing, was close to Patterton's. "Don't you understand? Supranational can bring this bank down with it."

Patterton was shaken. He sat down heavily behind the desk. "But is SuNatCo in real trouble? And are you sure?

"If I weren't, do you think I'd be here, behaving this way? Don't you understand I'm giving you a chance to salvage something out of what will be catastrophic anyway?" Alex pointed to his wrist watch. "It's now an hour since the market opening. Jerome, get on a phone and give that order!"

Muscles around the bank president's face twitched nervously. Never strong or decisive, he reacted to situations rather than created them. Strong influence often swayed him, as Alex's was doing now.

"For God's sake, Alex, for your sake, I hope you know what you're doing." Patterton reached for one of two telephones beside his desk, hesitated, then picked it up.

"Get me Mitchell in Trust… No, I'll wait… Mitch? This is Jerome. Listen carefully. I want you to give a sell order immediately on all the Supranational stock we hold

… Yes, sell. Every share." Patterton listened, then said impatiently, "Yes, I know what it'll do to the market, and I know the price is down already. I saw yesterday's quote. We'll take a loss. But still sell… Yes, I do know it's irregular." Hs eyes sought Alex's as if for reassurance. The hand holding the telephone trembled as he said, "There's no time to hold meetings. So do it! Don't waste.. ." Patterton grimaced, listening. "Yes, I accept responsibility."

When he had hung up the telephone, Patterton poured and drank a glass of water. He told Alex, "You heard what I said. The stock is already down. Our seeing win depress it more. We'll be taking a big beating."

"You're wrong," Alex corrected him. "Our trust clients people who trusted us win take the beating. And it would be bigger still if we'd waited. Even now we're not out of the woods. A week from now the SEC may disallow those sales." "Disallow? Why?"

"They may rule we had insider knowledge which we should have reported, and which would have halted trading in the stock." "What kind of knowledge?" 'What Supranational is about to be bankrupt."

"Jesus!" Patterton got up from his desk and took a turn away. He muttered to himself, "SuNatCo! Jesus Christ, SuNatCot" Swinging back on Alex, he demanded, "What about our loan? Fifty million."

"I checked. Almost the full extent of the credit has been drawn." "The compensating balance?" "Is down to less than a million."

There was a silence in which Patterton sighed deeply. He was suddenly calm. "You said you had strong reasons. You obviously know something. You'd better tell me what."

"It might be simpler if you read this." Alex laid the Jax report on the president's desk.

"I'll read it later," Patterton said. "Right now, you tell me what it is and what's in it."

Alex explained the rumors about Supranational which Lewis D'Orsey had passed on, and Alex's decision to employ an investigator Vernon Jax.

"What Jax has reported, in total hangs together," Alex declared. "Last night and this morning I've been phoning around, confirming some of his separate statements. All of them check out. The fact is, a good deal of what's been learned could have been discovered by anyone through patient digging except that no one did it or, until now, put the pieces together. On top of that, Jax has obtained confidential information, including documents, I presume by”

Patterton interrupted peevishly, "Okay, okay. Never mind all that. Tell me what the meat is." "I'll give you it in five words: Supranational is out of money. For the past three years the corporation has had enormous losses and survived on prestige and credit. There's been tremendous borrowing to pay off debts; borrowing again to repay those debts; then borrowing still more, and so on. What they've lacked is real cash money."

Patterton protested, "But SuNatCo has reported excellent earnings, year after year, and never missed a dividend."

"It now appears the past few dividends have been paid from borrowings. The rest is fancy accounting. We all know how it can be done. Plenty of the biggest, most reputable companies use the same methods."

The bank president weighed the statement, then said gloomily. "There used to be a time when an accountant's endorsement on a financial statement spelled integrity. Not any more."

"In here" Alex touched the report on the desk between them "are examples of what we're talking about. Among the worst is Greenapastures Land Development. That's a SuNatCo subsidiary." "I know, I know."

"Then you may also know that Greenapastures has big land holdings in Texas, Arizona, Canada. Most of the land tracts are remote, maybe a generation from development. What Greenapastures has been doing is making sales to speculators, accepting small down payments with hedged agreements, and pushing payment of the fun price away into the future. On two deals, final payments totaling eighty million dollars are due forty years from now wed into the twenty-first century. Those payments may never be made. Yet on Greenapastures and Supranational balance sheets, that eighty million is shown as current earnings. Those are just two deals. There are more, only smaller, utilizing the same kind of Chinese accounting. Also, what's happened in one SuNatCo subsidiary has been repeated in others."

Alex paused, then added, "What all of it has done, of course, is make everything look great on paper and push up unrealistically the market price of Supranational shares."

"Somebody's made a fortune," Patterton said sourly. "Unfortunately it wasn't us. Do we have-any idea of the extent of SuNatCo borrowing?"

"Yes. It seems that fax managed to get a look at some tax records which show interest deductions. His estimate of short-term indebtedness, including subsidiaries, is a billion dollars. Of that, five hundred million appears to be bank loans. The rest is mainly ninety-day commercial paper, which they've rolled over."

Commercial paper, as both men knew, were IOUs bearing interest but backed only by a borrower's reputation. "Rolling over" was issuing still more IOUs to repay the earlier ones, plus interest.

"But they're dose to the limit of borrowing," Alex said. "Or so Jax believes. One of the things I confirmed myself is that buyers of commercial paper are beginning to be wary."

Patterton mused, "It's the way Penn Central fell apart. Everybody believed the railroad was blue chip the safest stock to buy and hold, along with IBM and General Motors. Suddenly, one day, Penn Central was in receivership, wiped out, done."

"Add a few more big names since then," Alex reminded him.

The same thought was in both their minds: After Supranational, would First Mercantile American Bank be added to the list?

Patterton's ruddy face had gone pale. He appealed to Alex, "Where do we stand?" No pretense of leadership now. The bank president was leaning heavily on the younger man.

"A lot depends on how much longer Supranational stays afloat. If they can hang on for several months, our sales of their stock today might be ignored, and the breach of the Federal Reserve Act with the loan may not be investigated closely. If the breakup happens quickly, we're in serious trouble with the SEC for not revealing what we know, with the Comptroller of Currency over abuse of trust, and, over the loan, with the Fed Reserve. Then, I need hardly remind you, we're facing an outright loss of fifty million dollars, and you know what that will do to this year's earnings statement, so there'll be angry shareholders howling for someone's head. On top of that there could be lawsuits against directors."

"Jesus!" Patterton repeated, "Jesus H. Christ!" He took out a handkerchief and mopped his face and egg-like dome.

Alex went on relentlessly, "There's something else well have to consider publicity. If Supranational goes under there will be investigations. But even before that the press will be on to the story and do probing of their own. Some of the financial reporters are pretty good at it. When the questioning starts, it's unlikely our bank will escape attention, and the extent of our losses will become known and publicized. That kind of news can make depositors uneasy. It could cause heavy withdrawals." "You mean a run on the bank! That's unthinkable."

"No, it isn't. It's happened elsewhere remember Franklin in New York. If you're a depositor, the only thing you care about is whether your money's safe. If you think it might not be, you take it out fast."

Patterton drank more water, then slumped into his chair. If possible, he looked even paler than before.

"What I suggest," Alex said, "is that you call the money policy committee together immediately and we concentrate, during the next few days, on attaining maximum liquidity. That way, we'll be prepared if there's a sudden drain on cash." Patterton nodded. "All right."

"Apart from that there's not much else to do but pray." For the first time since coming in, Alex smiled. "Maybe we should get Roscoe working on that."

"Roscoe!" Patterton said, as if suddenly reminded. "He studied the Supranational figures, recommended the loan, assured us everything was great."

"Roscoe wasn't alone," Alex pointed out. "You and the board supported him. And plenty of others studied the figures and drew the same conclusion." "You didn't."

"I was uneasy; suspicious, maybe. But I had no idea SuNatCo was in the mess it is."

Patterton picked up the telephone he had used earlier. "Ask Mr. Heyward to come in." A pause, then Patterton snapped, "I don't care if God is with him. I need him now." He slammed down the instrument and mopped his face again.

The office door opened softly and Heyward came in. He said, "Good morning, Jerome," and nodded to Alex coolly. Patterton growled, "Close the door."

Looking surprised, Heyward did. "They said it was urgent. If it isn't, I'd like to…" "Tell him about Supranational, Alex," Patterton said. Heyward's face froze.

Quietly, matter-of-factly, Alex repeated the substance of the fax report. His anger of last night and this morning anger at shortsighted foolishness and greed which had brought the bank to the edge of disaster had left him now. He felt only sorrow that so much was about to be lost, and so much effort wasted. He remembered with regret how other worthwhile projects had been cut back so that money could be channeled to the Supranational loan. At least, he thought, Ben Rosselli, by death, had been spared this moment.

Roscoe Heyward surprised him. Alex had expected antagonism, perhaps bluster. There was none. Instead, Heyward listened quietly, interjecting a question here and there, but made no other comments. Alex suspected that what he was saying amplified other information Heyward had received himself, or guessed at. There was a silence when Alex was done.

Patterton, who had recovered some of his aplomb, said, "We'll have a meeting of the money policy committee this afternoon to discuss liquidity. Meanwhile, Roscoe, get in touch with Supranational to see what, if anything, we can salvage of our loan."

"It's a demand loan," Heyward said. "We can call it any time."

'Then do it now. Do it verbally today and follow up in writing. There isn't much hope SuNatCo will have fifty million dollars cash on hand; not even a sound company keeps that kind of money in the till. But they may have something, though I'm not hopeful. Either way, we'll go through the motions."

"I'll call Quartermain at once," Heyward said. "May I take that report?" Patterton glanced at Alex.

"I've no objection," Alex said, "but I'd suggest we don't make copies. And the fewer people who know of this, the better."

Heyward nodded agreement. He seemed restless, anxious to get away.

11

Alex Vandervoort had been partly right in supposing Roscoe Heyward to have some information of his own. Rumors had reached Heyward that Supranational was having problems and he had learned, in the past few days, that some of SuNatCo's commercial paper was meeting resistance from investors. Heyward had also attended a Supranational board meeting his first and sensed that information supplied to directors was less than complete and frank. But, as a "new boy," he had withheld questions, intending to begin probing later. Subsequent to the meeting he had observed a decline in Supranational's share price and decided, only yesterday, to advise the bank's trust department to "lighten up" its holdings as a precaution. Unfortunately when Patterton summoned him this morning he had still not put the intention into effect. Yet nothing Heyward had heard or guessed suggested the situation was as urgent or as bad as the report, produced by Vandervoort, portrayed it.

Yet having heard the gist of the report, Heyward did not dispute it. Grim and jolting as it was, instinct told him that as Vandervoort put it everything hung together.

It was the reason Heyward had stayed mostly silent while with the other two, knowing at this stage there was little to be said. But his mind had been active, with alarm signals flashing while he weighed ideas, eventualities, and possible escape routes for himself. There were several actions which needed to be taken quickly, though first he would complete his personal knowledge by studying the Jax report. Back in his office, Heyward hurried through some remaining business with a visitor, then settled down to read.

He soon realized that Alex Vandervoort had been accurate in summarizing the report's highlights and the documentary evidence. What Vandervoort had not mentioned were some details of Big George Quartermain's lobbying in Washington for a government-guaranteed loan to keep Supranational solvent. Appeals for such a loan had been made to members of Congress, and at the Department of Commerce and the White House. At one point, it was stated, Quartermain took Vice-President Byron Stonebridge on a trip to the Bahamas with the objective of enlisting the Vice-President's support for the loan idea. Later, Stonebridge discussed the possibility at Cabinet level, but the consensus was against it.

Heyward thought bitterly: Now he knew what Big George and the Vice-President were discussing the night they had walked, deep in conversation, in the garden of the Bahamas house. And while, in the end, the Washington political machine made one of its wiser decisions in rejecting a loan to Supranational, First Mercantile American Bank on Roscoe's urging had bestowed one eagerly. Big George had proved himself the maestro of the soft sell. Heyward could hear him saying, even now: If fifty million is bigger than you people can handle, let's forget the whole thing. I'll give it to Chase. It was an an ancient, conman's ploy and Heyward the shrewd, experienced banker had fallen for it.

One thing, at least, was to the good. In the reference to the Vice-President's journey to the Bahamas, details were sketchy and obviously little was known about the trip. Nor, to Heyward's great relief, did the report refer to Q-Investments.

Heyward wondered if Jerome Patterton had remembered the additional loan, totaling two million dollars, committed by FMA to Q-Investments, the private speculators' group headed by Big George. Probably not. Nor did Alex Vandervoort have any knowledge of it, though he was bound to find out soon. What was more important, though, was to ensure that Heyward's own acceptance of "bonus" Q-lnvestments shares should never be discovered. He wished fervently he had returned them to G. G. Quartermain, as he had at first intended. Well, it was too late for that now, but what he could do was remove the share certificates from his safe deposit box and shred them. That would be safest. Fortunately, they were nominee certificates, not registered in his name.

For the moment, Heyward realized, he was ignoring the competitiveness between himself and Alex Vandervoort, concentrating instead on survival. He had no illusions about what the collapse of Supranational would do to his own standing in the bank and with the board. He would be a pariah the focus of everybody's blame. But perhaps, even now, with quick action and some luck, it was not too late for a recovery. If the loan money was regained, he might become a hero.

The first order of business was to get in touch with Supranational. He instructed his secretary, Mrs. Callaghan, to get G. G. Quartermain on the telephone.

Several minutes later she reported, "Mr. Quartermain is out of the country. His office is vague about where he is. They won't give any other information."

It was an inauspicious start and Heyward snapped, "Then get Inchbeck." He had had several conversations with Stanley Inchbeck, Supranational's comptroller, since they first met in the Bahamas.

Inchbeck's voice, with its nasal New York accent, came briskly on the line. "Roscoe, what can I do?"

"I've been trying to locate George. Your people don't seem to…" "He's in Costa Rica." "I'd like to speak to him. Is there a number I can call?" "No. He left instructions he doesn't want calls." "This is urgent." "Then tell me."

"Very well. We're calling our loan. I'm advising you now, and formal written notice will follow in tonight's mail."

There was a silence. Inchbeck said, "You can't be serious." "I'm entirely serious." "But why?"

"I think' you can guess. I also believe you wouldn't want me to go into reasons on the telephone."

Inchbeck was silent in itself significant. Then he protested, "Your bank is being ridiculous and unreasonable. Only last week Big George told me he was willing to let you people increase the loan by fifty percent."

The audacity astounded Heyward, until he realized audacity had paid off for Supranational once before. It wouldn't now.

"If the loan were repaid promptly," Heyward said, "any information that we have here would remain confidential. I'd guarantee that."

What it came down to, he thought, was whether Big George, Inchbeck, and any others who knew the truth about SuNatCo, were willing to buy time. If so, FMA might steal an advantage over other creditors.

"Fifty million dollars!" Inchbeck said. "We don't keep that much cash on hand."

"Our bank would agree to a series of payments, providing they followed each other quickly." The real question was, of course: Where would SuNatCo find fifty million in its present cash-starved condition? Heyward found himself sweating a combination of nervousness, suspense, and hope.

"I'll talk to Big George," Inchbeck said. "But he isn't going to like this."

"When you talk to him, tell him I'd like to discuss, also, our loan to Q-lnvestments."

Heyward wasn't sure but, as he hung up, he thought he heard Inchbeck groan.

In the silence of his office, Roscoe Heyward leaned backward in the upholstered swivel chair, letting the tenseness drain out of him. What had occurred in the past hour had come as a stunning shock. Now, as reaction set in, he felt dejected and alone. He wished he could get away from everything for a while. If he had the choice, he knew whose company he would welcome. Avril's. But he had not heard from her since their last meeting, which was over a month ago. In the past, she had always called him. He had never called her.

On impulse, he opened a pocket address book he always carried and looked for a telephone number he remembered penciling in. It was Avril's in New York. Using a direct outside line, he dialed it.

He heard ringing, then Avril's soft and pleasing voice. "Hello." His heart leaped at the sound of her. "Hi, Rossie," she said when he identified himself.

"It's been a while since you and I met, my dear. I've been wondering when I'd hear from you."

He was aware of hesitation. "But Rossie, sweetie, you aren't on the list any more." "What list?"

Once more, uncertainty. "Maybe I shouldn't have said that." "No, please tell me. This is between the two of us."

"Well, it's a very confidential list which Supranational puts out, about who can be entertained at their expense."

He had the sudden sense of a cord around him being tightened. "Who gets the list?"

"I don't know. I know us girls do. I'm not sure who else."

He stopped, thinking nervously, and reasoned: What was done, was done. He supposed he should be glad he was not on any such list now, though found himself wondering with a twinge of jealousy who was. In any case, he hoped that back copies were carefully destroyed. Aloud he asked, "Does that mean you can't come here to meet me any more?"

"Not exactly. But if 1 did, you'd have to pay yourself, Rossie."

"How much would that be?" As he asked, he wondered if it were really himself speaking.

"There'd be my air fare from New York," Avril said matter-of-factly. "Then the cost at the hotel. And-for me two hundred dollars."

Heyward remembered wondering once before how much Supranational had paid out on his behalf. Now he knew. Holding the telephone away, he wrestled within his mind: Commonsense against desire; conscience against the knowledge of what it was like to be alone with Avril. The money was also more than he could afford. But he wanted her. Very much indeed.

He moved the telephone back. "How soon could you be here?" "Tuesday of next week." "Not before?" "Afraid not, sweetie."

He knew he was being a fool; that between now and Tuesday he would be standing in line behind other men whose priorities, for whatever reason, were greater than his own. But he couldn't help himself, and told her, "Very well. Tuesday."

They arranged that she would go to the Columbia Hilton and phone him from there. Heyward began savoring the sweetness to come.

He reminded himself of one other thing he had to do destroy his Investments share certificates.

From the 36th floor he used the express elevator to descend to the main foyer, then walked through the tunnel to the adjoining downtown branch. It took minutes only to gain access to his personal safe deposit box and remove the four certificates, each for five hundred shares. He carried them back upstairs, where he would feed them into a shredding machine personally.

But back in his office he had second thoughts. Last time he checked, the shares were worth twenty thousand dollars. Was he being hasty? After all, if necessary he could destroy the certificates at a moment's notice.

Changing his mind, he locked them in a desk drawer with other private papers.

12

The big break came when Miles Eastin was least expecting it.

Only two days earlier, frustrated and depressed, convinced that his servitude at the Double-Seven Health Club would produce no results other than enmeshing him deeper in criminality, the renewed shadow of prison loomed terrifyingly over him. Miles had communicated his depression to Juanita and, though tempered briefly by their lovemaking, the basic mood remained.

On Saturday he had met Juanita. Late Monday evening at the Double-Seven, Nate Nathanson, the club manager, sent for Miles who had been helping out as usual by carrying drinks and sandwiches to the card and dice players on the third floor.

When Miles entered the manager's office, two others were there with Nathanson. One was the loan shark, Russian Ominsky. The second was a husky, thick-featured man whom Miles had seen at the club several times before and had heard referred to as Tony Bear Marina. The "Bear" seemed appropriate. Marino had a heavy, powerful body, loose movements and a suggestion of underlying savagery. That Tony Bear carried authority was evident, and he was deferred to by others. Each time he

arrived at the Double-Seven it was in a Cadillac limousine, accompanied by a driver and a companion, both clearly bodyguards.

Nathanson seemed nervous when he spoke. "Miles, I've been telling Mr. Marino and Mr. Ominsky how useful you've been here. They want you to do a service for…" Ominsky said curtly to the manager, "Wait outside." "Yes, sir." Nathanson left quickly.

"There's an old guy in a car outside," Ominsky said to Miles. "Get help from Mr. Marino's men. Carry him in, but keep him out of sight. Take him up to one of the rooms near yours and make sure he stays there. Don't leave him longer than you have to, and when you do go away, lock him in. I'm holding you responsible he doesn't leave here."

Miles asked uneasily, "Am I supposed to keep him here by force?" "You won't need force."

"The old man knows the score. He won't make trouble," Tony Bear said. For someone of his bulk, his voice was surprisingly falsetto. "Just remember he's important to us, so treat him okay. But don't let him have booze. He’ll ask for it. Don't give him any. Understand?"

"I think so," Miles said. "Do you mean he's unconscious now?"

"He's dead drunk," Ominsky answered. "He's been on a bender for a week. Your job is to take care of him and dry him out. While he's here for three, four days your other work can wait." He added, "Do it right, you get another credit."

"I'll do my best," Miles told him. "Does the old man have a name? I'll have to call him something.'!

The other two glanced at each other. Ominsky said, "Danny. That's all you need to know."

A few minutes later, outside the Double-Seven, Tony Bear Marino's driver-bodyguard spat in disgust on the sidewalk and complained, "For Chrissake The old fart stinks like a shithouse."

He, the second bodyguard, and Miles Eastin were looking at an inert figure on the rear seat of a Dodge sedan, parked at the curb. The car's nearside rear door was open.

"I'll try to clean him up," Miles said. His own face wrinkled at the overpowering stench of vomit. "But we'll need to get him inside first."

The second bodyguard urged, "Goddam! Let's get it over with."

Together they reached in and lifted. In the poorly lighted street, all that could be distinguished of their burden was a tangle of gray hair, pasty hollow cheeks stubbled with beard, closed eyes and an open, slack mouth revealing toothless gums. The clothes the unconscious man was wearing were stained and torn. "You reckon he's dead?" the second bodyguard asked as they lifted the figure from the car.

Precisely at that moment, probably induced by movement, a stream of vomit emerged from the open mouth and cascaded over Miles.

The driver-bodyguard, who had been untouched, chuckled. "He ain't dead. Not yet." Then, as Miles retched, "Better you 'n me, kid."

They carried the recumbent figure into the club, then, using a rear stairway, up to the fourth floor. Miles had brought a room key and unlocked a door. It was to a cubicule like his own in which the sole furnishings were a single bed, a chest of drawers, two chairs, a washbasin and some shelving. Paneling around the cubicle stopped a foot short of the ceiling, leaving the top open. Miles glanced inside, then told the other two, "Hold it." While they waited he ran downstairs and got a rubber sheet from the gymnasium. Returning, he spread it on the bed. They dumped the old man on it.

"He's all yours, Milesy," the driver-bodyguard said. "Let's get outta here before I puke."

Stifling his distaste, Miles undressed the old man, then, while he was still on the rubber sheet, still comatose, washed and sponged him. When that was done, and with some lifting and shoving, Miles removed the rubber sheet and got the now cleaner, less evil-smelling figure into bed. During the process the old man moaned, and once his stomach heaved, though this time producing only a trickle of spittle which Miles wiped away. When Miles had covered him with a sheet and blanket the old man seemed to rest more easily.

Earlier, as he removed the clothing, Miles had allowed it to fall to the cubicle floor. Now he gathered it up and began putting it in two plastic bags for cleaning and laundering tomorrow. While doing so, he emptied all the pockets. One coat pocket yielded a set of false teeth. Others held miscellaneous items a comb, a pair of thick-lensed glasses, a gold pen and pencil set, several keys on a ring and in an inside pocket three Keycharge credit cards and a billfold tightly packed with money.

Miles took the false teeth, rinsed them, and placed them beside the bed in a glass of water. The spectacles he also put close by. Then he examined the bank credit cards and billfold.

The credit cards were made out to Fred W. Riordan, R. K. Bennett, Alfred Shaw, Each card was signed on the back but, despite the name differences, the handwriting in each case was the same. Miles turned the cards over again, checking the commencement and expiration dates which showed that all three were current. As far as he could tell, they were genuine.

He turned his attention to the billfold. Under a plastic window was a state driver's license. The plastic was yellowed and hard to see through, so Miles took the license out, discovered that beneath it was a second license, beneath that a third. The names on the licenses corresponded to those on the credit cards, but the head and shoulders photographs on all three licenses were identical. He peered closer. Allowing for differences when the photograph was taken, it was undoubtedly of the old man on the bed.

Miles removed the money from the billfold to count it. He would ask Nate Nathanson to put the credit cards and billfold in the club safe, but should know how much he was handing over. The sum was unexpectedly large five hundred and twelve dollars, about half in new twenty-dollar bills. The twenties stopped him. Miles looked at several of them carefully, feeling the texture of the paper with his fingertips. Then he glanced at the man on the bed who appeared to be sleeping deeply. Quietly, Miles left the room and crossed the fourth-floor corridor to his own. He returned moments later with a pocket magnifier through which he viewed the twenty-dollar bills again. His intuition was right. They were counterfeit, though of the same-high quality as those he had bought, here in the Double-Seven, a week ago.

He reasoned: The money, or rather half of it, was counterfeit. So, obviously, were the three drivers' licenses and it seemed probable that they were from the same source as Miles's own fake license, given him last week by Jules LaRocca. Therefore, wasn't it likely that the credit cards were also counterfeit? Perhaps, after all, he was close to the source of the false Keycharge cards which Nolan Wainwright wanted to locate so badly. Miles's excitement rose, along with a nervousness which set his heart pounding.

He needed a record of the new information. On a paper towel he copied down details from the credit cards and drivers' licenses, occasionally checking to be sure the figure in the bed was not stirring.

Soon after, Miles turned out the light, locked the door from outside and took the billfold and credit cards downstairs.

He slept fitfully that night, with his door ajar, aware of his responsibility for the inmate of the cubicle across the hall. Miles spent time, too, speculating on the role and identity of the old man whom he began to think of as Danny. What was Danny's relationship to Ominsky and Tony Bear Marino? Why had they brought him here? Tony Bear had declared: He's important to us. Why?

Miles awoke with daylight and checked his watch: 6:45. He got up, washed quickly, shaved and dressed. There were no sounds from across the corridor. He walked over, inserted the key quietly, and looked in. Danny had changed position in the night but was still asleep, snoring gently. Miles gathered the plastic bags of clothing, relocked the door, and went downstairs.

He was back twenty minutes later with a breakfast tray of strong coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs.

"Danny!" Miles shook the old man's shoulder. "Danny, wake up!"

There was no response. Miles tried again. At length two eyes opened warily, inspected him, then hastily closed tight. "Go 'way," the old man mumbled. "Go 'way. I ain't ready for hell yet."

"I'm not the devil," Miles said. "I'm a friend. Tony Bear and Russian Ominsky told me to take care of you."

Rheumy eyes reopened. "Them sons-o'-Sodom found me, eh? Figures, I guess. They usually do." The old man's face creased in pain. "Oh, Jesus! My suffering head!"

"I brought some coffee. Let's see if it will help." Miles put an arm around Danny's shoulders, assisting him to sit upright, then carried the coffee over. The old man sipped and grimaced.

He seemed suddenly alert. "Listen, son. What'll set me straight is a hair of the dog. Now you take some money…" He looked around him,

"Your money's okay," Miles said. "It's in the club safe. I took it down last night." "This the Double-Seven?" "Yes."

"Brought me here once before. Well, now you know I can pay, son, just you nip down to the bar…"

Miles said firmly, "There won't be any nipping. For either of us."

"I’ll make it worthwhile." The old eyes gleamed with cunning. "Say forty dollars for a fifth. Howzat?"

"Sorry, Danny. I had orders." Miles weighed what he would say next, then took the plunge. "Besides, if I used those twenties of yours, I could get arrested."

It was as if he had fired a gun. Danny shot upright, alarm and suspicion on his face. "Who said you could…" He stopped with a moan and grimace, putting a hand to his head in pain. "Someone had to count the money. So I did it." The old man said weakly, "Those are good twenties."

"Sure are," Miles agreed. "Some of the best I've seen. Almost as good as the U. S. Bureau of Engraving."

Danny raised his eyes. Interest competed with suspicion. "How come you know so much?" "Before I went to prison I worked for a bank."

A silence. Then the old man asked, "What were you in the can for?" "Embezzlement. I'm on parole now."

Danny visibly relaxed. "I guess you're okay. Or you wouldn't be working for Tony Bear and the Russian."

"That's right," Miles said. "I'm okay. The next thing is to get you the same way. Right now we're going to the steam room."

"It ain't steam I need. It's a short snort. Just one, son," Danny pleaded. "I swear that's all. You wouldn't deny an old man that small favor."

"We'll sweat some out you already drank. Then you can lick your fingers." The old man groaned. "Heartless! Heartless"

In a way it was like taking care of a child. Overcoming token protests Miles wrapped Danny in a robe and shepherded him downstairs, then escorted him naked through successive steam rooms, toweled him, and finally eased him onto a masseur's table where Miles himself gave a creditable pummeling and rubdown. This early, the gym and steam rooms were deserted and few of the club staff had arrived. No one else was in sight when Miles escorted the old man back upstairs.

Miles remade the bed with dean sheets, and Danny, by now quietened and obedient, climbed in. Almost at once he was asleep, though unlike last night, he appeared tranquil, even angelic. Strangely, without really knowing him, Miles already liked the old man. Carefully, while he slept, Miles put a towel under his head and shaved him.

In late morning, while reading in his room across the hall, Miles drifted off to sleep.

"Hey, Milesy! Baby, stir ass" The rasping voice was Jules LaRocca's.

Startled, Miles jerked awake to see the familiar potbellied figure standing in the doorway. Miles's hand

reached out, seeking the key of the cubicle across the hall. Reassuringly, it was where he had left it.

"Gotsum threads for the old lush," LaRocca said. He was carrying a fiberboard suitcase. "Ominsky said ta deliver 'em ta you." LaRocca, the ubiquitous messenger.

"Okay." Miles stretched, and went to a sink where he splashed cold water on his face. Then, followed by LaRocca, he opened the door across the hall. As the two came in, Danny eased up gingerly in bed. Though still drawn and pale, he appeared better than at any time since his arrival. He had put his teeth in and had his glasses on.

"Ya useless old bum" LaRocca said. "Ya always givin' everybody a lotta trouble."

Danny sat up straighter, regarding his accuser with distaste. "I'm far from useless. As you and others know. As for the sauce, every man has his little weakness." He motioned to the suitcase. "If you brought my clothes, do what you were sent for and hang them up."

Unperturbed, LaRocca grinned. "Sounds like ya bouncin' back, ye old fart. Guess Milesy done a job."

"Jules," Miles said, "win you stay here while I go down and get a sunlamp? I think it'd do Danny good." "Sure."

"I'd like to speak to you first." Miles motioned with his head and LaRocca followed him outside.

Keeping his voice low, Miles asked, "Jules, what's this all about? Who is he?"

"Just an old Beeper. Once in a while he slips away, goes on a bender. Then somebody has to find him, dry the old barfly out." "Why? And where does he slip away from?"

LaRocca stopped, his eyes suspicious, as they had been a week ago. "Ya askin' questions again, kid. Whadid Tony Bear and Ominsky tell ye?" "Nothing, except the old man's name is Danny." "If 'n they wanna tell ya more, they'll tell ye. Not me."

When LaRocca had gone, Miles set up a sunlamp in the cubicle and sat Danny under it for half an hour. Through the remainder of the day, the old man lay quietly awake or dozed. In the early evening Miles brought dinner from downstairs, most of which Danny ate his first full meal since arrival twenty-four hours ago.

Next morning Wednesday Miles repeated the steam room and sunlamp treatments and later the two of them played chess. The old man had a quick, astute mind and they were evenly matched. By now, Danny was friendly and relaxed, making clear that he liked Miles's company and attentions.

During the second afternoon the old man wanted to talk. "Yesterday," he said, "that creep LaRocca said you know a lot about money."

"He tells everybody that." Miles explained about his hobby and the interest it aroused in prison.

Danny asked more questions, then announced, "If you don't mind, I'd like my own money now." "I'll get it for you. But I’ll have to lock you in again..

"If you're worrying about the booze, forget it. I'm over it for this time. A break like this does the trick. Could be months before I'll take a drink again."

"Glad to hear that." Miles locked the door, just the same.

When he had his money, Danny spread it on the bed, then divided it into two piles. The new twenties were in one, the remaining, mostly soiled, assorted bills in another. Prom the second grouping, Danny selected three ten dollar bills and handed them to Miles. "That's for thinking of some little things, son like taking care of my teeth, the shave, the sunlamp. I appreciate what you did." "Listen, you don't have to."

"Take it. And by the way, it's real stuff. Now tell me something." "If I can, I will."

"How did you spot that those twenties were homegrown?"

"I didn't to begin with. But if you use a magnifier, some of the lines on Andrew Jackson's portrait show up blurred. "

Danny nodded sagely. "That's the difference between a steel engraving, which the government uses, and a photo offset plate. Though a top offset man can come awful close."

"In this case he did," Milesisaid. "Other parts of the bills are close to perfect."

There was a faint smile on the old man's face. 'How about the paper?"

"It fooled me. Usually you can tell a bad bill with your fingers. But not these."

Danny said softly, "Twenty-four-pound coupon bond. Hundred percent cotton fiber. People think you can't get the right paper. Isn't true. Not if you shop around."

"If you're all that interested," Miles said, "I have some books about money across the hall. There's one I'm thinking of, published by the U. S. Secret Service."

"You mean Know Your Money?" As Miles looked surprised, the old man chuckled. "That's the forgers handbook. Says what to look for to detect a bad bill. Lists all the mistakes that counterfeiters make. Even shows pictures!" "Yes," Miles said. "I know."

Danny continued chortling. "And the government gives it away! You can write to Washington they'll mail it to you. There was a hot-shot counterfeiter named Mike Landress who wrote a book. In it he said Know Your Money is something no counterfeiter should be without." "Landress got caught," Miles pointed out.

"That was because he worked with fools. They had no organization." "You seem to know a lot about it."

"A little." Danny stopped, picked up one of the good bills, one of the counterfeits, and compared them. What he saw pleased him; he grinned. "Did you know, son, that U.S. money is the world's easiest to copy and to print? Fact is, it was designed so that engravers in the last century couldn't reproduce it with the tools they had. But since those days we've had multilith machines and high resolution photo-offset, so that nowadays, with good equipment, patience, and some wastage, a skilled man can do a job that only experts can detect."

"I'd heard some of that," Miles said. "But how much of it goes on?"

"Let me tell you." Danny seemed to be enjoying himself, obviously launched on a favorite theme. "No one really knows how much queer gets printed every year and goes undetected, but it's a bundle. The government says thirty million dollars, with a tenth of that getting into circulation. But those are government figures, and the only thing you can be sure of with any government figure is that it's set high or low, depending on what the government want to prove. In this case they'd want it low. My guess is, every year, seventy million, maybe closer to a billion."

"I suppose it's possible," Miles said. He was remembering how much counterfeit money had been detected at the bank and how much more must have escaped attention altogether. "Know the hardest kind of money to reproduce?" "No, I don't." "An American Express travelers check. Know why?" Miles shook his head.

"It's printed in cyan-blue, which is next to impossible to photograph for an offset printing plate. Nobody with any knowledge would waste time trying, so an Amex check is safer than American money."

"There are rumors," Miles said, "that there's going to be new American money soon with colors for different denominations the way Canada has."

"'Tain't just rumor," Danny said. "Fact. Lots of the colored money's already printed and it’s stored by the Treasury. Be harder to copy than anything made yet." He smiled mischievously. "But the old stuff'll be around a bit. Maybe as long as I am."

Miles sat silent, digesting all that he had heard. At length he said, "You've asked me questions, Danny, and I answered them. Now I've one for you." "Not saying Ill answer, son. But you can try." "Who and what are you?"

The old man pondered, a thumb stroking his chin as he appraised Miles. Some of his thoughts were mirrored his face: A compulsion to frankness struggled against caution; pride mingled with discretion. Abruptly Danny made up his mind. "I'm seventy-three years old," he said, "and I'm a master craftsman. Been a printer all my life. I'm still the best there is. Besides being a craft, printing's an art." He pointed to the twenty-dollar bills still spread out on the bed. "Those are my work. I made the photographic plate. I printed them."

Miles asked, "and the drivers' licenses and credit cards?"

"Compared with printing money," Danny said, "making those is as easy as pissing in a barrel. But, yep I did 'em all."

13

In a fever of impatience now Miles waited for a chance to communicate what he had learned to Nolan Wainwright, via Juanita. Frustratingly, though, it was proving impossible to leave the Double-Seven and the risk of conveying such vital intelligence over the health club's telephone seemed too great.

On Thursday morning the day after Danny's frank revelations the old man showed every sign of having made a full recovery from his alcoholic orgy. He was clearly enjoying Miles's company and their chess games continued. So did their conversations, though Danny was more on guard than he had been the day before.

Whether Danny could hasten his own departure, if he chose to, was unclear. Even if he could, he showed no inclination and seemed content at least for the time being with his confinement in the fourth-floor cubicle.

During their later talks, both on Wednesday and Thursday, Miles had tried to gain more knowledge of Danny's counterfeiting activities and even hinted at the crucial question of a headquarters location. But Danny adroitly avoided any more discussion on the subject and Miles's instinct told him that the old man regretted some of his earlier openness. Remembering Wainwright's advice "don't hurry, be patient" Miles decided not to push his luck.

Despite his elation, another thought depressed him. Everything he had discovered would ensure the arrest and imprisonment of Danny. Miles continued to like the old man and was sorry for what must surely follow. Yet, he reminded himself, it was also the route to his own sole chance of rehabilitation.

Ominsky, the loan shark, and Tony Bear Marino were both involved with Danny, though in precisely what way was still not clear. Miles had no concern for Russian Ominsky or Tony Bear, though fear touched him icily at the thought of their learning as he supposed they must eventually of his own traitorous role.

Late on Thursday afternoon Jules LaRocca appeared once more. "Gotta message from Tony. He's sending wheels for ya tomorra morning."

Danny nodded, but it was Miles who asked, "Wheels to take him where?"

Both Danny and LaRocca looked at him sharply without answering, and Miles wished he hadn't asked.

That night, deciding to take an acceptable risk, Miles telephoned Juanita. He waited until after locking Danny in his cubicle shortly before midnight, then walked downstairs to use a pay phone on the club's main floor. Miles put in a dime and dialed Juanita's number. On the first ring her voice answered softly, "Hello."

The pay phone was a wall type, in the open near the bar, and Miles whispered so he would not be overheard. "You know who this is. But don't use names." "Yes," Juanita said.

"Tell our mutual friend I've discovered something important here. Really important. it's most of what he wanted to know. I can't say more, but I'll come to you tomorrow night." "All right."

Miles hung up. Simultaneously, a hidden tape recorder in the club basement, which had switched on automatically when the pay phone receiver was lifted, just as automatically switched off.

14

Some verses from Genesis, like subliminal advertising, flashed at intervals through Roscoe Heyward's mind: Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat: But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it; for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.

In recent days, Heyward had worried at the question: Had his illicit sexual affair with Avril, which began that memorable moonlit night in the Bahamas, become his own tree of evil from which he would harvest the bitterest of fruit? And was all that was happening adversely now the sudden, alarming weakness of Supranational, which could thwart his own ambition at the bank intended as a personal punishment by God?

Conversely: If he severed all ties with Avril decisively and at once, and expunged her from his thoughts, would God forgive him? Would He, in acknowledgment, restore strength to Supranational and thereby revive the fortunes of His servant, Roscoe? Remembering Nehemiah… Thou art a God ready to pardon, gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness… Heyward believed He might.

The trouble was, there was no way to be sure.

Also, weighing against severance from Avril was the fact that she was due in the city on Tuesday, as they had arranged last week. Amid his current melange of problems, Heyward longed for her.

Through Monday and early Tuesday morning in his office, he vacillated, knowing he could telephone New York and stop her. But at midmorning Tuesday, aware of flight schedules from New York, he realized it was too late and he was relieved that no decision could be taken.

Avril phoned in late afternoon, using the unlisted line which rang directly on his desk. "Hi, Rossiel I'm at the hotel. Suite 432. The champagne's on ice but I'm hot for you."

He wished he had suggested a room instead of a suite, since he would be paying. For the same reason, champagne seemed needlessly extravagant and he wondered if it would be ungracious to suggest sending it back. He supposed it would. "I'll-be with you shortly, my dear," he said.

He managed a small economy by having a bank car and chauffeur take him to the Columbia Hilton. Heyward told the man, "Don't wait."

As he entered Suite 432, her arms went around him immediately and those full lips hungrily ate at his own. He held her tightly, his body reacting at once with the excitement he had come to know and crave. Through the cloth of his trousers he could feel Avril's long slim thighs and legs, moving against him, teasing, shifting, promising, until all of him seemed concentrated in a few square inches of physique. Then, after several moments, Avril released herself, touched his cheek, and moved away.

"Rossie, why don't we get our business arrangements out of the way? Then we can relax, not worry any more."

Her sudden practicality jolted him. He wondered: Was this the way it always happened. the money first, before fulfillment? Yet he supposed it made sense. If left until afterward, a client his urgency gone and appetite sated might be disinclined to pay.

"All right," he said. He had put two hundred dollars in an envelope; he gave it to Avril. She took the money out and began counting it, and he asked her, "Don't you trust me?" "Let me ask you something," Avril said. "Suppose I took money to your bank and paid it in, wouldn't someone count it?" "They certainly would." "Well, Rossie; people have as much right as banks to look out for themselves." She finished counting and said pointedly, "This is the two hundred for me. As well as that, there's my air fare plus taxis, which comes to a hundred and twenty; the rate on the suite is eighty-five; and the champagne and tip were twenty-five. Why don't we say another two hundred and fifty? That should cover everything." Staggered by the total, he protested, "That's a lot of money." "I'm a lot of woman. It's no more than Supranational spent when they were paying, and you didn't seem to mind then. Besides, if you want the best, the price comes high." Her voice had a direct, no-nonsense quality and he knew he was meeting another Avril, shrewder and harder than the yielding, eager-to-please creature of a moment before. Reluctantly, Heyward took two hundred and fifty dollars from his wallet and handed it over. Avril placed the full amount in an interior compartment of her purse. "Therel That's business finished. Now we can attend to loving." She turned to him and kissed him ardently, at the same time moving her long, deft fingers lightly through his hair. His hunger for her, which had briefly flagged, began to revive. "Rossie, sweetie," Avril murmured, "when you came in, you looked tired and worried." "I've had a few problems lately at the bank." "Then we'll get you loosened. You'll have champagne first, then you can have me." Dexterously she opened the bottle, which was in an ice bucket, and filled two glasses.

They sipped together, this time Heyward not bothering to mention his teetotalism. Soon, Avril began to undress him, and herself. When they were in bed she whispered to him constantly, endearments, encouragement… "Oh, Rossiel You're so big and strong!"… "What a man you arel"… "Go slow, my dearest; slow"… "You've brought us to Paradise"… "If only this could last forever!" Her ability was not only to arouse him physically, but to make him feel more a man than ever before. Never, in all his desultory couplings with Beatrice, had he dreamed of this at/-encompassing sensation, a glorious progression toward fulfillment so complete in every way. "Almost there, Rossie"… "Whenever you tell me"… "Yes, darling! Oh, please, yes!" Perhaps some of Avril's response was acting. He suspected that it might be, but it no longer mattered. What did, was the deep, rich, joyous sensuality he had discovered, through her, in himself. The crescendo passed. It would remain, Roscoe Heyward thought, as one more exquisite memory. Now they lay, sweetly langorous, while outside the hotel the dusk of early evening turned to darkness and the city's lights winked on. Avril stirred first. She padded from the bedroom to the suite living room, returning with filled glasses of champagne which they sipped while they sat in bed and talked. After a while Avril said, "Rossie, I want to ask your advice." "Concerning what?" What girlish confidence was he about to share? "Should I sell my Supranational stock?" Startled, he asked, "Do you have much?" "Five hundred shares. I know that isn't a lot to you. But it is to me about a third of my savings." He swiftly calculated that Avril's "savings" were approximately seven times greater than his own. "What have you heard about SuNatCo? What makes you ask?" "for one thing, they've cut back a lot on entertaining, and I've been told they're short of money, and they aren't paying bills. Some of the other girls were advised to sell their shares, though I haven't sold mine because they're trading at a lot less than when I bought." "Have you asked Quartermain?" "None of us have seen him lately. Moonbeam… You remember Moonbeam?" "Yes." Heyward was reminded that Big George offered to send the exquisite Japanese girl to his room. He wondered how it would have been. "Moonbeam says Georgie has gone to Costa Rica and may stay there. And she says he sold a lot of his own SuNatCo shares before he went." Why hadn't he sought out Avril as a source of information weeks ago? "If I were you," he said, 'I'd sell those shares of yours tomorrow. Even at a loss." She sighed. "It's hard enough to earn money. It's harder still to keep it." "My dear, you have Just enunciated a fundamental financial truth." There was a silence, then Avril said, "I'll remember you as a nice man, Rossie." 'Thank you. I shall think of you in a special way too." She reached out to him. "Try again?" He closed his eyes in pleasure while she caressed him. She was, as always, expert. He thought: Both of them accepted that this was the last time they would meet. One reason was practical: He couldn't afford Avril any more. Beyond that was a sense of events stirring, of changes imminent, of a crisis coming to a head. Who knew what would happen after lust before they made love, he remembered his earlier concern about the wrath of God. Well, perhaps God the father of Christ who acknowledged human frailty, who walked and talked with sinners and died with thieves would understand. Understand and forgive the truth that in Roscoe Heyward's life a few sweet moments of his greatest happiness had been in the company of a whore.

***

On leaving the hotel, Heyward bought an evening paper. A two column heading, halfway down the front page, attracted his attention.

Supranational Corp. Disquiet How Solvent Is Global Giant7

15

No one ever knew what specific event, if any, provoked the final collapse of Supranational. Perhaps it was one incident. Or it could have been the accumulated weight of many, causing gradual shifts in balance, like a growing strain on underpinning, until suddenly the roof falls in. As with any financial debacle involving a big public company, isolated signs of weakness had been evident for weeks and months beforehand. But only the most prescient observers, such as Lewis D'Orsey, perceived them as a pattern and communicated warnings to a favored few. Insiders, of course including Big George Quartermain who, it was later learned, sold most of his shares through a nominee at SuNatCo's all-time high had more warning than anyone and bailed out early.

Others, tipped off by confidants, or friends returning favor for favor, had similar information and quietly did the same.

Next in line were those like Alex Vandervoort acting for First Mercantile American Bank who obtained exclusive information and swiftly unloaded all SuNatCo stock they had, hoping that in any later confusion their action would not be probed. Other institutions banks, investment houses, mutual funds seeing the stock price slide and knowing how the insider system worked, soon sized up the situation and followed suit.

There were federal laws against insider trading on paper.

In practice, such laws were broken daily and were largely unenforceable. Occasionally in a flagrant case, or as a whitewash job, an accusation might be leveled with a picayune penalty. But even that was rare. Individual investors the great, hoping, trusting, naive, beaten, suckered public were, as usual, the last to know that anything was wrong.

The first public intimation of SuNatCo's difficulties was in an AP newswire story, printed in afternoon newspapers the same news story which Roscoe Heyward saw on leaving the Columbia Hilton. By the following morning a few more details had been garnered by the press and amplified reports appeared in morning papers, including The Wall Street Journal. Even so, details were sketchy and many people had trouble believing that anything so reassuringly sizable as Supranational Corporation could be in serious trouble. Their confidence was soon assailed.

At 10 A.M., at the New York Stock Exchange, Supranational shares failed to open for trading with the rest of the market. The reason given was "an order imbalance." What this meant was that the trading specialist for SuNatCo was so swamped with "sell" orders that an orderly market in the shares could not be maintained.

Trading in SuNatCo did reopen at 11 A.M. when a big "buy" order of 52,000 shares crossed the tape. But by then the stock, which had traded at 48 a month before, was down to 19. By the afternoon closing bell it was at 10. The New York Stock Exchange would probably have halted trading again the following day, except that overnight the decision was taken from its hands. The Securities and Exchange Commission announced that it was investigating the affairs of Supranational and, until its inquiry was completed, all trading in SuNatCo shares would be suspended.

There ensued an anxious fifteen days for the remaining SuNatCo shareholders and creditors, whose combined investments and loans exceeded five billion dollars.

Among those waiting shaken, nervous, and nail biting were officers and directors of First Mercantile American Bank.

Supranational did not, as Alex Vandervoort and Jerome Patterton hoped it might, "hang on for several months."

Therefore the possibility existed that late transactions in SuNatCo shares including the big block sale by FMA’s trust department might be revoked.

This could come about in one of two ways either by order of the SEC following a complaint, or by purchasers of the shares bringing suit, claiming that FMA knew the true condition of Supranational, but failed to disclose it when the shares were sold.

If that happened, it would represent an even greater loss to trust clients that they already faced, with the bank almost certainly liable for breach of trust.

There was one other possibility which had to be faced and it was even more likely. First Mercantile American's fifty-million-dollar loan to SuNatCo would become a "write-off," a total loss.

If so, for the first time in FMA history the bank would suffer a substantial operating loss for the year. It raised the probability that FMA's own next dividend to shareholders would have to be omitted. That, too, would be a first.

Depression and uncertainty permeated the higher councils of the bank. Vandervoort had predicted that when the Supranational story broke, the press would start investigative reporting and First Mercantile American would be involved. In this, too, he was right. News reporters, who in recent years had been motivated by the example of the Washington Post's Watergate heroes, Bernstein and Woodward, bored in hard.

Their efforts were successful. Within several days, newspeople had developed sources inside and outside Supranational, and exposes of Quartermain's sleight-of-hand began emerging, as did the conglomerate's shady "Chinese accounting." So did the horrendously high figure of SuNatCo's indebtedness. So did other financial revelations, including FMA's fifty-million-dollar loan.

When the Dow Jones news service tapped out the first reference linking FMA with Supranational, the bank's public relations chief, Dick French, demanded and was granted a hastily summoned top-level conference.

Present were Jerome Patterton, Roscoe Heyward, Alex Vandervoort, and the burly figure of French himself, the usual unlighted cigar in a corner of his mouth. They were a serious group Patterton glowering and gloomy, as he had been for days; Heyward seeming fatigued, distracted, and betraying nervous tension;

Alex with a mounting inner anger at being involved in a disaster he had predicted, and which need never have happened. "Within an hour, maybe less," the PR vice-presidentbegan, "I'm going to be hounded for details about our dealings with SuNatCo. I want to know our official attitude and what answers I'm to give." Patterton asked, "Are we obliged to give any?" "No," French said. "But then no one's obliged to commit hara-kiri either."

"Why not admit Supranational's indebtedness to us," Roscoe Heyward suggested, "and leave it at that?" "Because we won't be dealing with simpletons, that's why.

Some of the questioners will be experienced financial reporters who understand banking law. So their second query will be: How come your bank committed so much of its depositors' money to a single debtor?" Heyward snapped, "It was not to a single debtor.

The loan was spread between Supranational and five subsidiaries." "When I say it," French said, "I'll try to make like I believe it." He removed the cigar from his mouth, laid it down, and drew a note pad toward him.

"Okay, give me details. It'll all come out anyway, but we'll look a lot worse if we make this painful, like a tooth extraction."

"Before we go on," Heyward said, "I should remind you we're not the only bank to whom Supranational owes money. There's First National City, Bank of America, and Chase Manhattan."

"But they all headed consortiums," Alex pointed out. "That way, any loss is shared with other banks. So far as we know, our bank has the greatest individual exposure." There seemed no point in adding that he had warned all concerned, including the board of directors, that such a concentration of risk was dangerous to FMA and possibly illegal.

But his thoughts continued to be bitter. They hammered out a statement admitting First Mercantile American's deep financial involvement with Supranational and conceding some anxiety.

The statement then expressed hope that the ailing conglomerate could be turned around, perhaps with new management which FMA would press for, and with losses minimized.

It was a wan hope and everybody knew it. Dick French was given some leeway to amplify the statement if he needed to, and it was agreed he would remain sole spokesman for the bank. French warned, "The press will try to contact ad of you individually.

If you want our story to stay consistent, refer every caller to me, and caution your staffs to do the same." That same day, Alex Vandervoort reviewed emergency plans he had set up within the bank, to be activated in certain circumstances.

'There's something positively ghoulish," Edwina D'Orsey declared, "about the attention that gets focused on a bank in difficulties

." She had been leafing through newspapers spread around the conference area of Alex Vandervoort's office in FMA Headquarters Tower. It was a Thursday, the day after the press statement by Dick French. The local Times-Register bannered its page one story:

LOCAL BANK FACES HUGE LOSS

IN WAKE OF SUNATCO DEBACLE

With more restraint, The New York Times informed its readers:

FMA Bank Declared Sound Despite Sour Loan Problems The story had been carried, too, on last night's and this morning's TV network news shows.

Included in all reports was a hasty assurance by the Pederal Reserve that First Mercantile American Bank was solvent and depositors need have no cause for alarm. Just the same, FMA was now on the Fed's "problem list" and this morning a team of Federal Reserve examiners had quietly moved in clearly the first of several such incursions from regulatory agencies.

Tom Straughan, the bank's economist, answered Edwina's observation. "It isn't ghoulishness, really, that excites attention when a bank's in trouble.

Mostly, I think, it's fear. Fear among those with accounts that the bank might be forced out of business and they'd lose their money.

Also a wider fear that if one bank fails, others could catch the same disease and the entire system fall apart." "What I fear," Edwina said, "is the effect of this publicity." "I'm equally uneasy," Alex Vandervoort agreed.

"It's why well continue to watch closely to see what effect it has." Alex had called a midday strategy meeting

Among those summoned were heads of departments responsible for branch bank administration, since everyone was aware that any lack of public confidence in FMA would be felt in branches first. Earlier, Tom Straughan had reported that branch withdrawals late yesterday and this morning were higher than usual, and deposits lower, though it was too early yet to be sure of a definable trend.

Reassuringly, there had been no sign of panic among the bank's customers, though managers of all eighty-four PMA branches had instructions to report promptly if any were observed.

A bank survives on its reputation and the trust of others fragile plants which adversity and bad publicity can wither. One purpose of today's meeting had been to ensure that actions to be taken in event of a sudden crisis were understood, and communications functioning.

Apparently they were. "That's all for now," Alex told the group. "We'll meet tomorrow at the same time." They never did. At 10:15 next morning, Friday, the manager of the First Mercantile American branch at Tylersville, twenty miles upstate, telephoned Headquarters and his call was put through immediately to Alex Vandervoort. When the manager Fergus W. Gatwick identified himself, Alex asked crisply, "What's the problem?"

"A run, sir. This place is jammed with people more than a hundred of our regular customers, lined up with passbooks and checkbooks, and more are coming in They're withdrawing everything, cleaning out their accounts, demanding every last dollar."

The manager's voice was that of an alarmed man trying to stay calm. Alex went cold. A run on a bank was a nightmare any banker dreaded; it was also in the last few days what Alex and others in top management had feared most. Such a run implied public panic, crowd psychology, a total loss of faith. Even worse, once news of a run on a single branch got out, it could sweep through others in the FMA system like a flash fire, impossible to put out, becoming a catastrophe.

No banking institution not even the biggest and most sound ever had enough liquidity to repay the majority of its depositors at once, if all demanded cash.

Therefore, if the run persisted, cash reserves would be exhausted and FMA obliged to close its doors, perhaps permanently.

It had happened before to other banks. Given a combination of mismanagement, bad timing, and bad luck, it could happen anywhere. The first essential, Alex knew, was to assure those who wanted their money out that they would receive it. The second was to localize the outbreak. His instructions to the Tylersville manager were terse. "Fergus, you and all your staff are to act as if there is nothing out of the ordinary. Pay out without question it whatever people ask for and have in their accounts. And don't walk around looking worried. Be cheerful" "It won't be easy, sir. I'll try."

"Do better than try. At this moment our entire bank is on your shoulders." "Yes, sir." "We'll get help out to you as quickly as we can.

What's your cash position?" "We've about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the vault," the manager said. "I figure, at the rate we're going, we can last an hour, not much more." "There'll be cash coming," Alex assured him.

"Meanwhile get the money you have out of the vault and stack it up on desks and tables where everyone can see it.

Then walk among your customers. Talk to them.

Assure them our bank is in excellent shape, despite what they've been reading, and ten them everyone will get their money."

Alex hung up. On another phone he immediately caned Straughan. - "Tom," Alex said, "the balloon's gone up at Tylersville. The branch there needs help and cash fast. Put Emergency Plan One in motion."