The Bank by Bentley Little

Author:Bentley Little
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cemetery Dance Publications
Published: 2020-02-20T16:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

1

When Coy arrived at the bank Wednesday morning, Ben Shanley was waiting for him, and before Coy could even get to his desk and put down his briefcase, the manager was calling him over in the overly hearty voice he used when dealing with hesitant customers. This couldn’t be good, and for a brief moment Coy thought he was going to be fired. But then Shanley closed the office door behind them and sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk. There was a moment of silence. “We’re in big trouble,” the manager said finally. “And I need your help.”

Coy was not invited to sit down, so he remained standing awkwardly. “O…kay,” he said hesitantly, not sure where this was headed.

“It’s that new bank. First People’s. They’re not only scooping up B of A’s old customers, but they’re stealing some of ours as well. And somehow they’re signing up people who’ve never had bank accounts before. That untapped base is our Holy Grail, and banks and credit unions’ve all been trying to stimulate that segment for years to no avail. But these guys’ve done it.”

He wasn’t sure what this had to do with him or how he could help, but he nodded his understanding and agreement.

“We’re hurting,” Shanley said simply. “In fact, we’re not just hurting, we’re going down. There’ve been some…inauspicious ventures, some poor investments over the past few years, and we find ourselves a trifle over extended.” He glanced quickly toward the closed door. “If there were ever to be a run on the bank…” He shook his head. “The big banks, the national banks, the multi-national banks, the ones with politicians in their pockets, if they were in our shoes, they’d get a bailout because they’re too big to fail, and their collapse would jolt the entire economy. Unfortunately, we’re not too big to fail. There’s not a politician alive who would lift a pinky finger to save us. Which means we’re on our own here. And that’s why I need you to meet with a representative of First People’s.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You.”

Coy was confused. “You’re the manager. Shouldn’t you or someone from the board—”

“We wouldn’t come off well,” Shanley said curtly. “Not for something like this. We’d take the blame for the bad decisions; we’d take the heat. They’d want to punish us. What we need is someone encouraging, someone who can put a positive spin on our situation, someone not involved in any decision-making, someone who can’t be blamed for anything we might have done or might not have done. A go-between. We need a go-between.”

“But…what would I say? I wouldn’t even know where to start or—”

The manager waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll tell you what to say.”

Coy reminded him of Florine’s midnight visit, of her declaration that Evergreen Title was now working exclusively with First People’s. “Should we address that, too?” he asked.

“We’ll address everything. We’re fighting for our lives here. It all has to be out in the open.”

Coy didn’t want to go.

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