The Moneychangers

by Arthur Hailey

  Roscoe Heyward’s features tightened.

  Patterton turned to Vandervoort. “Alex?”

  “You know my feelings,” Alex said; it was the first time he had spoken. “I was against the cut in funds to begin with. I still am.”

  Heyward said sarcastically, “Then you’re probably delighted about what’s going on. And I suppose you’d give in gladly to those louts and their intimidation.”

  “No, I’m not in the least delighted.” Alex’s eyes flashed angrily. “What I am is embarrassed and offended to see the bank in the position it’s been placed. I believe what’s happening could have been foreseen—that is, some response, some opposition. What matters most at the moment, though, is to set the situation right.”

  Heyward sneered, “So you would give in to intimidation. Just as I said.”

  “Giving in or not giving in is immaterial,” Alex answered coldly. “The real question is: Were we right or wrong in cutting off funds from Forum East? If we were wrong, we should have second thoughts, along with courage to admit our error.”

  Jerome Patterton observed, “Second thoughts or not, if we back down now we’ll all look pretty foolish.”

  “Jerome,” Alex said, “in the first place, I don’t believe so. In the second, does it matter?”

  Dick French interposed, “The financial end of this is none of my business. I know that. But I’ll tell you one thing: If we decided now to change bank policy about Forum East, we’d look good, not bad.”

  Roscoe Heyward said acidly to Alex, “If courage is a factor here, I’d say that you are devoid of any. What you’re doing is refusing to stand up to a mob.”

  Alex shook his head impatiently. “Stop sounding like a small-town sheriff, Roscoe. Sometimes, unwillingness to change a wrong decision is plain pigheadedness, nothing more. Besides, those people at the downtown branch are not a mob. Every report we’ve had has made that clear.”

  Heyward said suspiciously, “You seem to have a special affinity for them. Do you know something the rest of us don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Just the same, Alex,” Jerome Patterton ruminated, “I don’t like the idea of meekly giving in.”

  Tom Straughan had been following both arguments. Now he said, “I was opposed to cutting off Forum East funds, as everybody knows. But I don’t like being pushed around by outsiders either.”

  Alex sighed. “If you all feel like that, we’d better accept that the downtown branch won’t be much use to us for a while.”

  “That rabble can’t possibly keep up what they’re doing,” Heyward declared. “I predict that if we maintain our stand, refusing to be bluffed or stampeded, the entire exercise will fizzle out tomorrow.”

  “And I,” Alex said, “predict it will continue through next week.”

  In the end, both predictions proved erroneous.

  In the absence of any softening of attitude by the bank, inundation of the downtown branch by Forum East supporters continued through all of Thursday and Friday, until the close of business late Friday afternoon.

  The big branch was almost helpless. And, as Dick French predicted, nationwide attention was focused on its plight.

  Much of the attention was humorous. However, investors were less amused, and on the New York Stock Exchange on Friday, First Mercantile American Bank shares closed a further two and a half points lower.

  Meanwhile, Margot Bracken, Seth Orinda, Deacon Euphrates, and others went on planning and recruiting.

  On Monday morning the bank capitulated.

  At a hastily called press conference at 10 A.M., Dick French announced that full Forum East financing would be restored at once. On behalf of the bank, French expressed the good-natured hope that the many from Forum East, and their friends, who had opened accounts at FMA over the past several days, would remain bank customers.

  Behind the capitulation were several cogent reasons. One was: Prior to the downtown branch opening on Monday morning, the lineup outside the bank and on Rosselli Plaza was even larger than on previous days, so it became plain that the preceding week’s performance would be repeated.

  More disconcerting, a second long lineup appeared at another FMA branch bank, this in suburban Indian Hill. The development was not wholly unexpected. Extension of the Forum East activity to additional First Mercantile American branches had been forecast in Sunday’s newspapers. When the line at Indian Hill began to form, an alarmed branch manager telephoned FMA Headquarters, asking for help.

  But it was a final factor which clinched the outcome.

  Over the weekend, the union which had loaned money to the Forum East Tenants committee and provided free lunches for those in line—the American Federation of Clerks, Cashiers & Office Workers—publicly announced its involvement. They pledged additional support. A union spokesman castigated FMA as a “selfish and gargantuan profit machine, geared to further enrich the wealthy at the expense of the have-nots.” A campaign to unionize the bank’s employees, he added, would soon begin.

  The union thus tilted the scale, not with a straw, but a bale of bricks.

  Banks—all banks—feared, even hated, unions. Banking’s leaders and executives eyed unions the way a snake might view a mongoose. What bankers foresaw if unions became entrenched was a lessening of banks’ financial freedom. At times their fear was irrational, but it existed.

  Though unions had tried often, few had made the slightest headway where bank employees were concerned. Time after time, bankers adroitly outwitted union organizers and intended to keep on doing so. If the Forum East situation afforded leverage to a union, ipso facto, the leverage must be removed. Jerome Patterton, in his office early and moving with unusual speed, made the final decision authorizing the restitution of funds to Forum East. At the same time he approved the bank’s announcement which Dick French rushed to release.

  Afterward, to steady his nerves, Patterton cut off all communication and practiced chip shots on the inner office rug.

  Later the same morning, at a mainly informal session of the money policy committee, the reinstatement was recorded, though Roscoe Heyward grumbled, “It’s created a precedent and is a surrender we’ll regret.”

  Alex Vandervoort was silent.

  When the FMA announcement was read to Forum East supporters at both branch banks, there was some cheering, after which the assembled groups quietly dispersed. Within half an hour, business at the two branches returned to normal.

  The matter might have ended there except for an information leak which, viewed in retrospect, was perhaps inevitable. The leak resulted in a newspaper commentary two days later—an item in the same column, “Ear to the Ground,” which first brought the issue out into the open.

  Were you wondering who was really behind those Forum Easters who this week brought the proud and mighty First Mercantile American Bank to heel? The Shadow knows. It’s Civil Rights Lawyer-Feminist Margot Bracken—she of “airport toilet sit-in” fame and other battles for the humble and stepped-on.

  This time, despite the “bank-in” being her idea, on which she labored, Ms. Bracken kept her activity tip-top secret. While others fronted, she stayed out of sight, avoiding the press, her normal allies. Are you wondering about that, too?

  Stop wondering! Margot’s great and good friend, most often seen with her around town, is Swinging Banker Alexander Vandervoort, exec veep of First Merc Am. If you were Margot and had that connection cooking, wouldn’t you stay out of sight?

  Only thing we’re wondering: Did Alex know and approve the siege of his own home plate?

  5

  “Goddamit, Alex,” Margot said, “I’m sorry!”

  “The way it happened, so am I.”

  “I could skin that louse of a columnist alive. The only good thing is that he didn’t mention I’m related to Edwina.”

  “Not many know that,” Alex said, “even in the bank. Anyway, lovers make livelier news than cousins.”

  It was close to midnight. They were in Alex’s apartment,
their first meeting since the siege of FMA’s downtown branch began. The item in “Ear to the Ground” had appeared the day before.

  Margot had come in a few minutes ago after representing a client in night court—a well-to-do habitual drunk, whose habit of assaulting anyone in sight when he was boozed made him one of her few steady sources of income.

  “The newspaper writer was doing his job, I suppose,” Alex said. “And almost certainly your name would have come out anyway.”

  She said contritely, “I tried to make sure it didn’t. Only a few people knew what I was doing, and I wanted it to stay like that.”

  He shook his head. “No way. Nolan Wainwright told me early this morning—these were his words—’ the whole caper had Margot Bracken’s handwriting on it.’ And Nolan had started to quiz people. He used to be a police detective, you know. Someone would have talked if the news item hadn’t appeared first.”

  “But they didn’t have to use your name.”

  “If you want the truth”—Alex smiled—“I rather liked that ‘swinging banker’ bit.”

  But the smile was false and he sensed that Margot knew it. The real truth was that the column item had jolted and depressed him. He was still depressed tonight, though he had been pleased when Margot telephoned earlier to say that she was coming.

  He asked, “Have you talked to Edwina today?”

  “Yes, I phoned her. She didn’t seem upset. I suppose we’re used to each other. Besides, she’s pleased that Forum East is back on the rails again—all of it. You must be glad about that, too.”

  “You always knew my feelings on that subject. But it doesn’t mean I approve your shady methods, Bracken.”

  He had spoken more sharply than he intended. Margot reacted promptly. “There was nothing shady in what I did, or my people. Which is more than I can say for your goddam bank.”

  He raised his hands defensively. “Let’s not quarrel. Not tonight.”

  “Then don’t say things like that.”

  “All right, I won’t.”

  Their momentary anger disappeared.

  Margot said thoughtfully, “Tell me—when it all started, didn’t you have some idea I was involved?”

  “Yes. Partly because I know you very well. Also, I remembered you clammed up about Forum East when I expected you to tear me—and FMA—to shreds.”

  “Did it make things difficult for you—while the bank-in was going on, I mean?”

  He answered bluntly, “Yes, it did. I wasn’t sure whether to share what I’d guessed or to keep quiet. Since bringing in your name wouldn’t have made any difference to what was happening, I kept quiet. As it turned out, it was the wrong decision.”

  “So now some of the others believe you knew all the time.”

  “Roscoe does. Maybe Jerome. I’m not sure about the rest.”

  There was an uncertain silence before Margot asked, “Do you care? Does it matter terribly?” For the first time in their relationship her voice was anxious. Concern clouded her face.

  Alex shrugged, then decided to reassure her. “Not really, I guess. Don’t worry. I’ll survive.”

  But it did matter. It mattered very much at FMA, despite what he had just said, and the incident had been doubly unfortunate at this time.

  Alex was sure that most of the bank’s directors would have seen the newspaper item which included his name and the pertinent question: Did Alex know and approve the siege of his own home plate? And if there were a few who hadn’t seen it, Roscoe Heyward would make certain that they did.

  Heyward had made his attitude plain.

  This morning, Alex had gone directly to Jerome Patterton when the bank president arrived at 10 A.M. But Heyward, whose office was nearer, had got there first.

  “Come in, Alex,” Patterton had said. “We might just as well have a threesome as two meetings of deuces.”

  “Before we talk, Jerome,” Alex told him, “I want to be the first to bring up a subject. You’ve seen this?” He put a clipping of the previous day’s “Ear to the Ground” on the desk between them.

  Without waiting, Heyward said unpleasantly, “Do you imagine there’s anyone in the bank who hasn’t?”

  Patterton sighed. “Yes, Alex, I’ve seen it. I’ve also had a dozen people direct my attention to it, and no doubt there’ll be others.”

  Alex said firmly, “Then you’re entitled to know that what was printed is mischief-making and nothing more. You have my word that I knew absolutely nothing in advance about what happened at the downtown branch, and no more than the rest of us while it was going on.”

  “A good many people,” Roscoe Heyward commented, “might consider that with your connections”—he put sardonic emphasis on the word connections—”such ignorance would be unlikely.”

  “Any explanations I’m making,” Alex snapped, “are directed at Jerome.”

  Heyward declined to be put off. “When the bank’s reputation is demeaned in public, all of us are concerned. As to your so-called explanation, do you seriously expect anyone to believe that through Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, over a weekend and into Monday, you had no idea, no idea at all, your girl friend was involved?”

  Patterton said, “Yes, Alex; how about that?”

  Alex felt his face flush red. He felt resentful, as he had several times since yesterday, that Margot had placed him in this absurd position.

  As calmly as he could, he told Patterton of his guess last week that Margot might be involved, his decision that nothing would be gained by discussing the possibility with others. Alex explained that he still had not seen Margot since more than a week ago.

  “Nolan Wainwright had the same idea,” Alex added. “He told me earlier this morning. But Nolan kept quiet, too, because for both of us it was no more than an impression, a hunch, until the news item appeared.”

  “Someone will believe you, Alex,” Roscoe Heyward said. His tone and expression declared: I don’t.

  “Now, now, Roscoe!” Patter ton remonstrated mildly. “All right, Alex, I accept your explanation. Though I trust you’ll use your influence with Miss Bracken to see that in future she directs her artillery elsewhere.”

  Heyward added, “Or better still, not at all.”

  Ignoring the last remark, Alex told the bank president with a tight, grim smile, “You can count on that.”

  “Thank you.”

  Alex was certain he had heard Patterton’s last word on the subject and that their relationship could revert to normal, at least on the surface. As to what went on beneath the surface, he was less sure. Probably in the minds of Patterton and others—including some members of the board—Alex’s loyalty would, from now on, have an asterisk of doubt beside it. If not that, there could be reservations about Alex’s discretion in the company he kept.

  Either way, those doubts and reservations would be in the directors’ minds near the end of this year, as Jerome Patterton’s retirement neared, and the board reopened the subject of the bank presidency. And while directors were big men in some ways, in others, as Alex knew, they could be petty and prejudiced.

  Why? Why did it all have to happen now?

  His dark mood deepened while Margot regarded him, her eyes questioning, her expression still anxious and uncertain.

  She said more seriously than before, “I’ve caused you trouble. Quite a lot, I think. So let’s both stop pretending that I didn’t.”

  He was about to reassure her again, then changed his mind, knowing this was a time for honesty between them.

  “Another thing that has to be said,” Margot went on, “is we talked about this, knowing it might happen, wondering whether we could remain the kind of people we are—independent—yet stay together.”

  “Yes,” he told her, “I remember.”

  “The only thing is,” she said wryly, “I didn’t expect it all to come to a head so soon.”

  He reached for her, as he had done so often before, but she moved away from him and shook her head. “No, let’s settle this.”


  Without warning, he realized, and without either of them intending it, their relationship had reached a crisis.

  “It will happen again, Alex. Let’s not fool ourselves it won’t. Oh, not with the bank, but with other related things. And I want to be sure we can handle it whenever it does, and not just for one time only, hoping it will be the last.”

  He knew that what she had said was true. Margot’s life was one of confrontations; there would be many more. And while some would be remote from bis own interests, others would not.

  It was equally true, as Margot had pointed out, that they had spoken of this before—just a week and a half ago. But then the discussion had been in abstract, the choice less clear, not sharply defined as events of the past week had made it.

  “One thing you and I could do,” Margot said, “is call it quits now, while we’ve had fun, while we’re still ahead. No hard feelings either side; just a sensible conclusion. If we did that, stopped seeing each other and being seen together, word would travel quickly. It always does. And while it wouldn’t wipe out what happened at the bank, it could make things easier for you there.”

  That, too, was true, Alex knew. He had a swift temptation to accept the offer, to exorcise—cleanly and swiftly—a complication from his life, a complication likely to become greater, not less, as years went by. Again he wondered: Why did so many problems, pressures, come together—Celia worsening; Ben Rosselli’s death; the struggle at the bank; the undeserved harassment today. And now Margot and a choice. Why?

  The question reminded him of something which happened years before when he once visited the Canadian city of Vancouver. A young woman had jumped to her death from a 24th floor hotel room and, before jumping, scrawled in lipstick on the window glass, Why, oh why? Alex had never known her, or even learned later what were her problems which she believed beyond solution. But he had been staying on the same floor of the hotel and a talkative assistant manager had shown him the sad, lipsticked window. The memory always stayed with him.

  Why, oh why, do we make choices that we do? Or why does life make them? Why had he married Celia? Why had she become insane? Why did he still hold back from the catharsis of divorce? Why did Margot need to be an activist? Why would he consider losing Margot now? How much did he want to be president of FMA?