The Moneychangers

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

  “Thank you.” He came in tentatively, as if even now he feared Juanita might change her mind.

  “Hullo,” Estela said, “are you my mommy’s friend?”

  For a moment Eastin seemed disconcerted, then he answered, “I wasn’t always. I wish I had been.”

  The small, dark-haired child regarded him. “What’s your name?”

  “Miles.”

  Estela giggled. “You’re a thin man.”

  “Yes, I know.”

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

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

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

  “Si, me dí cuenta. It shows.”

  Estela asked, “Have you come for dinner? It’s a pie mommy made.”

  He hesitated. “No.”

  Juanita said sharply, “Did you eat today?”

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

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

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

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

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

  Miles Eastin sighed as he pushed away his plate. He had left nothing on it. “Thank you. That was the best meal in quite some time.”

  Juanita asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Tomorrow I’ll start looking for a job.” He took a deep breath and seemed about to say something else, but she motioned him to wait.

  “Estelita, vamos, amorcito. Bedtime!”

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

  “Yes, very soon.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She put up her face to be kissed.

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

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

  Juanita shrugged. “What happened is gone. Does it matter now?”

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

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

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

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

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

  He said earnestly, “Juanita, I want to ask you something. Will you forgive me?”

  She looked at him.

  “And if you do, will you say it to me?”

  The silent laughter died; tears filled her eyes. That she could understand. She had been born a Catholic, and though nowadays she rarely bothered with church, she knew the solace of confession and absolution. She rose to her feet.

  “Miles,” Juanita said. “Stand up. Look at me.”

  He obeyed her, and she said gently, “Has sufrido bastante. Yes, I forgive you.”

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

  When Miles had composed himself, and they were seated again, Juanita spoke practically. “Where will you spend the night?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll find somewhere.”

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

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

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

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

  In the morning, through the closed bedroom door, she heard Miles stirring early. A half hour later, when she emerged from the bedroom, he had left.

  A note was propped up on the living-room table.

  Juanita—

  With all my heart, thank you!

  Miles

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

  2

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

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

  WE’LL PAY YOU TO BE THRIFTY

  AT FIRST MERCANTILE AMERICAN

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

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

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

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

  A reporter from the morning Times-Register, assigned to cover the new branch openings, dipped into that newspaper’s morgue in search of background and discovered Alex’s tenuous connection with the previous February’s pro-Forum East “bank-in.” Discussion with the features editor hatched the notion that Alex would make good copy for an expanded story. This proved true.

  When you think of modern bankers [the reporter later wrote] don’t think of solemn, cautious functionaries in traditional double-breasted, dark blue suits, pursing their lips and saying “no.” Think, instead, of Alexander Vandervoort.

  Mr. Vandervoort, who’s an executive veep at our own First Mercantile American Bank, to begin with doesn’t look like a banker. His suits are from the fashion section of Esquire, his mannerisms à la Johnny Carson, and when it comes to loans, especially small loans, he’s conditioned—with rare exceptions—to pronouncing “yes.” But he also believes in thrift and says most of us aren’t being as wise about money as our parents and grandparents.

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

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

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

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

  Alex and Ms. Peacock stood together in one of the new branch banks, located in a suburban shopping plaza. It was about equal in size to a neighborhood drugstore, brightly lighted, and pleasantly designed. The principal furnishings were two stainless-steel Ducotel automatic tellers, which customers operated themselves, and a closed-circuit television console in a booth. The auto-tellers, Alex explained, were linked directly to computers at FMA Headquarters.

  “Nowadays,” he went on, “the public is conditioned to expect service, which is why there’s a demand for banks to stay open longer, and at more convenient hours. Money shops like this one will be open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

  “With staff here all that time?” Ms. Peacock asked.

  “No. In daytime we’ll have a clerk on hand to handle queries. The rest of the time there’ll be no one except customers.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of robberies?”

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

  “It looks,” Ms. Peacock pointed out, “as if some have adapted already.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Those studies I mentioned tell us it’s because of privacy.”

  There really is privacy [Jill Peacock acknowledged in her by-lined, Sunday edition feature story], and not just with those Frankenstein-monster tellers.

  Sitting alone in a booth in the same money shop, facing a combination TV camera and screen, I opened an account and then negotiated a loan.

  Other times I’ve borrowed money from a bank I felt embarrassed. This time I didn’t because the face in front of me on the screen was impersonal. The owner of it—a disembodied male whose name I didn’t know—was miles away.

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

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

  “Technologically, we’re developing more swiftly than aerospace. What you’re seeing here is the most important development since introduction of the checking account and, within ten years or less, most banking will be done this way.”

  “Will there still be some human tellers?”

  “For a while, but the breed will disappear quickly. Quite soon, the notion of having an individual count out cash by hand, then pass it over a counter will be antediluvian—as outmoded as the old-fashioned grocer who used to weigh out sugar, peas, and butter, then put them into paper bags himself.”

  “It’s all rather sad,” Ms. Peacock said.

  “Progress often is.”

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

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

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

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

  Alex was still glowing while they ate. Margot read the Times-Register story herself and conceded, “It’s not a bad piece.” She leaned over and kissed him. “I’m glad for you.”

  “It’s better publicity than the last you got me, Bracken.”

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

  He sighed. “You’re so often right.”

  But this time she was wrong.

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

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

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