At first Mercantile American 2 страница

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

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

…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More simple was:

Recommended mix of currencies:

Swiss Francs 40%

Dutch Guilders 25%

Deutsche marks 20%

Canadian Dollars 10%

Austrian Schillings 5%

- U.S. Dollars 0%

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elsewhere, his parolee status had eliminated possibilities even faster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would I be employed by the bank?"

"Absolutely no."

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

"we never even heard of you."

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

"But you've influence to bend them."

Wainwright considered before answering. He thought:

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

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

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

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

Wainwright looked incredulous. "The teller who you…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14