 The Wild Wild World of Wealth |  |
(Editor's Note: Has your stockbroker ever used the phrase "preservation of capital?" When I worked in wealth management, part of the job was to figure out what can go wrong in portfolios. And then to craft investment strategies that protected clients from the vagaries of the stock market.
Novelists are like wealth managers. We project worst case scenarios. We tell stories—instead of making investment decisions. We put heroes in jeopardy and hope they find a way out.
It seems to me that anticipating the impossible—Black Swan events—is a good exercise for anybody watching their money. I completed a novel in December of 2007 about a Ponzi scheme in the public markets. I had no idea my fiction would skirt the edges of Madoff and other scams that followed in the wake of his December 2008 revelations.
I invited Andrew McAllister to release the first chapter of his novel, Subprime, here on Acrimoney. He's examining what can happen to the technology behind our banks. Please tell Andrew if you think he's on to something. Or if you want to read more.)
Rob Donovan felt a surge of pure ambition as he pushed open the polished wooden door into the ninth floor office suite of Stan Dysart, President and CEO of the First Malden Bank. This was not a case of money lust, but more akin to what the early settlers must have experienced as they gazed in awe for the first time upon the vast expanse of the Great Plains. Walking into the understated elegance of this temple to financial achievement always gave Rob a sense of limitless possibilities, a feeling that he could accomplish anything if he was willing to bear down and put his mind to it.
With this thought quickening his step, he strode into the reception area to find the familiar figure of Mary sitting behind her desk.
“Oh good, you’re still here,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if my message would catch you before you left for the day.”
Rob flashed a grin at her. “How could I resist an invitation from a pretty lady like you?”
“Aren’t you full of it today,” Mary said, although Rob’s words brought a tiny smile to one corner of her mouth.
Rob was barely two years out of college and stood nearly six feet tall. He gelled his short, black hair so tufts of it stood up here and there. It wasn’t every day that someone so young and handsome waltzed into Mary’s office and started flirting with her. She flushed slightly as she picked up her phone receiver and punched a button.
“Rob is here,” she said.
Mary nodded to herself and put down the receiver. “He said you should―”
The inner door was yanked open from the other side and the head man himself stood framed in the opening. “Rob, come in.”
“Thanks Mary,” Rob said, and followed Dysart into his office.
“Sit down,” Dysart said as Rob closed the door behind them.
Two tan leather chairs and a matching love seat guarded three sides of a glass coffee table in one corner of the sumptuous office. A framed seascape hung on the wall over the love seat, complete with its own muted lighting. Dysart’s massive ebony desk was on the opposite side of the room in front of a row of plate glass windows, which offered an impressive view of the tumult of downtown Boston. Rob settled into one of the leather chairs.
Dysart hustled over and sat on the love seat. Even in crossing the room, Dysart’s trim body exuded a level of energy that would put most other fifty-five-year-olds in bed for the rest of the day. His salt-and-pepper gray hair was one of the few signs of his true age.
“I’m glad I caught you,” Dysart said. “I have a meeting with John Kelleher first thing tomorrow morning and I plan to talk to him about you.”
Rob raised one quizzical eyebrow. Kelleher was Rob’s boss, the bank’s Information Technology Director.
“What about?” Rob asked.
“You remember what we talked about a couple of years ago when I offered you a position at First Malden?”
“Sure.” Rob paused as he thought for a moment. “You told me there were plenty of opportunities and I should work hard and―”
“I said I’d take care of you, make sure you went places.”
Rob felt a thrill pass through his body. This was sounding better by the moment.
Dysart shifted forward so his elbows were on his knees. He looked at Rob with great intensity.
“What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential,” Dysart said.
“Of course.”
“You ever hear of Grantham Savings Bank?”
Rob nodded. “They’re in New Hampshire … and Vermont, I think.”
“Exactly. Eighteen branches spread across the two states. We’re in the early stages of determining whether we want to acquire Grantham and merge our operations. This is a critical step for us because there’s no place in today’s economy for a bank of our size. Our overhead costs are always going to be too high until we reach a critical mass. And I’ll tell you one of the biggest culprits.”
He pointed an index finger at Rob.
“Those computers you tinker with every day,” Dysart said. “Our customers are always screaming for more applications. First it was ATMs, then home banking. Now people want to pay their bills while they’re walking down the street. If we don’t provide this stuff, then our customers will take their dollars to another bank that does. But technology has little to do with making the bank work. You tell me―what’s our single most important success factor?”
Rob thought for a moment.
“We offer competitive rates,” he said, “and convenient locations so that …”
He trailed off when he saw Dysart shaking his head.
“It’s all about people,” Dysart said. “We treat big city Boston like a collection of small towns. Our branch managers and senior loans officers live in the areas they serve. They go to church with their potential customers. They take their kids to the same little league games and ballet lessons. So when a local retailer needs some cash to get ramped up for Christmas, who do they turn to? The people they know, that’s who. You remember that, son. You can have the hottest skills and offer the greatest products under the sun, but ninety-nine percent of business folks make decisions based on their comfort level. And there’s nothing more comfortable than dealing with people you know.”
Rob nodded gravely to show he had stored this nugget of advice away for all eternity.
“From what I’ve seen so far,” Dysart went on, “Grantham Savings works the same way. They like to be part of the community. But that’s not the only reason they’re a good fit for us. According to Kelleher they have strong technology products in the areas we’re lacking―like this mobility stuff he’s been going on about lately. So a merger is win-win for us. We end up with more revenue to support a single, centralized technology department. You with me so far?”
“Yes sir. Makes perfect sense.”
“Good, because you’re going to help assess the feasibility of the merger.”
Rob gaped at Dysart, too astonished to say anything.
“Obviously a critical part of the due diligence will be to determine how our systems fit with theirs,” Dysart said. “I’ll tell Kelleher I want you involved.”
“That’s incredible, obviously … but I don’t know much about mergers and feasibility studies.”
“Then this is the way to learn. You’ll be working with a group of more experienced people and we’ll carve out a role you can handle.”
A delighted smile spread across Rob’s face.
“Awesome,” he said.
“Besides, the knowledge you gain is not the most important part. I’m putting you face to face with some movers and shakers. Howard Siebold, for instance, the CEO at Grantham. By the time this merger is done, you won’t be able to count the number of meetings you’ve had with executive types like him.”
“Won’t they think it’s strange to have a young guy like me there?”
“You want to be a junior programmer all your life?”
“No, not really,” Rob said.
“I’ve had my eye on you ever since you and Lesley arrived in Boston to go to college,” Dysart said. “When I talked you into coming to work for me, it wasn’t just because you’re my favorite niece’s boyfriend. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and according to Kelleher your work has been outstanding. He tells me you have terrific people skills and you deliver when you say you will. So I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity to jump-start your career and this is it.”
Rob felt like jumping up and bouncing around the room. “That’s amazing. Thank you.”
Dysart made a waving gesture with his hand. “We’re going to be family someday, and if you’re going to take care of my Lesley, you darn well better do okay for yourself.”
Rob couldn’t help but chuckle. “What makes you think Lesley and I will end up getting married?”
“It’s only a matter of time. At least that’s what Sheila claims every time you and Lesley come for dinner. The two of you are no sooner out the door at the end of the night and she’s going on about the beautiful children you’re going to have.”
“Sounds like I don’t have any say in the matter.”
Dysart’s face grew serious again. “Now you have to realize, I can’t make success happen for you. I can only put you on the merger team. After that you’ve got to do your part, bring some value to the process.”
“I’ll do my absolute best,” Rob said. “I can promise you that.”
“I bet you already have some ideas about how to assess Grantham’s I.T. capabilities.”
Rob stared at the glass table while he thought for a few seconds.
“We’ll need an inventory of their computer applications,” he said, “as well as an up-to-date list of our own systems.”
He stood up and started pacing, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Heck, yeah,” Rob continued. “I bet we could put together a comparison chart that shows areas where we overlap and others where we―”
Rob stopped when he noticed Dysart shaking his head and grinning at him.
“What?” Rob said.
“I was right about you,” Dysart said. “You grab the world by the tail and yank hard, just like me.”
Rob tried to conceal a widening smile, but he couldn’t do it. He flashed back to the feeling he had when he walked into Dysart’s office and wondered if that was a premonition of impending good luck.
Rob had no idea how wrong he was on that score.
#
After watching Rob get on the elevator to head up to Dysart’s office, Tim Whitlock doubled back to Rob’s cubicle. He saw no one nearby so he stepped in and pulled a Ziploc bag from his pocket. The bag contained a shiny metal USB flash drive. Using the bag to make sure he didn’t leave any fingerprints, Tim opened the top drawer of Rob’s desk. He dropped the flash drive near the back of the drawer, where it nestled among a litter of pens, erasers, and push pins. He closed the drawer and exited the cubicle, relieved that no one saw him.
Tim joined the end-of-day crowd riding the elevator down from the office tower. The main branch of the First Malden Bank occupied the ground floor, conveniently close to the bank’s headquarters on floors four through nine above. When Tim reached the lobby, he turned left and walked into the branch.
Five people were waiting to use the bank machines. At a shade over six feet tall, Tim was one of the tallest in line, with straight sandy hair that was swept to one side. He tapped his leg nervously and tried not to think about what he was doing. His tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth.
He looked anxiously at his watch. Four-fifty-two. There was still time if the people ahead of him didn’t take too long. The hidden software examined Tim’s checking account every afternoon at five o’clock.
Another wave of acid roiled up from Tim’s stomach. He had been putting off doing this for the last four months. Every morning during that time he left his apartment intending to stop at a bank machine and transfer the magic amount into his checking account. Twelve dollars and thirty-four cents. One, two, three, four. A few buttons pushed on an ATM keypad and his life would change forever.
Every time he arrived at the bank, however, the inner voice spoke up: What if it doesn’t work?
Tim hated that voice.
What if you get caught?
So every day he walked past the bank machines in the lobby without stopping―and promised himself the next day would be different.
But now Tim could wait no longer. Earlier that afternoon he had been in a meeting in which Kelleher announced a new project. Their team would be working on a new release of the Account Management System, or AMS for short. Once the AMS upgrade began, someone might discover the surprise Tim had taken such risks to hide within the current version of the software.
Tim took a deep steadying breath and jammed his hands in his pockets to keep them from trembling. He dredged up the mental image he always used to remind himself why he was doing this. In his mind he saw the pain that became permanently etched on his father’s face the day the foreclosure notice arrived. He thought of the day not long after that when the two of them walked through their family’s home of thirty-eight years for the last time.
Eldon Whitlock had run his fingers down the doorway with the pencil marks that showed Tim’s height over the years. With tears streaming down his face, Eldon had gently touched the less faded paint in the shape of the cross that had hung in the hallway for what seemed like forever. Tim remembered the complete dejection that had settled on his father like a cloak of despair when they walked out the front door for the last time, the same door into which a much younger Eldon had joyfully carried Tim’s mother so many years before.
The smoldering anger arose once again within Tim. He swore yet again that he wouldn’t let his own lack of courage get in the way. More than that, he wasn’t about to lose his one chance to settle the score with his good buddy Rob Donovan, who had served as president of the Let’s-Screw-Tim Club ever since the two of them had gone to high school together.
No, today was the day.
When he finally got a machine, he had to try twice before he entered his PIN correctly. Then he chose to transfer. From savings to checking. One, two, three, four. He pressed the OK button.
The slip of paper seemed to take forever to pop out of the slot. He grabbed it and read the time printed on his receipt. Four-fifty-eight. He made it!
Tim suddenly felt lightheaded. He stowed his bank card in his wallet and hurried out to the Tremont Street sidewalk.
Standing to one side of the stream of people on their way home, Tim closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The elation he had expected did not come. He looked up at the office tower where he spent so many of his waking hours and tried to convince himself everything was going to be all right.
Thanks Lori – I appreciate your continued support!
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"The Gods of Greenwich is a pure delight, racing relentlessly from the bedrooms of Manhattan to the boardrooms of Connecticut to the banks of Iceland. Bravo!”
Great start, Andrew! Congrats on your accomplishment, friend.