The Moneychangers (20 page)

Savings, Alex argued, was only one of several areas where FMA interests could be dramatically advanced.

Still moving restlessly as he spoke, he ranged through other bank departments, describing changes he proposed. Most had been in a report, prepared by Alex Vandervoort at Ben's request a few weeks before the bank president's announcement of his impending death. In the pressure of events it had remained, so far as Alex knew, unread.

One recommendation was to open nine new branches in suburban areas through the state. Another was for a drastic overhaul of FMA organization. Alex proposed to hire a specialist consulting firm to advise on needed changes and he advised the board, "Our efficiency is lower than it should be. The machinery is creaking."

Near the end he returned to his original theme. "Our banking relationship with industry should, of course, continue to be close. Industrial loans and commercial business will remain pillars of our activity. But not the only pillars. Nor should they be overwhelmingly the largest. Nor should we be so preoccupied with bigness that the importance of small accounts, including those of individuals, becomes diminished in our minds.

"The founder of this bank established it to serve those of modest means to whom other banking facilities were denied. Inevitably, the bank's purpose and operations have broadened across a century, yet neither the founder's son nor grandson ever lost sight of those origins or ignored the precept that smallness multiplied can represent the greatest strength of all.

"A massive and immediate growth in small savings, which I urge the board to set as an objective, will honor those origins, enhance our fiscal strength and in the climate of the times advance the public good, which is our own." As they had for Heyward, board members applauded
as Alex sat down. Some of the applause was merely polite, Alex realized; perhaps half of the directors seemed more enthusiastic. He guessed that the choice between Heyward and himself could still go either way.

"Thank you, Alex." Jerome Patterton glanced around the table. "Questions, gentlemen?"

The questioning occupied another half hour, after which Roscoe Heyward and Alex Vandervoort left the boardroom together. Each returned to his office to await the board's decision.

The directors debated through the remainder of the morning but failed to reach agreement. They then adjourned to a private dining room for lunch, their discussion continuing over the meal. The outcome of the meeting was still inconclusive when a dining-room steward quietly approached Jerome Patterton, carrying a small silver tray. On it was a single sheet of paper, folded.

The vice-chairman accepted the paper, unfolded and read it. After a pause he rose to his feet and waited while conversation around the luncheon table quietened.

"Gentlemen." Patterton's voice quavered. "I grieve to inform you that our beloved president, Ben Rosselli, died a few minutes ago."

Soon after, by mutual consent and without further discussion, the board meeting was abandoned.

The death of Ben Rosselli attracted international press coverage and some news writers, reaching for the nearest cliche, labeled it "an era's end."

Whether it was, or wasn't, his departure signaled that the last major American bank to be identified with a single entrepreneur had moved into mid-twentieth century conformation, with com
mittee and hired management contr
ol. As to who would head the hired management, that decision had been postponed until after the Rosselli funeral when the bank's board of directors would convene again.

The funeral took place on Wednesday in the second week of December.

Both the funeral and a lying-in-state which preceded it were garnished with the full rites and panoply of the Catholic Church, suitable to a papal knight and large cash benefactor which Ben Rosselli was.

The two-day l
ying-in-state was at St. Matthew's Cathedral, appropriate since Matthew once Levi the tax collector is considered by bankers as a patron saint. Some two thousand people, including a presidential representative, the state governor, ambassadors, civic leaders, bank employees and many humbler souls, filed past the bier and open casket.

On the morning of burial taking no chances an archbishop, a bishop, and a monsignor concelebrated a Mass of the Resurrection. A full choir intoned responses to prayers with reassuring volume. Within the cathedral, which was filled, a section near the altar had been reserved for Rosselli relatives and friends. Immediately behind were directors and senior officers of First Mercantile American Bank.

Roscoe Heyward, dressed somberly in black, was in the first row of bank mourners, accompanied by his wife Beatrice, an imperious, sturdy woman, and their son, Elmer. Heyward, an Episcopalian, had studied the correct Catholic procedures in advance and genuflected elegantly, both before seating himself and on departure later the last a piece of punctilio which many Catholics ignored. The Heywards also knew the Mass responses so that their voices dominated others nearby who didn't. Alex Vandervoort, wea
ring charcoal gray and seated
two rows behind the Heywards, was among the non-responders. An agnostic, he felt out of place in these surroundings, He wondered how Ben, essentially a simple man, would have regarded this ornate ceremony.

Beside Alex, Margot Bracken looked around her with curiosity. Originally Margot had planned to attend the funeral with a group from Forum East, but last night she had stayed at Alex's apartment and he persuaded her to accompany him today. The Forum East delegation a large one was somewhere behind them in the church.

Next to Margot were Edwina and Lewis D'Orsey, the latter looking gaunt and starved as usual and frankly bored. Probably, Alex thought, Lewis was mentally drafting the next edition of his investment newsletter. The D'Orseys had ridden here with Margot and Alex the four of them were often together, not just because Edwina and Margot were cousins, but because they found each other's company agreeable. After the Mass of the Resurrection they would all go to the graveside service.

In the row ahead of Alex were Jerome Patterton, the vice-chairman, and his wife.

Despite his detachment from the liturgy, Alex found tears spring to his eyes as the coffin passed by and was carried from the church. His feeling for Ben, he had realized over the past few days, was close to love. In some ways the old man had been a father figure; his death left a gap in Alex's life which would not be filled. Margot reached gently for his hand and held it.

As mourners began filing out he saw Roscoe and Beatrice Heyward glance their way. Alex nodded and the greeting was returned. Heyward's face softened in an acknowledgment of mutual grief, their feud in recognition of their own, as well as Ben's mortality for this brief moment put aside.

Outside the cathedral, regular traffic had been diverted. The coffin was already in a flower-laden hearse. Now, relatives and bank officials were-getting into limousines being brought up under police direction. A police motorcycle escort, engines running noisily, was at the he
ad of the assembling cortege.

The day was gray and cold with eddies of wind raising dust whorls in the street. High above, the cathedral towers loomed, the whole facade immense and blackened by the grime of years. Snow had been forecast earlier but so far had not appeared.

While Alex signaled for his car, Lewis D'Orsey peered over his half-moon glasses at TV and still cameramen, shooting pictures of the emerging mourners. He observed, "If I find all this depressing, and I do, the reports should Depress FMA stock even more tomorrow."

Alex murmured uneasy agreement. Like Lewis, he was aware that First Mercantile American shares, listed on the New York Stock Exchange, had fallen five and a half points since news of Ben's illness. The death of the last Rosselli a name which for generations ha
d been synonymous with the bank
coupled with uncertainty about the course of future management, had caused the most recent drop. Now, even though illogically, publicity about the funeral could depress the stock still further.

"Our stock will go up again," Alex said. "earnings are good and nothing's really changed."

"Oh, I know that," Lewis~agreed. "It's why I'll cover my short position tomorrow afternoon." Edwina looked shocked. "You shorted
FMA?”

"Sure did. Advised a few clients to do the same. As of right now there's a tidy profit."

She protested, "You and I know I never discuss anything confidential with you, Lewis. Others don't. Because of my connection with the bank you could be accused of insider trading."

Alex shook his head. "Not in this case, Edwina
,
Ben's illness was public knowledge."

'W
hen we eventually make over the capitalist system," Margot said, "selling short on the stock market will be one of the first things to go." Lewis raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Because it's totally negative. Short selling is: disruptive speculation that requires someone else to lose. It's ghoulish and a non-contribution. It creates no
thing." "It creates a handy
capital gain." Lewis grinned

broadly; he had crossed arguments with Margot many times before. "And that isn't easy to come by nowadays, at least with American investments."

"I still don't like you doing it with FMA stock,', Edwina said. "It's too close to home."

Lewis D'Orsey looked at his wife gravely. "In that case, my dear, after I've covered my shorts tomorrow I will never trade in FMA again." Margot glanced over sharply. "You know he means it," Alex said.

Alex wondered sometimes about the relationship between Edwina and her husband. Outwardly they seemed ill-matched Edwina elegantly attractive and self-possessed; Lewis, scrawny, unimpressive physically, an introvert except with those he knew well, though the personal reticence never showed in his roaring-lion financial newsletter. But their marriage appeared to work well, and each showed respect and affection for the other, as Lewis had just now. Perhaps, Alex thought, it proved that not only did opposites attract; they tended to stay married.

Alex's Cadillac from the bank car pool moved into the lengthening line outside the cathedral and the four of them walked toward it.

"It would have been a more civilized promise," Margot said, "if Lewis agreed not to sell anything short."

"Alex," Lewis said, "what the hell do you have in common with this socialist broad?"

"We're great i
n the sack," Margot told him. 'I
sn't that enough?" Alex said, "And I'd like to marry her soon."

Edwina responded warmly, "Then I hope you will." She and Margot had been close since childhood, despite occasional dashes of temperament and outlook. Something they had in common was that in both branches of their family women were strong, with a tradition of involvement in public life. Edwina asked Alex quietly, "Anything new with Celia?"

He shook his head. "Nothing's changed. If anything, Celia's worse." They were at the car. Alex motioned the chauffeur to remain seated, then opened a rear door for the others and followed them in. Inside, the glass panel separating the driver from the passenger seats was closed. They settled down while the still assembling cortege inched forward.

For Alex, the mention of Celia sharpened the sadness of this moment; it also reminded him guiltily that he should visit her again soon. Since the session at the Remedial Center in early October which had so depressed him, he had paid one other call, but Celia had been even more withdrawn, gave not the slightest sign of recognition, and wept silently the entire time. He remained dejected for days afterward and dreaded a repeat performance.

The thought occurred now that Ben Rossel
li, in the coffin up ahead, was
better off than Celia because his life had ended conclusively. If only Celia would die… Alex quelled the thought with shame.

Nor had anything new developed between himself and Margot, who remained adamantly opposed to a divorce, at least until it became clear that Celia would be unaffected. Margot seemed willing to go on indefinitely with the arrangement they had. Alex was less resigned.

Lewis addressed Edwina. "I've been meaning to ask what the latest is about that young assistant of yours. The one who got caught with his arm in the cash drawer. What was his name?"

"Miles E
astin," Edwina answered. "He appears in criminal court next week and I have to be a witness. I'm not looking forward to it."

"At least you got the blame where it should be," Alex said. He had read the audit chief's report about the embezzlement and cash loss; also that of Nolan Wainwright. "What about the teller who was involve
d Mrs. Nun
ez? Is she okay?"

"She seems to be. I'm afraid we gave Juanita a hard time. Unjustly, as it turned out."

Margot, only half listening, now, sharpened her attention. "I know a Juanita Nunez. Nice young woman who lives at Forum East. I believe her husband left her. She has a child."

"That sounds like our Mrs. Nunez," Edwina said. "Yes, I remember now. She does live at Forum East."

Though Margot was curious, she sensed it was not a time for further questions.

As they sat, briefly silent, Edwina pursued her thoughts. The two recent events Ben Rosselli's death and Miles Eastin's foolish wrecking of his life had come too close together. Both, involving people whom she liked, had saddened her.