The Moneychangers

  “I believe you’re one of my subscribers,” Lewis said.

  “Yes-through the bank.”

  “Here’s a copy of my new issue. Take it, even though you’ll get yours in the mail on Monday.”

  “Thank you.” Alex accepted the pale blue lithographed sheet—four quarto-size pages when folded, and unimpressive in appearance. The original had been closely typewritten, then photographed and reduced. But what the newsletter lacked in visual style, it made up in monetary value. It was Lewis’s boast that those who followed his advice could increase whatever capital they had by a quarter to a half in any given year, and in some years double or triple it.

  “What’s your secret?” Alex said. “How is it you’re so often right?”

  “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. A 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 bust, 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%

  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.

  4

  “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 Nolan Wainwright’s private office. They were sharply in contrast: the stern, black, handsome bank vice-president of security, and Eastin, the ex-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 bro
ught 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 Núñez 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 happen!” 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 ex-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 been as 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! We can’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 Ominsky 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 he had 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 th
e 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 talking.

  Four 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.