Making Money

happen.”
    Sacharissa bent down to pat Mr. Fusspot on his little head, and froze in mid-bend.
    “What has he got in his—?” she began.
    “Sacharissa, can we go into this later? I really have not got time for it right now. I swear by any three gods you believe in, even though you are a journalist, that when this is over I will give you a story that will tax even the Times’ ability to avoid inelegant and suggestive subjects. Trust me.”
    “Yes, but it looks like a—” she began.
    “Ah, so you do know what it is and I don’t need to explain,” said Moist briskly.
    He handed the paper back to its worried owner. “You are Mr. Cusper, aren’t you?” he said. “You have a balance of seven Ankh-Morpork dollars with us, I believe?” For a moment the man looked impressed. Moist was really good at faces. “I told you we aren’t bothered about gold here,” said Moist.
    “Yeah, but…” the man began. “Well, it’s not much of a bank if people can take the gold out of it, is it?” he said.
    “But it doesn’t make any difference,” said Moist. “I did tell you all.”
    They looked uncertain. In theory, they should be stampeding up the steps. Moist knew what was holding them back. It was hope. It was the little voice inside that said: This isn’t really happening. It was the voice that drove people to turn out the same pocket three times in a fruitless search for lost keys. It was mad belief that the world is bound to start working properly again if I truly believe, and there will be keys. It was the voice that said “This can’t be happening” very loudly, in order to drown out the creeping dread that it was.
    He had about thirty seconds, while hope lasted.
    And then the crowd parted. Pucci Lavish did not know how to make an entrance. Harry King, on the other hand, did. The milling, uncertain throng opened up like the sea in front of a hydrophobic prophet, leaving a channel that was suddenly lined on either side by large, weathered-looking men with broken noses and a useful cross-section of scars. Along this recent avenue strode Harry King, trailing cigar smoke. Moist managed to stand his ground until Mr. King was a foot away, and made sure to look him in the eye.
    “How much money did I put in your bank, Mr. Lipwig?” asked Harry.
    “Er, I believe it was fifty thousand dollars, Mr. King,” said Moist.
    “Yes, I believe it was something like that,” said Mr. King. “Can yer guess what I am going to do now, Mr. Lipwig?”
    Moist did not guess. The Splot was still circulating in his system, and, in his brain, the answer clanged like a funeral bell. “You’re going to put some more in, aren’t you, Mr. King?”
    Harry King beamed, as if Moist was a dog that had just done a new trick. “That’s right, Mr. Lipwig! I thought to myself, Harry, I thought, fifty thousand dollars seems a bit on the lonely side, so I’ve come along to round it up to sixty thousand dollars.”
    On signal, some more of Harry King’s men came up behind him, carrying large chests between them. “Most of it’s gold and silver, Mr. Lipwig,” said Harry. “But I know you got lots of bright young men who can count it all up for you.”
    “This is very kind of you, Mr. King,” said Moist, “but at any minute the auditors are going to come back and the bank is going to be in big, big trouble. Please! I can’t accept your money.”
    Harry leaned closer to Moist, enveloping him in cigar smoke and a hint of decayed cabbage. “I know you’re up to something,” he whispered, tapping the side of his nose. “The bastards are out to get you, I can see that! I know a winner when I sees one, and I know you’ve got something up your sleeves, eh?”
    “Just my arms, Mr. King, just my arms,” said Moist.
    “And long may you keep them,” said Harry, slapping him on the back.
    The men filed past Moist and deposited their cases on the floor.
    “I don’t need a receipt,” said Harry. “You know me, Mr. Lipwig. You know you can trust me, just like I know I can trust you.”
    Moist shut his eyes, just for a moment. To think that he had worried about ending the day hanging.
    “Your money is safe with me, Mr. King,” he said.
    “I know,” said Harry King. “And when you’ve won the day, I’ll send young Wallace along and he’ll have a little chat with your monkey about how much interest I’m gonna get paid on this little lot, all right? Fair’s fair?”
    “It certainly is, Mr. King.”
    “Right,” said