It was Jon Creighton, the bank bigot. He hated Jews, blacks, and Puerto Ricans, but not necessarily in that order. He had been an irritant to Tracy during the years she had worked there. Now there was no sign of recognition on his face.
"Buenos dнas, seсor. I would like to open a checking account, ahora," Tracy said. Her accent was Mexican, the accent she had heard for all those months from her cell mate Paulita.
There was a look of disdain on Creighton's face. "Name?"
"Rita Gonzales."
"And how much would you like to put in your account?"
"Ten dollars."
His voice was a sneer. "Will that be by check or cash?"
"Cash, I theenk."
She carefully took a crumpled, half-torn ten-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to him. He shoved a white form toward her.
"Fill this out - "
Tracy had no intention of putting anything in her handwriting. She frowned. "I'm sorry, senor. I hurt mi mano - my hand - in an accident. Would you min' writin' it for me, si se puede?"
Creighton snorted. These illiterate wetbacks! "Rita Gonzales, you said?"
"Si."
"Your address?"
She gave him the address and telephone number of her hotel.
"Your mother's maiden name?"
"Gonzales. My mother, she married her uncle."
"And your date of birth?"
"December twentieth, 1958."
"Place of birth?"
"Ciudad de Mexico."
"Mexico City. Sign here."
"I weel have to use my left hand," Tracy said. She picked up a pen and clumsily scrawled out an illegible signature. Jon Creighton wrote out a deposit slip.
"I'll give you a temporary checkbook. Your printed checks will be mailed to you in three or four weeks."
"Bueno. Muchas gracias, seсor."
"Yeah."
He watched her walk out of the bank. Fuckin' spic.
There are numerous illegal ways to gain entry to a computer, and Tracy was an expert. She had helped set up the security system at the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank, and now she was about to circumvent it.
Her first step was to find a computer store, where she could use a terminal to tap into the bank's computer. The store, several blocks from the bank, was almost empty.
An eager salesman approached Tracy. "May I help you, miss?"
"Eso sн que no, seсor. I am just looking."
His eye was caught by a teen-ager playing a computer game. "Excuse me." He hurried away.
Tracy turned to the desk-model computer in front of her, which was connected to a telephone. Getting into the system would be easy, but without the proper access code, she was stymied, and the access code was changed daily. Tracy had been at the meeting when the original authorization code had been decided on.
"We must keep changing it," Clarence Desmond had said, "so no one can break in; yet we want to keep it simple enough for people who are authorized to use it."
The code they had finally settled on used the four seasons of the year and the current day's date.
Tracy turned on the terminal and tapped out the code for the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank. She heard a high-pitched whine and placed the telephone receiver into the terminal modem. A sign flashed on the small screen: YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
Today was the tenth.
FALL 10, Tracy tapped out.
THAT IS AN IMPROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. The computer screen went blank.
Had they changed the code? Out of the corner of her eye, Tracy saw the salesman coming toward her again. She moved over to another computer, gave it a casual glance, and ambled slang the aisle. The salesman checked his stride. A looker, he decided. He hurried forward to greet a prosperous-looking couple coming in the door. Tracy returned to the desk-model computer.
She tried to put herself into Clarence Desmond's mind. He was a creature of habit, and Tracy was sure he would not have varied the code too much. He had probably kept the original concept of the seasons and the numbers, but how had he changed them? It would have been too complicated to reverse all the numbers, so he had probably shifted the seasons around.
Tracy tried again.
YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
WINTER 10.
THAT IS AN IMPROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. The blank screen again.
It's not going to work, Tracy thought despairingly. I'll give it one more try.
YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
SPRING 10.
The screen went blank for a moment, and then the message appeared: PLEASE PROCEED.
So he had switched the seasons. She quickly typed out: DOMESTIC MONEY TRANSACTION.
Instantly, the bank menu, the category of available transactions, flashed onto the screen:
DO YOU WISH TO
A DEPOSIT MONEY
B TRANSFER MONEY
C WITHDRAW MONEY FROM SAVINGS ACCOUNT
D INTERBRANCH TRANSFER
E WITHDRAW MONEY FROM CHECKING ACCOUNT
PLEASE ENTER YOUR CHOICE
Tracy chose B. The screen went blank and a new menu appeared.
AMOUNT OF TRANSFER?
WHERE TO?
WHERE FROM?
She typed in: FROM GENERAL RESERVE FUND TO RITA GONZALES. When she came to the amount, she hesitated for an instant. Tempting, Tracy thought. Since she had access, there was no limit to the amount the now subservient computer would give her. She could have taken millions. But she was no thief. All she wanted was what was rightfully owed her.
She typed in $1,375.65, and added Rita Gonzales's account number.
The screen flashed: TRANSACTION COMPLETED. DO YOU WISH OTHER TRANSACTIONS?
NO.
SESSION COMPLETED. THANK YOU.
The money would automatically be transferred by CHIPS, the Clearing House Interbank Payment System that kept track of the $220 billion shifted from bank to bank every day.