With Help From Michael Oleary Pt 09

Chapter 39 O'Leary's Savings and Loan

Michael did not tell anyone about the thirty-five million dollars or about the idea of starting a new neighborhood bank. He wanted to wait until after the wedding when he would tell Gabriella everything while away on their honeymoon in Ireland and Italy. They had agreed that they wanted to show one another the countries of their ancestors. Although, Michael was born in the United States at Boston City Hospital, Gabriella was born in Milan but her parents now live in Rome. Nonetheless, they both thought it a great idea to include their traditional backgrounds in the marriage early hoping to showcase the positives in their differences rather than to dwell on the negatives that may surface later when someone marries out of their ethnic background.

Then, when he returned from his honeymoon, he would tell his family and friends, and solicit the city of Boston and his community of South Boston with his idea for starting a neighborhood bank asking them for their support, for their advice, and for their suggestions. Unfortunately, the newspapers broke the story months before the wedding and, now, Michael felt pressured to act before he was ready. He knew, though, that if he waited to make decisions regarding the establishment of his bank, the exaggerated gossip and public speculation would inflate the price of the land that he wanted to buy for his bank. He figured that Ralphie must have told friends, neighbors, and relatives about his sudden windfall of money, as well as, him giving Michael thirty-five million dollars and Michael's plans to start a neighborhood bank with the money that he had given him.

As part of his now pressured actions, he married Gabriella sooner than planned but, unfortunately, postponed their honeymoon until after he discussed his idea for a neighborhood bank with the local politicians. He did not want to disrespect those in the neighborhood who had power and influence. He knew that he would have to have their support to succeed. He figured a heavy donation to their campaign chests would be all that was required in most instances.

Next, with the help of his congressman, he had his attorney research federal funding for the acquisition and the financing of the land he proposed to purchase and the building he proposed to build. Secondarily, he asked his congressman to help him identify which employment incentives, those which could benefit his bank and his community, were available. His questions and subsequent research uncovered several federally funded programs that applied to small banking businesses, programs that helped shelter his capital investment while helping to insure the success of his venture.

Unbelievably as it sounds, thirty-five million dollars, money that he had not yet paid federal and state taxes on, was not much seed money when starting a bank. When he presented his idea to the community leaders, everyone received his plan with excited enthusiasm. Michael O'Leary, their home town hero, was the biggest gossip that hit the neighborhood since the failed court imposed school busing of the 1970's.

He built his savings and loan bank on the same bit of ground where Earth Bank had razed Neighborhood Bank and thrown up a seven bay ATM station on East Broadway in South Boston. Located in the heart of the neighborhood, the ATM station was Earth Bank's begrudging attempt to satisfy the banking needs of all of their unimportant and underestimated South Boston customers. The management of Earth Bank thought because the South Boston was not as affluent as Newton or Wellesley, where they opened bright, white banking branches that an automated customer service solution over a human one would suffice.

Ironically, Earth Bank had to relocate their ATM station after too many customers complained that their money came out of the ATM machine scorched around the edges, as if someone had tried to light their cigar with their money. One person who received 2nd degree burns on her hand sued the bank. Earth Bank settled for an undisclosed amount of money without accepting responsibility for the accident. Other customers complained of hearing a man singing Sweet Chariot. The bit of land where Neighborhood Bank once stood and where their ATM stations stood before being relocated down the street remained vacant.

Most commonly, customers stopped using the ATM machines at that location and others closed their accounts all together to open them with other banks that did not have ATM machine problems. It did not take long for Earth Bank to realize that, unlike the more affluent neighborhoods of Winchester and Andover, South Boston was not a neighborhood that appreciated ATM machines. The residents of Southie, spoiled by the service of Neighborhood Bank, preferred human contact when handing over their hard earned money to a bank.

Earth Bank wasted money on repair people, electronics technicians, computer engineers, and manufacturer's consultants who could not fix the problem with the ATM machines scorching the money or even identify the source of the heat that scorched the money. They replaced circuit boards, computer chips, wiring harnesses, and finally, used machines with new machines. Their repairs worked for a while but then the new machines mysteriously malfunctioned like the old machines.

Security cameras disproved the suspicions of the bank's management that vandals were responsible for the sabotage. The old-timers remembered the story of Horace the custodian who haunted Neighborhood Bank and believed that he now haunted the ATM machines. The customers who missed Neighborhood bank were glad that Horace wreaked havoc with Earth Bank's ATM machines.

"Serves them right," said one former customer of Neighborhood Bank over a glass of ale at the pub.

"They angered Horace is what they did when they closed and razed Neighborhood Bank," said another.

"He put a curse on Earth Bank and those lousy ATM machines," said another.

"Three cheers for Horace," they said laughing and clinking their glasses together. "Hip, hip, hooray!"

Due to his immense popularity and because his institution would benefit the community long-term, the city council supported Michael's effort in establishing a new neighborhood bank. They even took it upon themselves to pressure Earth Bank to sell Michael the land. The people in the neighborhood who believed in Michael said that Horace would finally rest in peace again once he found his new home in the basement of O'Leary's Savings and Loan.

Earth Bank reluctantly sold Michael the triangular piece of vacant land that scarred an otherwise congested community when they closed their newly constructed ATM station after only six years of its completion.

The condominium gladly sold Michael the remaining original land of Neighborhood Bank that Earth Bank had sold them for parking after the owners of the condominiums complained that the neighborhood thugs routinely vandalized and stole the cars of residents parked in the lot. They wanted secure underground parking, so the condominium developers relocated the heating, ventilation, and air conditioning machinery from the basement to a utility room built on the roof and dug out the basement for a two story garage below street level. The sale of land to Michael helped the condominium recapture some of the cost of building a garage.

Now, Michael with his new found wealth was back in the banking business, this time for himself, his friends, his neighbors, and his community. He appreciated Ralphie's insightfulness because, if the though had been left to him, he probably would have given away most of the money before thinking of starting his own neighborhood bank. He believed that starting his own bank and helping the poorer people of his neighborhood was a better idea than donating his money to charity that would not exclusively target his community.

In this way, he felt that he could help more local people while controlling whom and by how much he wanted to help give his support. Not that he wanted to play the role of the almighty philanthropist, but he felt that he better knew the needs of the people of his community. Specifically, he was to target the people of his nationality with the hopes of increasing their chances for a financially secure life.

Chapter 40 Michael Patrick O'Leary

Michael looked out his office window at the people eager to open an account at his new bank. The line that formed along the sidewalk outside the bank curled around the corner and down the block. Even though he hired twelve customer service representatives, nine more than they had at Neighborhood Bank, to handle new accounts, the wait was as long as the line. Still, the community was happy to have another neighborhood bank and was happy to have Michael back, this time for good.

After his first day of business, O'Leary Savings and Loan had opened more accounts than Neighborhood Bank had in their busiest years, 1980-1988, during the Regan administration. After his first week of business, he had more deposits than Neighborhood Bank had during their most profitable years, the building boon years of the 50's when the GI's returned home after the war, married, and started families. After one month of business, O'Leary's Savings and Loan had more depositers than Neighborhood Bank had forecasted in their most optimistic financial reports to the stockholders. At their peak, in the sixties, Neighborhood Bank had 39% of the community as customers. Now, O'Leary Savings and Loan had 68%.

As Michael O'Leary's Savings and Loan grew, so did his fame, fortune, and influence. Customers from surrounding communities wanting to get in on Michael's celebrity closed their accounts at other banks to open them with his bank. No one expected the deluge of customers from outside of the community, as far south as Rhode Island, as far North as Maine and Vermont, and as far west as New York, who wanted to open an account.

His private bank was a success on Wall Street, where, even though his bank was not publicly traded, The Wall Street Journal depicted him in a cartoon, as a Leprechaun standing over a pot of gold beneath the flag of Ireland. Quicker than his customer services representatives could say, "I can help you?" Michael's thirty-five million dollar investment mushroomed into more than five billion dollars in customer deposits.

Reporters from national newspapers wanted to interview the "Guru of Banking". Financial magazines offered him a monthly column to write articles on investing. Publishers tempted him with advances to write his memoirs. Movie producers wanted to recreate his life story, would even cast him and anyone else who he wanted in the movie. Celebrities invited him on their talk shows, to their parties, and to donate to their charities. Political organizations wanted his support. Community organizations wanted him to accept their awards. Charitable organizations wanted his donations. Colleges and universities wanted to give him an honorary degree in exchange for his funding a building, a research project, or a scholarship in his name. Hospitals wanted to rename a wing in his honor. Students wanted him to speak at their graduation. Graduates, with the ink on their advanced degrees from Harvard Business School and Babson College still wet, wanted to intern at the bank without salary. Mothers used him as an example to entice their children to go to school and to church.

He refused the interviews, declined the invitations to appear on talk shows, and rejected the book and movie offers. He supported the politicians and charitable organizations that he would have supported anyway, gave money to his college and to his church, and did not hire any of the MBA's. He found his success without them and did not need them to continue his success now.

The difference with his bank was that he was not there to make money. Of course, he needed money to grow his banking business, but he was mainly there to help the people of his community prosper. His bank was as much of a social institution as it was a bank. It doing so, customers helped his bank succeed; a simple formula that only worked when the bank in the community cares about its customers. Just as there were still a place for neighborhood hardware stores, meat markets, grocery stores, and gas stations over the big one-stop national chains, he knew that there was a need for a neighborhood bank that believed in the people who lived in the community and that believed in the importance of personal customer service.

Michael sat in his ergonomic office chair. He ordered similar chairs for all of his bank employees, believing that a comfortable employee was a happy employee and that their happiness directly translated into better customer service. He sat behind a working desk instead of a display desk typically found in a bank president's office. His desk had pullout trays to expand his workspace and custom-sized drawers that fit whatever he wanted to file without wasting space. He had similar desks constructed for his employees so that they found whatever they wanted at a fingers touch and never appeared disorganized or flustered looking like they did not know what they were doing when helping customers.

Barely 30 years old, he lived his chosen life and was happy with himself. Pleased that he was back among his friends, neighbors, and customers, finally, he felt that he could make an impact upon the good and growth of the community.

Chapter 41 Sinn Fein

Shawn Flynn, the local representative of Sinn Fein, made his weekly visit to Michael's bank. He insisted on doing his personal banking business with Michael directly using that as an excuse to solicit his help with whatever was happening in the neighborhood and expanding that to whatever was happening across the ocean in Ireland. Michael knew that the years that he had remained neutral towards joining Sinn Fein and the Irish Republican Army were over and, now, he had to take a stand one way or the other. A decision made tougher when he gave the lottery ticket to Mr. Foley. He knew, now, that he must join or suffer the IRA's retribution for costing them the millions of dollars they needed to buy more arms, to recruit new soldiers, and to continue their ugly war of religion.

Shawn entered the bank and headed towards Michael's office. Michael saw him, moved out from behind his desk, and waved him in meeting him at his office door.

"It is always nice to see you, Shawn." The two men shook hands. Michael walked over to the window that overlooked the outer office, closed the blinds, and closed the door behind Shawn. He offered him a seat on the couch across from his desk and joined him at the opposite end. "How are you?"

"I'd be better, Michael, if you gave me an affirmative answer to the same question that I have been asking you for too long, now."

"As I have said to you before, Shawn, I prefer helping people in my own way without an organization looking over my shoulder." Michael laughed. "I'm not political, but if I wanted the umbrella of an association, I would have finished seminary school, became a priest, and stayed behind the sacred walls of the church." He smiled. "I do not know of a more powerful organization than that of the Catholic Church."

"You realize, Michael, of course, that you need us as much as, if not more than," Shawn smiled smugly; "we need you."

"What do you mean?" He knew what he meant but wanted Shawn to spell out the implication and to tell him exactly what it is he wanted.

"I haven't said anything before about it, but that foolishness you did over the lottery ticket put me in an awkward position." Shawn reached in his jacket pocket for his cigarette case, pulled it out, opened it, and offered it to Michael.

"No, thank you, Shawn, I do not smoke."

"Ah, yes, I forgot you are Saint Michael and have no dirty habits." He removed a cigarette, closed the case and tapped the cigarette on the case, "A jackpot that big is a rare thing, Michael, and rarer still that we nearly acquired it, until those two renegade jackasses robbed the bank, and of all banks, the wrong bank." He searched his pockets for a light. "Wrong place, wrong time," he said unable to find a match and looking to Michael for one, "shit happens."

Michael reached for the lighter that stayed perched upon his desk for such occasions.

"Thank you," Shawn took a puff and exhaled a blue haze between them. He pocketed his cigarette case and sat back in the softness of the couch. "As soon as Flaherty gave them the bad news of your decision not to hand over their property and told them what had happened with Foley, the hotheads wanted to snuff you out that night." He took another long drag, "But I interceded on your behalf," and blew out more smoke that billowed around them like a little cloud.

"Thank you, Shawn, for your support," he smiled. "Your friendship is appreciated."

"Actually, Michael, it was my mother who overhead the talk of the retaliation against you. She was beside herself with anger, and you know her temper. She would not hear of it, of anyone hurting an orange hair on the head of her Saint Michael." He paused to look at Michael. "There is not a better person who walks the Earth, she said about you."

"Thank you," said Michael knowing that the only reason he was still alive was due to his recent financial success and sudden political influence and power. "And thank your mother for me."

Shawn put a hand up stopping Michael's feigned gratitude, leaned forward, and made eye contact.

"Even before all of your successes," he waved his hand around the room as if to encompass all of his wealth with one pass, "you were more valuable to us alive than dead." He settled back again in the comfort of the couch. "People respect you and listen to you and to what you have to say. Those are important qualities in a man when recruiting young soldiers for our cause." He smiled, "Now," he threw up his hands, "especially now, after all of this," he waved his hand around the room, again, "your endorsement of our organization to the youth of this community is worth more in advertising than what any lottery ticket could buy."

"I did not know that the IRA advertised," Michael chuckled.

"We don't. We must maintain a low profile in this country otherwise our enemies will shut us down, which is why your influence over the sons of Ireland is so valuable to our struggle."

He waited for Shawn to finish and watched him take another drag of his cigarette.

"I made them understand your value is worth much more than the lottery ticket you gave away to Foley." More blue smoke wafted up between them and around them. "They agreed after a while." He smiled. "They even agreed to allow Foley to keep the ticket and play your game of philanthropic benevolence on your behalf with our money."

"A wise decision on their part," said Michael crossing his legs knowing that they only based their decision upon what he could do for them, "considering that his son is with the FBI and the suspicious death of his father would surely cause the bureau to open a case. We both know that the IRA does not want to FBI looking into their affairs in this country, as well as in Ireland."

"Agreed, we don't need another messy investigation into our personal affairs, especially after the Coast Guard intercepted that boat leaving Boston Harbor loaded with munitions earmarked for Ulster." He exhaled more blue smoke. "Still, an eye for an eye, they want their pound of flesh, whether it be money, arms or your assistance helping to get one, the other or both."

"You may as well put a gun to my head and pull the trigger, now, Shawn," Michael leaned back in his seat, "because I will never help the IRA kill more innocent women and children." He leaned forward. "In good Christian conscience, I cannot do that. I do not care about your misguided and ill-conceived holy war that has survived generations giving excuse and to murder and justification to rape. I only care what I can do today to help people find God and peace in their lives."