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.
Double the fees! That’s why!
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.
But what about our customer’s risk adversity and suitability?
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.
Listen. We only deal with millionaires here. What’s the minimum deposit to have an account with us?
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.
Assume they’re all smarter than you and if you can sell them on an investment idea, well, it’s on them, right?
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.
So, have you got it now? Fees, mate! Fees generated from trading is where it’s at, and how you make it rich in this business. Oh yeah, and networking. Shit! Once you have one big trade pop for a client they’ll be bragging to everyone about how smart THEY are. And, by extension, you. Their doctor, their lawyer, their fucking psychiatrist, will all be climbing over each other to get a piece of the action.
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:
And if we lose their money?
As quick as a flash came the answer as if admonishing a recalcitrant child.
One…
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.
… One, they’ll be too embarrassed to tell anyone. And two, you need to take charge of the situation and double down with another stock before they try and pin it on you. The meek may – if you believe in that shit – inherit the earth, but they still need us to grow their capital.
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 think I’ve got it. Let me read back over my notes, and I’ll let you know if I have any questions.
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.
Mary? You okay?
Stupid question. Clearly, she wasn’t. But how else to lead into the obvious.
Meredith… has… been… let… go.
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.
Failing to follow directions from a superior. They didn’t give her any further details.
Doug lowered his voice and turned away from Lenny Mansfield.
They’re probably worried about a lawsuit. You can’t—
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.
Goodbye, Mary. It’s been nice working with you. Keep in touch, okay?
Mary jumped from her chair, pushed past Doug and I, and clasped Meredith in a fierce bear hug.
Okay, that’ll be enough. Let’s move it.
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.
Don’t you two have something to do?
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.
Dublin, Ireland
October 24, 2014
Eamonn Mahoney sipped his coffee as the final boarding call for the 2:30 ferry to Holyhead screeched from the intercom. With the loading of vehicles completed 30 minutes earlier, it just remained for the last few stragglers to make their way on-board the Jonathan Swift.
While he waited, he skimmed the day’s Irish Times. News of his team’s adventures had not yet hit the headlines, but these days, banks making headlines were never far from the front pages. He’d read recently; BNP Paribas had agreed to a $9 billion fine for their part in the 2008 financial crisis which rocked the world’s economies. The article went on to say banking institutions worldwide paid more than $40 billion last year in penalties and legal fees, with experts estimating the cumulative total would be over $60 billion for 2014.
Eamonn
considered his little dip into one of their side pockets just a drop in the ocean. Hardly even a crime in the big scheme of things. More like liberating a small amount from the corporate criminals for the little people.
It was a crime though nonetheless. And if his little endeavour were discovered, he’d be looking at some serious time up at The Joy. Though, he knew one thing he wouldn’t be looking at there in Mountjoy Prison was into any of the faces of the crooks capable of paying billions in fines. Folks with that level of power didn’t end up in cells with the likes of him. They didn’t end up in cells, period.
Too big to fail, huh? Bastards!
Eamonn folded the paper and pushed it across the table out of reach as if his noble cause could be tainted by their greed merely by touching the ink that outlined their crimes.
It was a short two-hour cruise directly east from the Dublin port, across the Irish Sea, to the Welsh town of Holyhead. From there, the journey only just began. Eamonn uncrossed his legs, stood, and smoothed the creases from his trousers. With his favourite Boston Red Sox baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes, he picked up his small overnight bag, withdrew his ticket from the inside pocket of his jacket and sauntered towards the attendant.
For the past hour, he’d sat and watched his five agents – as he liked to call them – load their vehicles into the immense belly of the Irish Ferries boat. As they boarded, he’d no fear they’d recognise one another. All five were carefully chosen from different counties and had never met. In addition, each man had never set eyes on Eamonn; all orders issued and questions answered took place by phone, ferry tickets and travelling money delivered by courier, and local militia contacts supplied the weapons and voice distortion equipment.
And now, they were five middle-aged couples – yes, wives were included as further subterfuge – embarking on a driving holiday to the mainland of Europe.
These men were professionals, IRA soldiers of the old school, and would act accordingly. No over-imbibing with alcohol, no actions to draw unwarranted attention. Each knew all too well not draw attention and to keep the mission in the forefront of their minds at all times. The men would already have secreted the cash from their particular robbery in their luggage. Eamonn’s only concern being the infrequent security checks at Holyhead and, later, Calais. From there, the rest of Europe was one big open highway all the way to their final destination.
The two big diesel engines came to life, and the ferry slipped its moorings and moved slowly out into Dublin Bay. Within minutes they’d accelerated to full speed. Eamonn passed between the tables of the main cabin, to him it looked more like the food court at Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre than that of a ferry, and out onto the aft-facing deck. A brisk wind whipped the spray from their wake across the bow. The air heavy with a salty tang and the pungent smell of hidden sea life. By the rear railing, a middle-aged gentleman, arm in arm with his wife, gazed back at the receding Dublin skyline and the distant rise of the Dublin and Wicklow Mountains. Overcast skies from earlier in the day had scuttled off to the north leaving a clear blue sky.
The middle-aged man’s wife shivered in the blustery breeze. Eamonn watched as the man placed an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer as they turned away from the stern and back to the warmth of the main cabin.
He gave a curt nod in Eamonn’s direction before speaking.
’Tis a beautiful view, isn’t it? A tad chilly, though.
Eamonn touched two fingers to the bill of his cap.
Aye, that it is. You enjoy your trip, now.
Little did the man know that he, Eamonn Mahoney, was the reason he and his wife were on board. Nor that the man in the baseball cap knew precisely what he’d been up to earlier at a home on Edenvale Road, then at a certain bank in Ranelagh. And further that he, Eamonn Mahoney, master strategist for the Real IRA, knew the middle-aged man carried over €250,000 safely tucked away in the two suitcases stowed in the boot of his 2000 Peugeot.
Eamonn stepped away from the doorway and out onto the aft deck. With hands in pockets and feet spread wide, he faced the full brunt of the breeze and breathed deeply of the sea air.
As the ferry pitched and rolled in the deepening swell and the cityscape of Dublin slowly disappeared below the horizon, Eamonn couldn’t help but think he’d never felt so alive.
Melbourne, Australia
February 16, 2016
The Melbourne suburb of Clifton Hill stagnated a mere six kilometres north of the city centre. Unfortunately, it had missed the boat in the gentrification of the inner suburbs over the past 20 years. The wave of urban renewal first surged through Collingwood and Fitzroy, before continuing north to lap upon the shores of Brunswick and Northcote. The flood of new money washed away decades of residential blight, usurped the dank streets and alleys from the gangs and drug dealers, before transforming them with trendy new eateries, and sent the less talented graffiti artists packing. However, suburbs such as Clifton Hill, and its poor neighbour to the south, Abbotsford, failed to latch onto the rising tide of property values and the facelift bought with the influx of new money.
Hemmed in between the train line to its west and the Yarra River to its east, its narrow pot-holed streets lined with bluestone gutters remained frozen in time. Clifton Hill’s dilapidated post-war architecture appearing just as depressed and depressing as it had for over half a century.
I parked outside a small weatherboard house on Ramsden Street between a telephone pole leaning precariously towards the road and a century-old stringy bark. The bitumen footpath encircling the tree’s trunk had buckled over the years and begun to crumble away from its base. A positive sign the tall eucalypt, despite its surroundings, was determined to maintain some semblance of dignity. The listing telephone pole, tagged with Lang Rules in gothic script, surrendered years ago.
The house belonged to Dayne Wallingham, my closest friend since primary school. He’d lived here, on Ramsden Street, for the past two years. Although our lives had taken wildly divergent turns over the years, we’d remained close, and Dayne was the one true friend with whom I’d always be able to confide.
We met on the first day of school, both entering the fourth grade. Two spindly kids, each with mousy brown hair shorn on the back and sides to within a millimetre of its life and with a smattering of freckles across our cheeks. We were almost identical in appearance, but for the fact, he was a half a head shorter. It took a further ten years, but he eventually made up the difference.
Dayne and I sat side-by-side, seated in alphabetical order, in the back row. After the first week of class, our teacher allowed the class to change seats if we wished. Dayne and I never gave it a thought. I was shy, paid the utmost attention to every word our teacher, Ms Tracy, uttered and studied diligently. Dayne played the fool, asked a million off-the-wall questions, and always got the better grades. For some strange, inexplicable reason, like opposites attract, we became inseparable.
That was until the tenth grade, for Dayne was about to meet his match; Mr Caterpaul, our computer science teacher. A strange individual, in his mid-twenties, medium height and with a body shaped like a marshmallow. Mr Caterpaul also sported the most amazing moustache. He was no latter-day Pancho Villa, loath as he was to let it extend beyond the corners of his mouth. However, it grew so thickly; we swore it slowly began to force his nose further away from his top lip, like a river in flood widening its banks.
It was Dayne, of course, to first christen Mr Caterpaul with his new moniker – Mr Caterpillar. Each class, we sat on the edge of our seats whenever Dayne raised his hand to ask a question. One day, one slip of the nickname too many earned Dayne a backhander across the ears and a trip to the principal’s office. Mr Caterpaul received a written reprimand for the slap, and Dayne three day’s detention for refusing to apologise.
The punishments meted out should’ve ended the matter except Dayne, too stubborn by half, just couldn’t let it go. He already found the computer science class too pedestrian for his intellect and school
, in general, a waste of his time. So, in his mind, what did he have to lose?
A week later, our lunchtime cricket match was interrupted by the arrival of a Victoria Police squad car parking on the bitumen adjacent to the teacher’s car park and within five metres of our wicketkeeper. Fifteen minutes later, as the end-of-lunch bell rang, the officers escorted Mr Caterpaul to the cruiser in handcuffs. I spotted Dayne standing in the breezeway between buildings, his arms crossed and a smug smile on his face.
Two days later I learnt the full range of Dayne’s advanced computer skills. Including, how to hack into a person’s social media profiles and arrange new interests, paedophilia being one. And, sadly, that for years Dayne was physically abused by his father.
He said he knew when the beatings were coming. His father like a pressure cooker building up steam, and Dayne the release valve. After an attack, there would be tears and apologies and heartfelt promises it would never happen again, but Dayne knew better. The physical scars quickly healed, the emotional scars were a different story. As a small child, he could do little to stop the beatings. Even coming to believe for a while they were somehow his fault. However, Dayne harboured no such illusions when another adult so much as laid a finger on him.
Dayne also learnt a few other valuable lessons later that same week; that tracing a computer’s IP address is a relatively simple process, and to avoid security cameras – especially when using the school library’s computer – at all costs.
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