So much for a peaceful start to the new work week. I paused mid-sentence in reading the latest story on the Euro Bandits, dropped the newspaper next to my keyboard and high-tailed it into Eric’s office.
The Euro Bandits – as dubbed by the press – had struck again. The prior week’s robberies in the Belgian city of Bruges their 8th bank heist across Europe over the past 16 months. On this occasion, four separate branches all hit simultaneously. And all in the same fashion: A bank employee’s home invaded the night before, and the family held hostage. The employee forced to shepherd one of the assailants into the branch the next morning, the vault quickly emptied and the robbers melting away long before opening time. Interpol was at a loss for leads, none of the descriptions of the masked men ever seemed to tally, and none of the stolen bills resurfacing. And by using voice distortion technology, even detecting an accent became an impossibility, the only similarity being they each spoke English.
Eric Mullane reclined in his office chair, propped his feet on the corner of his desk, and plucked a cricket ball from its display stand on the credenza. He studied the signature for a moment – a recently retired Australian cricketer – then began tossing it gently overhand into the air.
About the bank robberies in Europe. The group struck again last week. In Belgium, this time.
Bloody amazing, they haven’t caught them yet. Usually, it’s the cops being able to trace serial numbers that does them in.
I was wondering about that. How come you think none of the cash has shown up?
Got to be some serious professionals laundering it for them. Still, though, bloody dinosaurs in today’s age.
I sat on the other side of the desk watching the flight of the ball. Each throw reached the top of its arc centimetres from the ceiling tile before dropping back into his open palm.
Eric caught the ball, dropped his feet to the floor and sat forward.
Eric was concentrating on the seam of the cricket ball, turning it over and over in his hand.
The question caught me by surprise.
How do you mean?
You’re doing wire transfers, right?
Sure.
And how much in total are you moving about each day?
It varied, but it could be as much as $2 million. And I was just one of five assistants. Eric didn’t wait for my answer.
Eric’s feet were back on the edge of the desk, and the cricket ball recommenced its skyward adventures.
His rhetorical question aimed more towards the cricket ball than me.
I edged forward on my seat, pen poised over the page. The history lesson was over.
Today, was the much anticipated “talk”. Eric’s promised lecture on how the business of banking worked in the real world.
He wiggled his fingers either side of his head, shaped like rabbit ears, to make his point.
I nodded my head and wrote How to be a Dick at the top of the page.
Eric continued talking to the ceiling, assuming I furiously transcribed his every word. His introduction to banking wasn’t shaping up as anything like the college course of the same name.
He must have guessed there was a question forming in my mind and cut me off before I could utter the first syllable.
Every few minutes I nodded my head in acknowledgement, just in case he glanced my way, but Eric was safely ensconced in the cosy cocoon making up the wonderful world of Eric. He was basking in “Eric land” – where it was all Eric, and nothing but Eric, all day long.
Eric dropped his feet to the floor, sat up straighter, leant forward and placed his elbows on the desk. He steepled his hands in front of his face, rubbed the sides of his chin with his thumbs for a moment then pointed directly at me with both index fingers. I almost threw up my hands in surrender. The cricket ball rolled across the desk’s surface before coming to a stop next to his appointment book. The image of the kookaburra on the side of the ball stared up at me as if to say, do you believe this bullshit?
You make a small percentage with new deposits each month. If you don’t continue to add to a client’s net worth, you don’t make shit. So, if you’re going to take on a client you better make sure they don’t give you everything at once. Ask for just a small amount, to gain their trust. Makes it easier for them to trust you. Unless, of course, you’re going to be actively trading them. Then go for the kill.
I have a question.
Shoot.
But aren’t the balances good for the bank?
Sure. But are you in this to make Lewis happy or yourself?
I didn’t know I’d asked an “either/or” question but kept my mouth shut.
Okay. Go on.
Trading is where the big money is at. And here’s where you can make both you and Lewis happy. We, meaning the bank, will occasionally have a stake in an initial stock offering. You know what that is, right?
Sure. Taking a private company public.
Good. You sell those shares with all your heart to everybody you have in your book. You know why?
I was about to attempt an answer, but Eric was in full swing.
I remembered back to my training and then further back to an ethics course at La Trobe. Clients should be profiled on a regular basis to determine their investment goals and suitability to particular types of investments and strategies.
The look I received made me feel like a pitiful zoo exhibit, and a class of fifth graders were parading past my cage.
Eric closed his eyes and slowly shook his head in wonderment before continuing.
This answer I knew.
One million dollars. Six in total if you include loan balances.
Correct. Well… We help out some of our corporate clients on the rare occasion with their charity projects. But to your point, you think these people made their money by being morons?
I assumed not. Although the passing of wealth from one family member to another through inheritance usually didn’t necessitate an IQ examination. I kept my thoughts to myself.
Eric continued. He explained the amount of basis points bankers earned for a particular type of trade – 100 basis points equalled 1%, which increased if you hit certain break-even levels in trade value. Loans brought in another range of basis points. And on and on it went. As the percentages garnered for each level of trading activity spilt from his lips, the more animated he became.
Small amounts of spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth. And if I wasn’t mistaken, even his blue eyes begun to sparkle with accents of fiery red.
I lowered my eyes from the fires of hell, stared at my notes, and asked:
As quick as a flash came the answer as if admonishing a recalcitrant child.
His right hand shot across the desk with his index finger pointed directly at me. Before he spat out point number one, I was already bracing for the two-fingered salute.
Eric rocked back in his chair and let out a hearty laugh. It was a joke I’d heard on numerous occasions, but my well of courtesy laughter had run dry.
With that, Professor Mullane’s lecture concluded and I’d a pretty clear picture of where this was leading. I stood at the precipice of full indoctrination into the world of the ethically challenged. The large mahogany doors stood before me. All I needed to do was push through to join their cosy club. A full-fledged member of the club hated by 99% of the population. Yet, here was I, still only making the income of the bottom 50%. The message was clear, either get tough and start earning the money that goes with the scorn or jump off the rampaging bull and try not to get trampled in the process.
I closed my notebook and looked up to meet Eric’s intense gaze. A slight sheen of sweat dotted his brow. Just talking about making money got his adrenaline pumping.
I hadn’t realised how much Eric’s manic energy charged our meeting until I opened his office door and felt an appreciable difference in temperature in the outer office area. However, my hopes for a peaceful few minutes alone to gather my thoughts were short-lived.
Mary sat slumped over her desk in tears while Doug patted her shoulder with one hand and handed her Kleenex with the other.
The sight of Lenny Mansfield, arms folded, standing in the doorway of Meredith’s office told me all I needed to know. The top-ranked banker at Southern Cross B&T had somehow fallen afoul of Thom Lewis. But why? Her production was impeccable, and I couldn’t imagine it being an ethics issue – Meredith was as straight as an arrow in flight. Perhaps Mary would know.
Stupid question. Clearly, she wasn’t. But how else to lead into the obvious.
Mary’s reply matched my level of obviousness. Streaks of black mascara ran down her face. The Kleenex, wets with tears, turned her cheeks into two black oval smudges.
Doug filled in the blanks as Mary broke into another round of shoulder wrenching sobs.
She was fired for insubordination.
Meredith?
This was hard to believe.
Doug lowered his voice and turned away from Lenny Mansfield.
Doug abruptly stopped, his eyes left mine and lifted to a point over my left shoulder. I turned to see Meredith leaving her office, her arms filled with a small cardboard box filled with personal items.
Mary jumped from her chair, pushed past Doug and I, and clasped Meredith in a fierce bear hug.
The dark spectre of Lenny Mansfield loomed over Meredith, and a hand in the small of her back propelled her forward. Mary pulled away from Meredith and meekly waved goodbye. The black stain left by Mary’s mascara on Meredith’s cream blouse looked like a mortal wound.
Mary rushed to the bathroom. Doug and I stared at the floor, silent, shaken, attempting to put our thoughts into words but coming up empty.
Making one of his rare visits downstairs, Mack Stephens stood with hands on hips and stared at the two of us. I was probably mistaken but it appeared as if he was trying to contain a small smile from leaking out the corners of his mouth.