Chapter 10 - Sightseeing
“Cheers,” he said to the fish vendor, and, as he walked, tucked into his turbot and some new things he had never heard of before called “chips”. They were good. He was feeling good. Money gave a comforting weight to his pockets and the world was his oyster (although, as he had never encountered an oyster, he did not know this). Perhaps amongst the depravity of the city he really could lose his sorrows.
The City was split up into four quarters: in the first, where he had landed, were the warehouses and red lights and drinking dens of the docks. The second quarter, which he now entered, was the market quarter, full of noise and bustle. Half the goods had been stolen several times before they made an appearance on the stalls, which kept prices competitive and ensured a good redistribution of wealth amongst the working classes. The third and fourth quarters were the industrial and residential quarters, but the day was half gone already and he doubted he would get to see them just yet. Instead he headed towards the centre of the City, through the markets. Ambrosius finished his fish and chips and stopped to buy a bottle of small beer from a grotty looking tyke of a street vendor who eyed his full pockets covetously. He walked on down the street enjoying his beverage, taking in the sights.
“S'cuse me sir, you want to buy post-insurance?” It was a chirpy, sharp-witted voice that seemed to exude a kind of lively, likeable yet highly untrustworthy quality. “Three pence.”
“No,” said Ambrosius, wondering vaguely what the man meant by “post”.
“Post-insurance, cheap at half the price. Threepence per minute.”
“I said I'm not interested.”
“To me, sir, that would suggest that you are ignorant as to just what services I am providing, if you beg my pardon, sir.”
“Look, would you go away?”
“Post-insurance, sir, is an extremely valuable service that lets the policy holder – that would be you, sir – insure himself against past events such as, sir, some grotty little tyke picking your pocket just after you bought a beer from him.”
Ambrosius stopped. “He did?”
“Afraid so, sir. Post-insurance? Six pence.”
“Are you trying to extort money from me?”
“Not at all. Nine pence now, sir.”
“I should call the police.”
“The police? That'll cost you more than twelve pence, sir.”
Ambrosius sighed. “Look, if I give you twelve pence will you get me the rest of my money back?”
“Sure thing, sir.”
Ambrosius reached into his pockets.
“Best pay me after you get your money back, sir,” said the post-insurance salesman, giving a sympathetic smile. “One second.” The insurance salesman ran off down the street. A minute passed. Ambrosius wondered whether he should give in and except his new-found impecuniousness, but, against all expec tations, the salesman came running back up the street rubbing his knuckles.
“I should charge you extra for that, he had a bigger brother. There you go sir, your money back, minus sixteen pence for me.”
“Thank you,” said Ambrosius, taking the money. Many eyes lingered on it as he deposited it back in his pockets.
“If you don't mind me saying, sir, the chances of you now making it up the street without requiring my services again are slim to none. In short, sir, I think you need a chaperone.”
“How much?” asked Ambrosius. He had been considering looking for a guide as it was.
“Another ninepence? Then threepence per hour.”
“Done,” said Ambrosius. “What's your name?”
“Got a lot of names, sir. You can call me Stan.”
“Ambrosius. Now, Stan, I want to get a feel for this town. What makes its heart beat, so to speak. Can you show me?”
Stan grinned. “The City's got a lot of hearts, sir, a lot of beatings too. If you're looking for the former you often find the latter.”
“That's what I'm paying you to avoid.”
“Quite so, sir. What is it you're interested in exactly?”
“I've been told I need to find my vice.”
“Ah, very good sir. I'm an expert on that. There are a handful of things that might push your button. Women?”
“I came to the City to escape a broken heart, not to find one.”
“I see. Drink?”
“Not my thing?”
“Stone?”
“I hate the stuff.”
“A good brawl?”
“I couldn't punch my way out of a paper bag.”
“Well then, that leaves money and power. You interested in them?”
Ambrosius thought for a second. “Yes, I suppose they would suit me.”
“Then you need one. A suit, that is. Trust me, if you look the part, your one step away from being a millionaire.”
The suit fitting took the best part of an hour. It wasn't the very best suit money could buy, but it looked sharp enough to say “I'm not poor”, which marked Ambrosius above ninety-nine percent of the City's population. Ambrosius left the tailors five pounds poorer but with a feeling of importance.
“Now sir, a good con-man...” started Stan.
“Hold on,” said Ambrosius. “Con-man?”
Stan smiled. “Come on, sir, you're obviously intelligent. You don't need to make your money by pickpocketing.”
“I want to make my money honestly.”
Stan was taken aback. “That's impossible.”
“Then I think our arrangement has come to an end.”
“Hold your horses, sir. I was just in shock, that's all. What I meant to say is that, whilst it is impossible to make your money in this City whilst being one-hundred percent honest, it might be possible to do so one-hundred percent legally. If one's clever about it, of course.”
“I want to be honest.”
“Sir, please do not take offence, but are you living in the real world?”
Now there's a question. Was the real world the treetops? Was the real world the smell of a bass roasting on a winter night safe in a rickety shack whilst the wind howled outside? Was the real world the hot Smug on a summers day and the tickle of hookblossom as it brushed your skin? Did the real world have Extraneous Capital Letters to indicate holiness? It was a sad summation which gave Ambrosius the answer: nevermore.
“Sir?”
“Maybe I don't care about honesty as much as I used to. As long as I stay within the law, that is – I don't want to end up in irons.”
“A brave admission, that, sir. It's hard to soul search and find you're a n'er-do-well like the rest of us. Life's more fun when you do though, you just have to get over that initial flutter. A strange thing that flutter, like a dying butterfly. No explaining it.” Stan looked sad for a second, before that ear-encompassing crocodile grin crept back over his features. “But enough of that. You sir - I can tell just by looking at you – are good with numbers?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Excellent. Have you ever heard of something called a Personal Secured Loan?”
“No.”
“Well, sir, there's two ways of seeing a Personal Secured Loan. You see, the first is the textbook definition.” Here Stan spat into the gutter. “The idea is that someone wants some money for something they always wanted. Trouble is they'd have to scrimp and save for years to get it and then they probably wouldn't want it any more, or their roof would cave in and they'd have to spend the money on that. Something like that. So along comes a nice, trustworthy gentlemen – like yourself – who says he'll make their dreams come true. They can have the money, and all they have to do is sign a piece of paper saying they'll pay the nice trustworthy man twenty percent extra per year that it takes them to pay it back. Everyone is happy – the nice trustworthy man makes his twenty percent and the poor borrower gets his thing what he's always wanted.”
“Sounds like a valuable service,” said Ambrosius.
“Well, that was the textbook definition. The clever person's definition,” at this Stan smiled even more broadly, “goes like this. The lender goes round knocking on doors. He is looking for a certain breed of animal. Animal A opens the door. She is wearing cheap but good quality clothes that are well-ironed, and there are well-dusted pictures hanging on the wall behind her. The lender has noticed her front garden is well maintained and there are nice hanging baskets next to the door. Our housewife asks with a polite but suspicious voice 'Hello?' It is all the lender can do not to slam the door in her face, but instead he politely says 'Sorry, wrong number.'
“Animal B comes to the door. He is wearing cheap clothes with a few coffee stains on one of the sleeves, but overall seems quite presentable. There are cheap prints on the wall that look dusty and faded. The lender has noticed the animal's front lawn is a little overgrown, but the hedges are trimmed and there is no rubbish about. The animal says in a level tone “Hello?”. This animal is not the type the hunter is after. 'Sorry, wrong number,' he says.
“Animal C comes to the door. He is wearing tracksuit bottoms with curry stains down and a string vest. There are no pictures on the walls behind him and the wallpaper is peeling off. The lender has noted the front garden is a tip, with a burnt-out cart in the middle of it. The animal burps in an inquisitive tone as he opens the door. Again, this is not what the hunter is looking for; he makes his excuses and leaves.
“Finally, the lender – the hunter, that is - comes to the door of Animal D. Animal D opens the door. She looks stressed, and shouts something over her shoulder to her kids as she opens the door. She is wearing cheap clothes with holes that have been darned. The lender has noticed the front garden is well-maintained, but certain jobs that indicate a man are left undone; the gate needs painting, there is grass in the gutters; there is a dead tree that needs cutting down. “I'm sorry, you've caught me at a really bad time, I'm just about to send the kids to school and then I've got to get to the fish canning plant for work.” This is perfect: the hunter has found his game. 'Yo u look like you need a holiday' he says, an air of sympathy about him. She laughs. 'Of course,' she says. 'But I work all day as it is and still can hardly put food on the table. I can't afford a holiday.' The lender smiles. 'Of course you can,' he says. 'Let me explain.'”
“So to cut a long story short you sell Animal D a loan, she signs a contract with lots of small print that she just doesn't have time to read. There's no way she can pay off the interest, and in that small print it says that if she can't pay up you get her house. You've just got yourself a twenty grand house for a thousand pound stake.”
“That's disgraceful!” exclaimed Ambrosius.
“You want to make money? Just do it, that's what I say; don't think about the poor animals. They're always poor, they're used to it. You, on the other hand, are a superior breed, sir. You require better feedstock and that requires cash.”
Something inside Ambrosius squirmed and tried to flap its way up towards his consciousness, but something big and black trampled it down. “How much can I make?”
“You make one score a day for one calender month – that's twenty eight days. You make nineteen grand on each loan. You gotta wait for the animals to go bust, which usually takes about six months. In about seven months you've got yourself a little over half a mill. Move to another area, do it again and in fourteen months you've made your first million.”
A million. He could see a way forward now; he would buy himself happiness. “You really think I could make a million?”
“I know it. Of course, I would do it myself only I'm... well, I have a certain reputation round here. You, on the other hand, have an innocent face and an educated voice. The animals like that. All I ask in return is thirty percent.”
“Why should I give you any money? I think threepence an hour is pretty generous.”
“Well, lets just say, you have to actually get the houses off people to sell them. That requires people with large pointy objects, people who I know and you don't. We call them debt collectors. Of course, you'll have to pay their wages out of your cut, but muscle comes cheap in this city so you'll be left with at least fifty percent.”
“Where will I get the money to lend people in the first place?”
“Just leave that to me. I've got some contacts. Just make sure you pay them back, otherwise... well, just pay them back okay?”
“Okay,” said Ambrosius after a moments thought. “I'll do it. I can donate some of the money to good causes when I've got enough.”
“If that would make you feel better, sir.”
That night Stan invited Ambrosius back to his dive. It was getting towards midnight as they finally reached the slums of the residential quarter, and Ambrosius was glad he had a guide. All the local muggers seemed to know Stan and hailed him with jovial greetings from the shadows. They finally got to Stan's home – a lean-to shed of sorts round the back of a take-away fish bar – at about one o'clock in the morning. It stank even for the City, but there was a kettle and some gumbo that looked like it had been simmering in a battered tin pot for the last decade. The two new business partners sat down and enjoyed a cup of crushed, roasted hookbeetle coffee (a delicacy of the city) and a bowl of gumbo each. They talked for an hour or so. Stan was interested in the world of the treetops, seeing it as one big opportunity for a scam, whilst Ambrosius was enthralled by Stan's tales of his money-making antics and other dodgy dealings. At last they decided to turn in, and, with alien tales of innocence and depravity swimming in their respective minds, Stan and Ambrosius slept.
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