Art Smith

Art Smith (1922-1999) was born in Sparks, Nevada, and later moved to Las Vegas to work at the Bank of Nevada, where he was responsible for residential loans during the 1950s. He rose through the ranks in the banking industry and retired in 1984 as chairman and chief officer of First Interstate Bank of Nevada. Smith was interviewed by R.T. King in 1996.

     During World War II, thousands of Southern blacks had come to Las Vegas to work for Basic Magnesium and other war industries. The Westside, where they settled, experienced explosive growth. It soon became the largest black community in the state, but not many black people came to the bank asking for credit. [Mr. Smith worked as an assistant cashier and loan officer at the Bank of Nevada in Las Vegas during the 1950s.] If they did and they qualified, they got the money—our bank never discriminated on the basis of race in the loans it was making. The problem was, very few blacks were qualified to borrow, and the reasons had nothing to do with color. For instance, house loans. The houses that they lived in had no collateral value—I mean, the only thing of value about them was the lot that they sat on—and there was no way you could justify making real estate loans without collateral. For a long time even our own government wasn't making FHA loans over on the Westside. If you're an average lending office, and the government says it won't make any loans on the Westside, what are you going to think about making a conventional loan in the neighborhood? The FHA goes only where it wants to go—they won't go just any place.
     Oh, there were some blacks who could qualify for home loans, but besides not having collateral that they could put up, by nature of their education most couldn't get good jobs. The average guy, washing dishes at a casino or . . . they didn't have good wages or job longevity or the sorts of things that indicate stability and a good credit risk.
     Nonetheless, Bank of Nevada would lend money to anyone who could qualify, and some blacks could. I personally knew a few who came in for loans, and I could check out the others by calling a businessman I knew over on the Westside. I'd say, "You know so-and-so?"
     "Yeah, I know him."
     "He wants to borrow a hundred dollars. What do you think?"
     If the guy wasn't a good credit risk, he might say, "Well now, Mr. Smitty, I guess I don't know him that well. I guess we're talking about two different guys." But if the guy was OK, he'd say, "I'd trust him with anything."
     I believed that if you made a loan, you ought to be able to collect it. Once I had a delinquent loan, and I went over to the Westside to collect it. Art Smith, bold young assistant cashier! [laughter] I rang and rang the doorbell, and I knocked on the door, and I went next door to ask the neighbors. No answer at either place; nothing. And it was quiet—nobody could be seen anywhere in the neighborhood.
     As I'm getting in my car to leave, a guy comes driving around the corner and accidentally hits a dog that's out in the street. The dog lets out a yip and a squeal, and every front door on that whole block opens, and people stick their heads out. Everybody was home, and they probably hoped I'd been run over. [laughter] It finally got to the point that we wouldn't let our collectors go over to the Westside because we didn't think it was safe for them. There was that much animosity. We would use a collection agency instead.