Political Murder

by Emma Lathen

  But after they parted outside the Midtown Club and Thatcher began to stride through a clammy drizzle toward the Sloan, John realized he might be doing his old college roommate an injustice.

  First it was aged 84 year old Bartlett Sims, still inflicting his sharp tongue upon Waymark-Sims and the rest of the world. “I hear that Lancer is rumbling again,” Sims harrumphed, observing the pedestrian flow on Exchange Place with open contempt. “Hav- en’t seen George looking so sly in years.”

  John reflected that Sims had not lost his fastball and chuckled to think his slider got more deadly with every decade Sims’aged. John then had to move out of the path of a flying wedge of Wall Street workers while agreeing George was looking rather chipper.

  “Ha” Bartlett Sims snorted. “George has been doing that for a long time; disappears on his gallivants, goes here, goes there, seems to be doing nothing, but comes back like all those Lancers and makes another pile. Seen it before you know.”

  Yes, John knew. George wasn’t Chairman for nothing. Sims had stomped off with his usual ironic telling sally. Sometimes John thought he would learn more walking up and down these tight nar- row crowded streets than in all the meetings he had at the Sloan or had to attend in distant places. He remembered one of his richest clients who happened to be in the toy business used to routinely ride the elevators in the industry’s Mecca, the Toy building in New York, where sooner or later every important executive, buyer, retailer, in- vestor, or supplier appeared. He had said a similar thing, “Don’t know why I travel when I could just ride those elevators.”

  Getting back to his thoughts about Sims himself, John had long since abandoned attempts to tell Bartlett Sims anything. Listening to him was another matter, since he almost always learned something as John did today. George’s plan was out, and the Street was broad- casting it much like the ancient Iroquois did so by drums from place to place. With this thought, he proceeded, reflecting that beneath the thin skin of concrete, steel and glass, Wall Street was not very different from the country store of his boyhood in Sunapee, New Hampshire or the ancient tribes of yore.

  “Well, George has scheduled a big meet in an hour.” The voice in Thatcher’s ear belonged to Walter Bowman, the Sloan’s large enthu- siastic chief of research, and to put it more plainly, head of gossip. He was just leaving the bank for a late lunch which would be devot- ed to milking some acquaintance about the meaning of the latest tom toms pounding away about Lancer plans. He would surely return to Lancer’s meet as he called it with special information to be laid, like a trophy, at the feet of the Executive Committee in the next hour.

  Or, Thatcher mused as he entered the Sloan’s great lobby and gave the dog-like shake which had become habitual during this endless deluge, perhaps he was overhasty. Walter Bowman might just be having lunch.

  But Billings, the elevator and security operator, in the brief voyage from the lobby to the sixth floor, expanded upon his customary re- marks.

  “Good day to stay indoors for your meeting with Mr. Lancer, Mr. Thatcher.”

  “Yes, indeed,”said Thatcher heartily as the pneumatic doors opened. He made his way to his corner suite of offices, past illicit drying um- brellas, and arrived to find his Miss Corsa waiting for him.

  “Mr. Lancer’s meeting is in 54 minutes,” the ever exact Miss Corsa said, as Thatcher removed his raincoat. But although Tom Robichaux, investment banker, Bartlett Sims, broker, Walter Bowman, analyst, and Billings, elevator operator, might be gossips at heart around the proverbial cracker barrel, Rose Theresa Corsa was a Wall Streeter to her very core. Dismissing any gossip as another one of her employer’s frivolities, she reported the news that had just flashed over the Sloan Internet:

  “There is going to be another Senate Hearing about Big Banks and the Sloan is named as being subpoenaed according to Miss Evans,” she said precisely.

  This Thatcher presumed was legitimate Wall Street conversation ac - cording to Miss Corsa. The difference Thatcher found was that Miss Corsa always distilled the key gossip though never calling it that. If Miss Corsa got this from Miss Evans, Lancer’s long time secretary, you could take it to the bank as they say. Thatcher chuckled thinking that I hope people took that clichéd money to the Sloan bank.

  Thatcher never lived up to the seriousness of many of his reports as Miss Corsa always did, so he tried to hide his chuckle. Miss Corsa had seen it but elected to ignore it as if other matters took prece- dence. “Mr. Thatcher, in your absence I will sort through your email again to see if I can reduce it before you return,” which was her way of politely referring to his dereliction of duty and prompt him to appropriate action in dealing with pending matters so they could be attended to by his subordinates.

  At this moment Charlie Trinkham came by and said, “Guess I’ll join you going up to see George.” As they left 45 minutes later, Everett Gabler, Walter Bowman, and Ken Nicholls joined them. Thatcher felt like he was taking a posse up to George’s; in fact, he reflected, no one wants to make the big trip alone, meaning that the gossip was dead on right. George was up to something big.

  When they arrived on the top floor of the Sloan’s Exchange Street palace, Miss Evans welcomed them with a certain foreboding that reinforced Thatcher’s belief that this would be the big meeting George had talked about a few days before.

  When they entered his office, George was their enthroned with Brad Withers, President, and Thatcher’s daughter, Elizabeth, at his side with a projector clearly ready to run. She immediately smiled at Everett, which encouraged him to join her on her right side, much like Christ proverbially sat on the right side of God.

  Thatcher tried to bring himself back from these musings but found himself rather unsuccessful at doing so. The big changes were go- ing to be announced with Elizabeth leading the charge and her un- expected long time personal advisor, trustee, and now boss, Everett Gabler, at her right hand indicating that the oldest and most cantan- kerous Trust Officer was solidly behind the final plan hatched by Lancer. When the naysayer was in, the deal was in the bag thought John. Smart of George to set it up that way. Less friction all the way around.

  The message was given. No tom toms needed. This was it. Thatcher thought that this showed that Trinkham, Gabler, and Nicholls were more plugged in than he was to the events for the day. To be fair, though, Thatcher knew the plan and was honored and respectful of the Sloan being so nimble.

  In short, Lancer was injecting the Lancer generational survival skills of keeping money despite intense political tax plans to take it, getting his family members into Harvard despite affirmative action plans to prevent it, and keeping good cheer in the process. The pub- lic ritual was handwringing for this group; no therapy permitted; no angst; no celebrity appearances.

  John didn’t like meetings as a rule but he was sure he would like this one. On that note, he sat down and the meeting began.

  Chapter 2

  Escape

  George Charles Lancer led off the meeting from behind his elegant antique desk, providing much of the gravitas the White House cre- ated to intimidate the Indian Chiefs so effectively back in the 19th Century. It was done in such a way you knew it was being done to you, but succumbed anyway. That was the secret of course, which Lancer knew as the beneficiary of 7 generations before him that pre- vailed through all the successful goings on in American history, pol- itics, culture wars, and the rest of it. Few nations had lasted as long as the Lancers; the Lancers had and intended for the Sloan to do so as well. With that in mind, George was off and running.

  “Gentlemen and Elizabeth,” he chuckled slightly as she grinned in tune with him. “We at the Sloan do not wish to make the same mistake that Nev - ille Chamberlain made of conceding territory to Hitler in hopes this would satisfy him rather than just whet his appetite. Similarly, many Jews in Germany thought things couldn’t get worse and they did. We at the Sloan do not want to make the same mistake these well-meaning honorable people made. Thus our plan is to escape the clutches of the angry pop
ulists who don’t like us and will create di- saster if they can, despite the consequences that happened to Hitler. He simply didn’t care. This is what empowered him and empowers our adversaries today; they don’t care if the American economy suf- fers as long as their ideology prevails.”

  “We can ask whether they are right or wrong. The point is that is not our business. They are American citizens and free to invoke their will through the ballot box and all that comes afterwards. We, on the other hand, as American citizens, are entitled to flee, unlike the Jews who were so restricted in the Europe of the 1930s. In short, we are not winning; we are running while the running is good. That is our plan. Elizabeth will present it.”

  Elizabeth stood, with a positive nod from Everett, something every - one took in and rarely saw when major changes were afoot. They had planned it of course. But, and this was a big but, the signal was given and the fix was in.

  Many knew that when Everett was not against something it always succeeded. It also gave an insight into the Everett of the next genera- tion, his soul mate, young Elizabeth. She was positive in some ways, but always astutely probed for the Everett weakness as people called it, learned to do so from the master himself, and then added her own secret sauce with the question, “Now that we know the weak- ness, can we succeed?” She clearly thought they could or Thatcher’s daughter would not be making her presentation today.

  Thatcher was impressed. George had brought everyone along. He had met with everyone individually; he had used his generational magic to do so; he was letting the next generation take the Sloan forward. He had earned his pay and the exalted position he had held for so many years. He was giving the Sloan a life raft for the future.

  Elizabeth started with the first slide showing GE as the only member of the Dow at the turn of the 20th Century that made it another 100 years to the 21st in the Dow. The others had fallen by the way side due to liquidation, bankruptcy reorganization, or plain irrelevance. She let the slide sit. They all knew what would be said before she said it. That was her magic style, having consensus before hello.

  “Gentlemen, we want the Sloan to be the second GE. We have no need to surpass GE excellence but we can emulate it by being nim- ble, humble, respectful, and ruthlessly rational. We need to think of Kenny Rogers’ quip, ‘You have to know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em,’but I think Willie Nelson said it better, ‘You have to know when to freeze and when to run.’Make no mistake about it, we are running.”

  “Ali said when asked how he would beat the big bear Sonny Liston, a 10 to 1 favorite in their first fight, ‘He has a 41 inch reach, so I’ll stay at 42.’”

  Elizabeth put up the 2nd slide, a picture of Ireland. Charlie Trinkham couldn’t stifle an “ah” and the small group chuckled.

  “Our new oasis, which is actually an old oasis started by this group some years ago for my IT and VC division.” George interceded, “Do we all agree on the plan?” Everyone nodded as if synchronizing watches in a spy film. This was fun Thatcher thought. And why not have some? They’d been bounced around by the people, the press, and the politicos. Escape was the solution and they were now agreed on it. He was proud of this group; couldn’t help but be. Now for the evacuation plan!

  Structure

  Elizabeth nodded and continued, “None of us like meetings. Good. We covered our ground in less than 10 minutes. This speaks well about our future as nimble bankers.”

  George interceded again. “I have talked to each of you about your roles. Each of you has agreed but let us go through the drill. Eliza- beth?”

  On cue Elizabeth went to the 3rd slide showing the new manage - ment structure for humor labeled hierarchy. It worked; they were nodding.

  George again. “John has agreed to move up to Chairman with my retirement. Charlie will move up to President with Brad’s open slot since he retired earlier this year. Nicholls will take over John’s old role as SVP. Walter will be the VPof Yes and Everett the VPof No,” as they all chuckled.

  Walter’s good humor bubbled up. “Charlie will miss his old battles with Ev, but I look forward to them.” This even brought a slight smile to Ev’s face.

  George continued. “Elizabeth will continue as VP of IT and VC in- vestments.”

  George paused, “OK?” They all nodded again. George again, “Now we can get down to the nitty gritty; never thought I’d use that term, but it is a good one. Elizabeth has her operation centered in Dublin now as a separate company; it is pros- pering and growing under her guidance and your support.” They all knew the Sloan had been shifting assets there quietly for some time. Ireland’s 12% corporate tax coupled with a warm wel- come beat the USA tax of 35% or so and an increasingly hostile populace.

  “As you know, John has arranged that all new and reorganized Trust accounts are set up in Ireland. This change started 5 years ago. Often we forget how much things change; we think of the “old” accounts and overlook that the “new” or rearranged ones move up the ladder quickly in significance. We now have 62% of our Trust assets orig- inated in Ireland.”

  Elizabeth on cue cut in. She briefly discussed cyberbanking, au - tomated branches, and the elimination of their traditional physical branches, leading off with the 4th slide. “You can see that 68% of our branches are now centered in Ireland due to consolidations, moves, changes, relocations, eliminations, and such things.”

  She paused, “And all IT and VC operations have been centered there, with outsourcing for IT to India and VC operations with a secondary office in Austin. With that, back to George.”

  “Our banking colleagues are panting to take over our landmark site here on Exchange Place. I have personally arranged for its sale to JP Morgan, putting JP’s famous name on the most glorious banking headquarters in New York, hence, in their mind, the world. The sale closes this morning. The Sloan is now homeless in America, just as many of the US populace believe our bank should be.”

  On that note laughter broke out and the meeting ended. The cham - pagne came out with their other friends, wine, scotch, and assorted niceties, with sandwiches to top them off.

  They saluted each other and got ready for round 2.John gave his toast, “May all meetings be this short from now on!” And more cheers and happy drinking. Elizabeth had skillfully planned a walk home to the Devonshire for one and all, except for Nicholls who she had arranged a ride for to White Plains.

  Evacuation Plan

  After 10 minutes of boisterous drinking, munching, and gossiping, Elizabeth started up again with the 5th slide entitled Evacuation Plan with a picture of the famous Dunkirk Evacuation that saved England in World War II as this one would save the Sloan until the next war.

  Elizabeth had no doubt now; unanimity, speed, and good cheer were so British and spot on for this evacuation. As Einstein had said, “What a genius can do the first time, a tradesperson can do the sec- ond.” Following the great moments of World War II was like that. She remembered seeing the documentary series of that name with the maps.

  In 1942 the whole world was in; that’s the way the banking world felt to her now, all continents embroiled but Antarctica. All the Sloan had to fight back with was money, focus, and speed, quite good tools she thought but outclassed by the power of organized citizenry. And, and this was a big and, the ignorance of their competitors other side about the danger of an upset citizenry and their elected representa- tives. The Sloan was first big bank to evacuate. The others might get stuck.

  The 6th slide showed John Reed of Citibank at the time they quietly evacuated their credit card unit from New York and moved to Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

  She picked up again, “John Reed was an MIT graduate, though he looked like another handsome Yale liberal arts major,” with a smile since everyone in her small audience went to Harvard including her.

  “He believed that credit was the ultimate mathematical tool since good credit didn’t relate to traditional measures of income, assets, job, family status or the like. He discovered it related to what you
did, what your history was, from soup to nuts. He believed credit could be priced for risk with bad credit people being started out with a preloaded balance credit card and gradually increasing lines if they performed well in their payments. He believed banks should plan and price for write-offs and not be surprised by them. In short, he was a credit hero.”

  “With that he brought the same talents to moving Citi’s credit card back office out of New York. How to do it? Peacefully, nicely, qui- etly, seamlessly, and with no lawsuits. So what did he do? He found out where New Yorkers would most hate moving to: South Dakota it was. So he moved the Citi credit offices there and offered everyone a job. It worked. Less than 5% agreed to move and almost no one actually made the move at all. He carefully expunged those move records, but it may have been zero. Wow!”

  Everett couldn’t help cheering. It was a total Ev move. Trinkham gave a toast. They were all back at the bar for another round. And Elizabeth started up again, “Well we aren’t John Reed, and we didn’t go to MIT,” more laughs, “but we can learn from the best and the brightest. Ireland is our South Dakota and Dublin our Sioux Falls.”

  Thatcher thought she was being the same spellbinder she was as a little girl. Beautiful as she was, she had a way with boys and later men that related to not being touchy, being the good hearted woman, in fact being much like the goodhearted whores of yesteryear who were liked for their spirit as well as sexual favors, to use the old fashioned term of his youth.