I had a hunch the kind of business I had in mind would not be handled over the counter by a teller, and, sure enough when I inquired, I was ushered immediately through one of the brightly painted doors into a private office.
The individual facing me across the desk rose and extended a hand in greeting as I entered. He was impeccably dressed in a business suit of what could only be called a conservative cut. . . particularly for a Pervect, and he oozed a sincere warmth that bordered on oily. Green scales and yellow eyes notwithstanding, he reminded me of Grimble, the Chancellor of the Exchequer I had feuded with back at Possiltum. I wondered briefly if this was common with professional money guardians, everywhere . . . maybe it was something in a ledger paper. If so, it boded ill for my dealing today . . . Grimble and I never really got along.
“Come in, come in,” the individual purred. “Please, have a seat Mister . . . ?”
“Skeeve,” I said, sinking into the indicated chair. “And it’s just ‘Skeeve,’ not Mr. Skeeve.”
I had never been wild about the formality of “Mister” title, and after having it hissed at me by the police the night before, I was developing a positive aversion to it.
“Of course, of course,” he nodded, reseating himself. “My name is Malcolm.”
Perhaps it was his similarity to Grimble, but I was finding his habit of repeating himself to be a growing annoyance. I reminded myself that I was trying to court his favor and made an effort to shake the feeling off.
“. . . And how can we be of service to you today?”