| “And what can I do for you today, sir?” “I’d like some money,” Joe smiled. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I’m investigating some possibilities.” “Mm-hmm.” The bank officer didn’t exactly fit the type, Joe thought; he always imagined bankers as solid, grey, grave, content. The sort of man who wakes every morning knowing he will have more money when he goes to bed. A mathematical certainty. This fellow was in his late 50s, maybe; he had one crooked incisor, an excess of hair in his ears and a drab brown jacket. One button on the jacket was missing some threads in the holes. It was the sort of detail Joe thought he’d find in abundance if he kept looking, but the man was talking. “And this is our standard form. The explanations about late payments and consequences are on the back.” “This is it?” “Mm-hmm.” “I expected something . . .thicker.” “It’s a simple transaction,” the banker said with a weak smile. “We lend you the money, and you pay it back.” “But how do you know what my assets are? Or is that another form?” “We don’t deal in assets. Your signature obligates you to the agreement, and that is all we require. Any other matters are handed by our collection agency. But I’m sure it won’t come to that. Now. What is the amount you would wish to discuss today?” This was easier than he thought, which made him suspicious. Banks were easy when it came to taking your money, not handing out their own. “Don’t you want to know what it’s for? I always thought you guys put us through the paces, studied our business plans, you know, poked through the bird guts to see what the gods said.” “I’ll admit to a certain curiosity, but it rarely comes up. Most people are just content to sign and leave, and usually have some pressing business. But I’ll ask. To what do you hope to apply the money?” “I don’t know. I mean I do, but it’s the how of it all I’m chewing. Do I buy the business I work for now, or start my own?” “Each has its advantages, I imagine. And its difficulties. But if I may be forward, I would suspect you are contemplating a franchise fee. They generally fall within the parameters of our lending profile. Am I right?” “What? No. It’s a matchbook company. Sales, design, custom work. We sub out the printing, but there’s still some office overhead. Two employees, one in the field, that’s Frank – but he still needs a desk, so you have to keep a room ready for him. There’s the boss’ office, but frankly I could turn it into my workroom and save. For that matter I’d move as soon as the lease was up, because we don’t need a nice address. A nice line of goods is the best address you can have.” The bank officer gave Joe a blank look. “And you can do all this for a thousand dollars.” “I wish. No, you’re in luck. I’d be into you guys for ten, at the least.” “Ten dollars.” “Ten thousand.” Was he speaking Swahili here? Maybe they insisted on precise terms, just so everything was clear. “Ten thousand. Oh, I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have that kind of money to lend.” “What do you mean? This is a bank -” “This is a lending institution,” the man said with exaggerated precision, as if speaking for a hidden microphone. “We deal in small amounts for clients whose circumstances require a minimum of delay. I could give you ten dollars, or a thousand, or any particular amount in between. But ten thousand is quite out of the question.” “Ten dollars? What’s your interest rate?” “It varies, but it begins at 18 percent.” “Who would pay that kind of vig on a ten dollar note? I don’t get it.” “If you have to ask,” the officer said, “you should count your blessings. I’m sorry we can’t do business today. Here –“ he reached into his desk and pulled out a small flat black object, and handed it to Joe. “With our compliments.” It was a comb. CITY LOAN was stamped in gold on one side. Joe knew this type of giveaway; the novelty side of the business had done combs for years. He tested the plastic – hard. The sort of comb that sat in your back pocket like a metal rod. Cheap. “Just out of curiosity," Joe said, "what’s the highest interest rate you’d put on a ten dollar loan? ” “Twenty four percent,” the officer said. And a comb, Joe thought. He ran his finger along the teeth of the comb. Half snapped off and pattered on the man’s desk. “Sorry," he said. "Thanks for your time." He took three matchbooks from a box by the door. Bad striker, half-assed matchheads. It took half a book to light one smoke. |
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