The head offices of Southern Cross Bank and Trust squeezed snugly between an auction house to its right and the sloping entrance for an aboveground parking garage to the left. For a prestigious Private bank tallying over $900 million in deposits, the Wallace Avenue address – 100 metres north of Toorak Road – may have seemed an ignominious location; however, for the chief executive officer, Thom Lewis, it was perfect. Whereas the major financial institutions of Australia held court from their Collins Street high-rises, he preferred the suburbs; albeit, one of the wealthiest in Melbourne – Toorak.
When explaining why he’d chosen the location, he’d half-jokingly told a financial magazine reporter that he didn’t want his customers to have to travel too far to visit their money. It wasn’t far from the truth. And being out of the financial spotlight also provided the anonymity he craved. Thom Lewis was about making money, not headlines. A refreshing perspective, he believed, in this age of vapid personalities lacking any original ideas or purpose in life.
The polished marble and smoked-glass structure comprised two floors. The first, housed offices for the five bankers on staff and their five assistants. Gloria, the receptionist-cum-gatekeeper patrolled the outer lobby, accepting deposits, writing receipts and admitting clients by appointment only. It was rumoured that if Gloria ever replaced St Peter at the pearly gates, her efficiency in limiting access would curtail heaven’s membership numbers dramatically.
The second floor was the domain of Lewis and a few trusted comrades. Among them, his Operations Executive, Mack Stephens, and Head of Security, Lenny Mansfield. A dozen or so other minor clerical staff made up the total employ of Southern Cross B&T. Outsourcing accounted for all remaining staffing and support needs.
As majority owner, and being a private company, Lewis was free from the public’s harsh glare; however, when unable to avoid the pinch of the worldwide economic crisis of 2008, he was forced to accept a cash infusion from a private Spanish Bank to remain solvent. The financial storm clouds cleared in time, but the remaining repayment of $10 million dollars still rankled Lewis. The sooner it could be repaid, the more at ease he would feel. He was not one to begrudge a favour, but it was high time to get the Spaniards out of his wavy brown hair for good.
On this Friday morning, Lewis sat behind his glass-topped desk and surveyed the three large computer screens spread before him. He kept the Venetian blinds closed to block out all light; only the soft greenish glow from the screens illuminated the office. On one, overnight summaries of the American markets. Another, alternated between the Asian and European exchanges. The third, dedicated to the Australian market and corporate research.
A knock on his door disrupted his focus.
Yeah.
Hey, boss. I’ve got those reports you wanted to see.
Mack Stephens, portly, bald and with a head full of teeth stolen from a racehorse, entered the office and placed a sheath of papers on the edge of the desk. Stephens, with Lewis for over 10 years, was the enigmatic CEO’s right-hand man.
The reports he placed on the desk were the lifeblood of the bank – weekly summaries of their bankers’ performance. Whereas Lewis could follow markets and suggest trends to his minions, it was the five bankers he employed who made or broke the bank. It was their job to grow the customer base, recommend market positions and sell, sell, sell. If a stock increased in value, he expected them to be tearing up the phones leveraging one success with the recommendation of another. If the price fell, all the better to seize upon the opportunity to buy at a discount and reduce the investor’s overall average share price. His bankers could either make the sale or find another institution more their speed. And Mack Stephens was the man entrusted to crack the whip.
Lewis took a cursory glance at the top page of the report.
So, we have three new assistants starting next week. That puts us two over complement. Who’s getting the arse?
Samuels has been our lowest producing banker for six straight months; he’ll be the first.
Six months? Jesus Christ, Mack. About bloody time.
Well, we needed to get his assistant up to speed first. She’s now fully trained and ready to roll. Next up is Mathews.
Mathews? The cute redhead, right? What’s wrong with her? Her numbers look solid.
Mack liked to wander as he talked. His stroll around the office led him to the closed Venetian blinds. He parted two and a streak of sunlight scythed through the room.
Axiom Tech was a small communications company with, at the time, a seemingly solid business plan, ground breaking technology, and a desire to go public. Southern Cross bid for and won, a minority portion of the initial public offering allowing them to underwrite and then sell 10% of the Axiom Tech stock. A month after going public Axiom discovered a much larger competitor in China pirating their proprietary technology. Pursuing legal action would be costly and could potentially take years to resolve. And with the initial stock price inflated, in large part, due to the proprietary technology, Axiom’s stock price would only continue to fall.
So, she knows better than us?
Well, I guess. But that isn’t the point. A few rich bitches can afford to lose a few hundred thousand. We’re still on the hook for close to three million.
Yeah, I agree. Get her gone and get me someone who can follow directions. Who are the new folks?
Lewis flicked through the file and perused the three résumés of the new hires.
Mack filled in the details.
Three recent grads, two from Monash and one from La Trobe. None from a privileged background, all hungry for a job and none with grades that would set a pup tent on fire let alone the world.
What’s up with this guy?
Lewis pointed out the résumé of a Craig Walters from Alphington.
He’s 23 already? What, did he fail a couple of years?
No. He dropped out to play tennis for a year or so. The word is he was pretty good as a junior but couldn’t cut it on the circuit.
And you think he can cut it here?
We’ll see, I’m hoping the competitive side of him kicks in.
Well, at least I’ll have a decent doubles partner at the company barbeque, if he lasts that long. Wanna make a bet?
Nah, boss. I’d never bet against you. Anyway, orientation, followed by a meet and greet is Monday. Can I count on you making a brief appearance to titillate the fresh meat?
Mack didn’t expect a reply, Thom Lewis brusquely turning his attention back to his computer screens, lost in the greenish glow of data streams passing before his eyes. He recognised Thom wasn’t the touchy-feely type; the employees just a means to an end. Though Mack sometimes wondered if he also merely fit that “employee” description.
***
Monday, January 18, my first day as a banker arrived all too quickly. I stared up at the marble and glass façade of the two-story building and took a deep breath. Above the second-floor windows, the name Southern Cross Bank and Trust was circumspectly displayed. It was 8:55 and my first day in the corporate world was about to begin. Not trusting Melbourne’s trams, and not knowing where to park, I’d left the Beast a few blocks away in a grocery store parking lot. I assumed parking details, amongst other useful slices of information, would be covered in the day’s orientation course.
At the stroke of nine, I climbed the steps to the front doors just as a middle-aged lady bent to unlock them from inside. I smoothed down the sleeves of my new suit – thank goodness for a 50% off sale at Myers – and thought I looked pretty sharp. I entered the foyer and tugged at the collar of my shirt; the starched material already chafing my neck. My tie sat slightly askew, the knot a poor effort at a half-Windsor, though not too bad for someone with limited practice.
The nameplate at the reception desk read: Gloria Moustakis. I stepped up to the curved, almost chest high counter-top and asked for directions.
Hi, Gloria. My name is Craig Walters, and I’m here for orientation.
Are you now? First thing you need to learn, it is Ms Moustakis to you. Only the CEO, Mr Lewis, calls me Gloria. And you don’t run the bank just yet.
Ah, sorry… umm.
Oh, stop bloody stammering.
Gloria searched around on her desk, for what I didn’t know, all the while mumbling something incoherent under her breath. If I was to hazard a guess, it had something to do with my pedigree and the overall declining standards of society.
Here it is. One of three new recruits starting today, oh what a glorious day. Walters, you said?
Yes, Glor… ah, Ms…
Oh, just move along, would you? Conference room A, on the second floor. Think you can find the lifts on your own?
I managed to avoid getting any of the dripping sarcasm on my new suit and strode towards the lift.
Once upstairs I found the conference room without any trouble. Two other new recruits soon joined, and we sat together at one of the three Formica topped tables. A large, totally blank, whiteboard stared back at us. The walls were also devoid of any adornments. Just a projector mounted in the ceiling, and a telephone on a small podium towards the front of the room belied the stark surroundings.
Mary Chin and Doug Dancevic, I discovered, were recent graduates of Monash University. We chatted amicably about the weather, music and running the gauntlet named Ms Moustakis. Inconsequential small talk to calm our nerves. Just as we began to relax, the door flew open. And with a flourish, a large, bald man with the whitest and most prominent teeth I’ve ever seen entered the room.
Without any preamble, he launched into his presentation.
We three all stared goggle-eyed at the man and his teeth. After his opening spray, none of us were willing to utter a word, not to mention mesmerised by his dazzling set of choppers.
For the next three hours, we filled out paperwork, were assigned login credentials to be committed to memory, then filled out more forms for State licensing requirements. Enough to make our collective heads spin.
At 12:30, we were permitted to leave for a 30-minute lunch. I imagined Ms Moustakis and “Choppers” taking bets on which of us wouldn’t return. Other than the fact I really needed the money, I too would have taken the odds on me not returning.
However, we three bonded together over lunch which helped to quell the nerves and were back at the stroke of 1:00 to see what further surprises were in store.
For the afternoon session, we relocated to conference room B, where training materials and computer terminals lay in wait. I couldn’t help but feel we’d passed a small rite of passage. A steady stream of videos and web-based training on bank policy, privacy laws, money laundering, and on and on, followed for the next four hours, broken only by the appearance of Mr Lewis.
Thom Lewis, chief executive officer and founder of Southern Cross B&T, appeared to be in his mid to late fifties; tall, well built, a man who looked after himself. His tanned face showed little signs of ageing, apart from prominent crow’s feet branching out from the corners of his hazel eyes. His brusque demeanour suggested they had little to do with a humorous streak. A head full of thick wavy hair fell boyishly close to his right eye and over his collar. The few streaks of grey scattered here and there looked more by design than natural.
He spoke passionately for exactly 15 minutes of his origins. How he started the bank with a “small” million-dollar investment borrowed from an uncle. And how he, seemingly with little help, built it into a billion-dollar company over the course of the next 20 years. Next, his vision of where he wanted the bank to be five years, ten years, from now. It was stirring stuff, yet I couldn’t help wonder why he spoke to the walls and never once looked in our direction.
At 5:00 Choppers set us free. In a muddled daze and eyes big as saucers, I made my way back to the Beast. The parking ticket lurking under the windscreen wiper was the perfect topper for the day. A fitting welcome to the corporate world.
I folded my jacket and placed it on the passenger seat, then crumpled the ticket into a ball and tossed it onto the back seat. Thankfully, the Beast started on the first attempt. I loosened my tie, watched a young Mother try to corral three young kids into the back of her luxury SUV and waited for the air-conditioning to cool off the interior. On the radio, a Boy and Bear song faded into the news, and the announcer hit the highlights of the day’s tennis.
That first round matches at the Australian Open began today had totally slipped my mind.
I managed to catch up with Blake over the weekend and, as predicted, he was full of juicy stories. The most entertaining – he assured me it was true – being about an incredibly famous female Russian star worried about failing a drug test. How could he possibly know that?
With the interior of the Beast as comfortable as she was ever going to get, I headed north towards Kew for a visit with Mum. Perhaps an hour spent talking to her about my first day on the job would ease some of the accumulated stress. If that didn’t work, I’d go for a short run then follow it up with a few beers and dinner at the Yarra Hotel.
On second thoughts, I could probably skip the run.