by Mark Eller
A sour mood was on him. Past experience said there was only one cure.
He glared at a half-empty wine bottle and scoffed. Wine was weak. He needed brandy. Peach or apricot. Banana in a pinch. Anything would do just so long as Aaron could raise a glass to Doc Gunther and his missing friends in Last Chance.
* * *
The next day, Aaron transferred his supplies into his room in Billowby Manor. Then he went back to his apartment and transferred Patton and himself to a spot a couple hundred feet outside the manor's main gate.
Mistress Willow was prompt answering the bell. They only had to wait several minutes.
"May I help you?" She squinted at Aaron in a hopeless attempt to make out his features.
"Mistress Willow, I've loaned out my key. Could you open the gate for us?"
She leaned her head forward. "Who do I say is calling?"
"Tell them Mister Turner, the owner is calling."
The woman shook her head. "I'm afraid Mister Turner is not in. If you leave a message, I will pass it on to him when he returns."
Aaron smiled. "No, thank you. I'll return later."
"Thank you. " Turning, she hobbled back toward her chair. Aaron looked to Patton and shrugged.
Flicker
"Does she ever let anyone in?" Patton asked as they stood before the manor's front door.
"I'm told she has the occasional bad day. Today must be one of them," Aaron answered. The door opened before he touched its knob. "Good morning Mister Hodkins. How are things at Billowby Manor this morning?"
Hodkins sighed. "In a turmoil sir, what with the new people you hired taking up residence. Miss Adams and Miss Bentley are arguing over the menu. Mistress Buntson the younger is upset because Miss Bayne insists she will reside on the second floor, saying that she will clean her own rooms. Mister Jeffries refuses to turn in the key you loaned him. He regularly bypasses the services of Mistress Willow. She is upset about it and is not quite herself."
"I'll talk to Mister Jeffries," Aaron promised. He would need the key back so he could make duplicates for all his guests. "This is Mister Patton. He's my personal secretary and will be staying with us. Give him his choice of available rooms. Mister Patton, go with Mister Hodkins."
"As you will, sir."
Patton followed the butler into the great room. His lips turned in a doubtful frown as he took in the room's dilapidated condition. Aaron frowned as well. The disrepair was depressing. He would have to hire workmen and decorators to clean the place up.
Aaron went back outside and walked around to the rear of the house. The runabout was still where he had left it, but a few days in the weather had not been kind. The seat leather was already cracked, and some of the paint was peeling. The factory definitely needed major improvements in quality control before making its first sale.
He wheeled the runabout up to the gate where Mistress Willow slept in her chair with an umbrella propped over her head. Aaron snuck the gate key off her belt, unlocked the gate, and put the large key back so she would not miss it when she woke. When opened, the gate released a high pitched squeal. Mistress Willow didn't budge.
Aaron wheeled the runabout outside and shut the gate. The lock automatically latched behind him.
He asked for advice from a few people he encountered while riding. Most told him he wanted the Galesward Bank and Trust. Once he found the place, Aaron discovered the Bank and Trust was much smaller than the First National Bank, with two teller windows, only one of which was open. A single guard stood duty at the door.
Patiently taking his place in line, Aaron waited. The dozen people in front of him were a different class from those he had seen at the First National. These were common lower income working women and men. Their clothes were clean but worn. Many had hands bent fingered, callused, and stained by imbedded grime. Some bore prominent scars.
Aaron overheard several transactions while he waited. Most withdrew or deposited money, but he also heard one woman beg for more time on a loan. The teller locked her money drawer and disappeared for a few minutes. Upon returning, she smiled while telling the woman the president had agreed to a sixty day extension without accrued interest.
A friendly place, the teller knew every customer by name and treated them with courtesy whether they placed a deposit or owed the bank money. Aaron wanted to kiss her. She showed none of the shark-like characteristics of Amel Bearden.
When it was his turn, she looked on him with bright gray eyes, appraised him at a glance, and smiled openly.
"What can I do for you, chap?"
Smiling back, Aaron set his silver bars before her. One after another, he lined the ten bars up on the counter.
"I want to open an account. Half in savings, the other half in checking. I also want a checkbook before I leave."
Picking up one of the bars, she weighed it in her hand. "We don't have many people in here with a substantial account. Are you sure you don't mean to be at the First National? They provide more services and have a higher interest rate."
"Maybe they do," Aaron agreed. "I have an account there already. I plan on closing it. Attitude counts for more than size to me."
She looked at him appraisingly. "Okaaay. This will take a while. I close for a two hour lunch in a few minutes. Would you mind waiting until then? That way I won't inconvenience these others. "
Aaron glanced over his shoulder at the remaining people. Behind them, the guard had already locked the door.
The idea of having to wait to deposit a fortune in a third rate bank was strange. Most places would roll out the red carpet for a deposit this large. The teller seemed more concerned with not keeping her other customers waiting than she was with the possibility of losing a major client. In other words, she was willing to lose Aaron rather than inconvenience her regulars.
Her attitude impressed the hell out of him. If there was one thing he hated, it was people who were so full of themselves the welfare and convenience of others held little significance.
The teller watched him steadily, directly. She didn't appear nervous, apprehensive, or defiant.
Shrugging, Aaron raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "What can I do? Of course I'll wait. I'll even wait patiently."
"There's a chair in the back room."
"I'll stand," Aaron said. "My secretary tells me I need more exercise."
He moved over to the window overlooking the street. His runabout was getting curious looks, but most of the people passing by just glanced at it as they went about their business. The factory would have to set up a sales organization. Of course, Aaron would first have to train his employees to build a machine that held up for more than a few days.
Most of the people he saw walked past the bank. Only two cabs rumbled by, not unusual in an area where most people had little disposable income. He saw a honey wagon making its rounds, collecting containers of human waste left at the curb, leaving freshly cleaned containers behind. The man driving the wagon whistled and sometimes called cheerfully to the people around him.
Aaron envied the fellow because he appeared to enjoy what he was doing. His job might not be glamorous, but it was necessary. He served a purpose.
"Sir?" the guard said.
Aaron peered over his shoulder to see nobody stood in line. The guard gestured toward the teller.
"Thank you."
Opening a half door, the teller invited him to follow her to the back office.
When he stepped inside, Aaron saw only the teller. It occurred to him the superior she had been reporting to was a polite fiction. The person making decisions had been this woman.
Aaron settled into a well worn guest chair while she sat behind the desk, pulled out a scale, and placed the silver bars on it. After spending a few moments playing with the counterweights, she looked up at Aaron, one eyebrow raised.
"Ten pounds exactly, according to the scale. We're looking at two hundred thousand sovereigns if your silver is pure."
"It's pure," Aaron assured he
r.
"You do realize this has to be converted over? I'll have to take it to the ministry offices, have them weigh it and test it for purity, and then receive sovereigns in exchange. I'd normally charge a five percent fee. For something this size, I can make it half of one percent. No, that's still too much. I'll need to hire four guards, and they don't hire out for less than a day at a time. That will cost eight gold to get bonded people, four sovereigns in the new money. Maybe another two sovereigns for my time and two for the bank. Eight in all. Will this be fair?"
"Not really," Aaron told her. "The standard commission is naturally too large for a transaction of this size. Still, a commission is customary. Perhaps you could take the half of one percent. If the bank doesn't need it, the money can be applied to some of your outstanding loans."
She appeared startled. "One thousand sovereigns. Surely it's too much."
"It usually would be," Aaron agreed. "Unfortunately, I'm hungry, and that makes me impatient."
Pulling out a ledger, she began writing. After two minutes, she took out a small book and filled in its front page. Pulling open a large drawer, she lifted out one of Isabella's recent inventions, a typewriter, and inserted a blank check.
"What name do I put this under?"
"Aaron Turner."
She typed furiously for five minutes on several checks, returned to the ledger, and then to the small book. Finally, she turned the ledger toward him.
"Please read this and then sign it."
The paper said he had deposited one hundred and ninety-nine thousand sovereigns into the Galesward Bank and Trust, and he paid to the bank a one thousand sovereign conversion fee. It also said these figures were preliminary. The true amounts would be noted after his deposit had been verified. His account number was T003123. The checks were free.
Aaron signed his name. She signed hers beneath it, Dawn Rayson. She handed him his checkbook.
"There are only a few checks in there. I'll make up more tonight. Are you still hungry?"
"As a bear."
From another drawer, she pulled out a paper sack. Opening it, she peered inside and smiled. "How does half a cheese sandwich and a half cup of tea sound?"
* * *
Back at the First National, Amel Bearden peered at Aaron through thick lenses. Her thin face looked paper dry as she studied the check he had given her.
Aaron smiled. He felt pretty good.
"You did not need to get a loan from that other place, Mister Turner. We could have worked something out. You only stand to lose by this transaction."
"It's my belief I've lost plenty already," Aaron told her.
"Yes, that has been brought to my attention. It was very foolish of you to hire both an accountant and a lawyer. A man of your limited means has little to throw around on pointless expenses."
Aaron nodded agreement. "You're probably right, but I had nothing to do with those other two. They were retained and are being paid by Miss Bivins."
Her eyes drew together. "I doubt that, since she is presently in Isabella. Tell me, is there no way I can convince you to forget this foolishness with the Bank and Trust? Perhaps we could extend you a line of credit and forgive your loan for another six months."
Aaron sat quiet for a moment, thinking. "No, I'm afraid not. Frankly, I'm impressed with Mistress Rayson. She struck me as uncommonly forthright and honest."
"Common and pedestrian is a better description," Bearden muttered.
Aaron shrugged. "Isn't that what I just said?"
"How about if we forgive a quarter of your debt?"
"How about not? Just hand me the papers to sign."
She sighed. "All right then. If this is what you want. Wait here for a few minutes."
She pushed back her chair and rose, the first time Aaron saw her standing. She was at least half a dozen inches taller than him.
Aaron waited for far more than the few promised minutes. He was forty-five minutes into an afternoon snooze before the opening door woke him. Mistress Bearden dropped a thick pile of papers on the desk and resumed her seat.
"Just sign your name at the bottom of every page and we will be done with this foolishness."
Aaron flipped quickly through at least forty sheets. Each was covered with very, very small print. It wasn't as bad as he first thought. Half of the sheets were labeled customer copy.
Still, it was bad enough.
Separating the top sheet from the rest, Aaron began reading.
"Mister Turner! My time is valuable. I do not have all day. Please sign the papers and pay off your loan."
"Sorry," Aaron said while flipping to the next page. "My grandpap, he told me never to sign nothing I ain't read. The only time he failed to read what he was signing, he wound up married to my grandma. Could you bring me a dictionary? I need to look up a few words."
She held a pencil, tapping it impatiently on her desk. "Just sign the papers or I'll refuse to honor your check. I rather doubt the place has enough money to cover it."
"Possibly not," Aaron agreed as he picked up a second page. A knock sounded at the door, and Amel Bearden's pencil snapped.
Mister Jeffries and Miss Bayne stepped into the office. "We were told we must talk to you before we can see the president. We have a court order directing you to free all information pertaining to--Mister Turner?"
Aaron waved cordially. "Glad to see you both. I'm paying off my loan. Care to help me read these papers?"
"Those papers are confidential," Bearden snapped. She tried to pull them from Aaron's hands, but Aaron jerked them away and handed them to Jeffries. Accepting them, Jeffries smiled from ear to ear.
"Certainly a lot of pages for a simple loan payoff," he noted while quickly leafing through them. "This will take some time, but I swear the next to last page looks like an agreement to hand over property to cover an existing debt."
Mistress Bearden looked upset. "Let me see. There must have been an error when the papers were drawn up."
"I'm sure there's been more than one error," Aaron agreed. "Mister Jeffries, did Miss Bivins pass my power of attorney on to you?"
"Yes, sir, she did, pending your approval."
"I hereby officially approve, and I'll sign papers to that effect as soon as you hand them to me. Now, why don't you finish up for me here? I'm too tired to deal with these matters right now."
Jeffries' smile was so predatory he should have owned shark teeth. "I will be glad to handle this matter for you."
* * *
Turner Fabrication was full up when Aaron finally arrived. The scrap had been sorted into various useful piles, and people were cleaning their work areas. Not a single person tried to build a runabout. Nothing was being bent or drilled or filed or brazed. No one fabricated a seat.
Aaron was delighted--until Patton grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Have you any idea what you've been doing to me. I had no idea where you were. For all I knew, you could have been kidnapped or dead. The only thing I could think of was to come here."
Aaron shrugged the hand off his shoulder and fought an unreasonable surge of anger. He supposed the man had a point. Patton's job was to be a bodyguard, and the job probably became difficult when there was no body to guard.
"It won't happen again. You didn't have a runabout so you couldn't have kept up with me. We'll pick one out for you and see if you can ride it home. I think you'll find the experience interesting. I know I will. Mister Grebfax, how is everything going?"
Face dirty, Grebfax came to greet them. Sweat dripped off his hair as he handed Aaron a clipboard.
"We found twelve qualified people. Five have been contacted, and four agreed to your terms. The fifth insisted on being paid twice what you're offering. We said forget it. Two of the four who accepted are brazers, so we should be set there. One is a metal smith, and the other is his apprentice."
"Good work. " Aaron had hoped for better but felt pleased at what they had found so far. "Get as many of the others as you can so long as the
y're willing to work for the pay we offer, and see if the list can be expanded. I don't care if we end up with one trainer for every employee by the end of this. Have everyone train for one specific job for now, but keep in mind they should pick up other skills later on. Do we have an engineer or designer on the payroll?"
Grebfax shook his head. "Not specifically, no. Miss Tremont is very good at drawing, but it's only a hobby. However, the metal smith who's coming in has done some independent design work that might be considered engineering related."
"Let me speak to Miss Tremont."
Grebfax led Aaron through the factory. Several people stopped what they were doing to give him a tentative smile. He nodded, smiled briefly, or stopped to speak a few words. For the most part, they seemed fresher than when he last saw them, and they moved less sluggishly. Amazing what a few days of rest could do.
Miss Tremont proved to be a woman of twenty-five or six who had the shortest hair Aaron had ever seen on a woman in this world. He found her fascinating to look at even though there was not one particularly striking thing about her face. All of her features were just a tad shy of normal. Her eyes were not quite blue, and one was set slightly higher than the other. Her face was thin, but her nose was thick. Her neck was long and aristocratically delicate, while her chin was heavy and blunt.
At first her appearance appeared strange, but when she looked up at them and smiled, the entire ensemble of mismatched parts shifted until she became nothing but exotic.
"Mister Turner, Mister Grebfax. "
She tried to wave away Aaron's handshake. "My hands are dirty."
"I don't care," Aaron said. He grabbed her hand and gave it a firm shake. She had a strong grip. "Mister Grebfax tells me you draw as a hobby."
"Sometimes," she admitted. "Sometimes I paint. I've sold a couple things to some minor art dealers."
"Do you think you could come up with some new designs for the runabouts? Something that will appeal to kids and maybe a few different things for men and women. Play with the colors and stuff. It will have to be done in your spare time for the next couple weeks while we're training. I'd prefer you not do much of it at home, but if you do, I'll pay for your time."