And at last asks, “Care to talk about being a health freak? I mean, you might manage to convert us.”
“No no,” says Bill, “you’d find the topic too bloody boring.”
“Ha ha ha, you’re right there!” says Jim, then adds in an apologetic, quieter tone, “Sorry I can’t ask you what make of car you drive, and tell you about mine and all the trouble
I have with it. Linda finds the topic too bloody boring.”
“Ha ha, she’s right there!” says Bill. This leads to another long silence broken by both men saying simultaneously, “What are you doing these days?” after which both laugh until Bill says, “You first!”
“No, you!”
“You! I insist.”
“Well, as a matter of fact I’ve…” says Jim, but is interrupted by the first bars of Do You Ken John Peel? on a xylophone. With a murmured apology Bill takes a phone from his pocket, says to it, “Well?” and after listening for a moment tells it, “Listen, bitch, and listen good. There were no witnesses to that promise you allege I made, pills are cheap so your bastard is not my concern. If you must whine, try whining to my lawyer. He’ll land you in Cornton Vale jail without your feet touching the ground and women commit suicide to escape from that place. So get out of my life!”
Pocketing the phone he says, “As a matter of fact you’ve what?”
“Taken early retirement.”
“But you used to be such a live wire.”
“Yes, but the firm made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“The swine,” says Bill sympathetically.
With a shrug Jim tells him, “Business is business,” then, struck by an idea, asks, “Have you noticed that every ten years since 1975 the number of millionaires in Britain has doubled?”
Bill nods. Jim asks, “Have you never wanted to be one?”
Bill says, “I am one.”
Not quite catching this Jim says, “It’s done by cashing in on the market whether it’s going up, down or sideways. Jack Rotter of the Porridge Union is coming to everyone’s neck of the woods next week so why not book a talk with him on rotporridge @ slash dot crash dot wallop yahoo dot com and get tips straight from the horse’s mouth? All terms and conditions apply.”
His wife, exasperated, looks up from her needles and says, “He’s already told you he’s a millionaire.”
“Did you?” Jim asks Bill, who smiles and nods.
“Dear me,” says Jim, “that ought to teach me something.” Linda says, “It should teach you to listen as much as you talk.”
Not quite hearing her Jim murmurs, “Yes it really ought to teach me something,” then sighs and adds, “But I wish they hadn’t pushed me out of tax avoidance.”
“I seem to remember you were damned good at it,” says his friend.
“I was, but even accountants don’t know everything.”
“Maybe some don’t, but mine at least is trustworthy.”
“You may be living in a fool’s paradise,” Jim points out, “because last year I was running to the seaside when the door of a parked car opened and smacked me into the middle of the road. I was left with nine broken ribs and a fractured pelvis.”
“Tough!” says Bill. Jim answers smugly, “Not at all. I got straight on to J.C. Pooter who will get me a cool million in compensation and a holiday in the Bahamas.”
Bill says, “J.C. Pooter is certainly your knight in shining armour,” so approvingly that Jim cheerfully asks, “What are you doing these days?”
“As a matter of fact I’m…” (Do You Ken John Peel? is heard) “… Excuse me,” says Bill, bringing out his phone.
After listening for a while he says, “They’re rioting? We knew they would… They’ve invaded the plant? We knew that would happen too. I hope they burn it down so the owners can claim insurance… You’re trapped on the roof? Phone the police to airlift you off.” To Jim and Linda who have been frankly listening he adds, “Sorry about that. I was saying?”
“What you are doing these days,” says Linda.
“I’m a troubleshooter.”
“You shoot troublemakers?” asks Jim, awestruck.
“No no no,” says Bill, chuckling. “I never pull a trigger. I tell other people to do that.”
“Which must take courage,” says Jim, admiringly. His friend, with a touch of regret says, “Not much. Hardly anyone gets killed. They usually see reason when confronted with the wee black holes at the end of Kalashnikovs.”
“Does Russia still make these?”
“I’m not sure, but nowadays they can be picked up anywhere for a song.”
“A song! That reminds me,” cries Jim, “which of the following statements is untrue. Stoats are animals with almost human fingernails. For two centuries the Austro-Hungarian official language was Chinese. You can afford an Assassin Javelin Jeep with leather upholstery, an inbuilt recording studio and all the trimmings. The Madagascar royal flag is an inverted hippo.”
“Er… the inverted hippo?”
Jim says triumphantly, “They’re all true! The most horribly abused single-parent pauper can now afford an Assassin Javelin Jeep thanks to an easy credit deal which lets anybody sell their children into domestic slavery.”
“Do all terms and conditions apply?” asks Bill.
“Of course!” is the glad reply. “The best jeep in the world is now within everybody’s reach, but I’d just like to put in another word for the Porridge Union…”
Linda has gradually stopped knitting and now flings down her needles and in a cold monotonous voice says, “Hell. Hell. Help.”
Their guest stares questioningly at her husband who murmurs, “I think she feels excluded from… from…”
“From our discourse?” whispers Bill. “Yes, my wife sometimes feels that when a friend calls, so I know what to do about it.” He coughs in an introductory way then says genially, “Here comes a very personal question Linda, but have you enjoyed the wonderful sensation of Gloria Vampa’s new make-up remover?”
“I don’t use make-up,” she tells him stonily.
“Then maybe it’s time you started! The surveillance society is here to stay, so why not wow the police watching you on closed circuit television cameras by looking like a new woman every day? And Maxine Hererra can make that easy.”
“Maxine Herrera of New York?” cries Jim.
“Yes,” says Bill, “Maxine Hererra of New York’s heart-shaped love-box has a new lipstick giving you the choice of sixty-nine distinctly glamorous shades and ninety-six luscious flavours, and the cost is only…”
Linda says desperately, “Fuck cosmetic advertising.”
Jim suggests, “Try something else.”
After a thoughtful pause Bill says, “Money, Linda! Money. You know, the former Federal Reserve Chairman tells us through the prism of the current situation we cannot turn a blind eye to the explosion of sub-prime mortgages, and the rapid growth of complex credit derivatives.”
“Can’t we?” asks Jim, astonished. “Imagine that Linda! What does it mean?”
“It means that history has never dealt kindly with the aftermath of protracted low-risk premiums, and the regulators will have to rely on counter-party surveillance to do the heavy lifting.”
Through gritted teeth she says, “Monetary jargon and cosmetic jargon are equally disgusting.”
Bill asks Jim, “Do you think she might join in if we discuss music?”
“Try it,” says Jim glumly, so Bill announces that his favourite radio station is Classic FM. To explain why he says, “You cannot beat Classic FM for really smooth, relaxing music sponsored by the British Savings Bank which is currently celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of premium bonds…” He falls silent because Linda is writhing in torment. Jim says, “Try health.”