‘Oh yeah? And what might that be?’
‘I’m not stupid. I’ve seen what you sell. The little packets.’
Biggo’s eyes grew cold. ‘Pal, I hope this isn’t the start of some kind of shakedown. You’re playing with the wrong—’
Scott put up his hands. ‘No. Please. That’s not what I meant. I meant . . . look, I need to make some money.’
‘Don’t we all? Have you got a get-rich-quick scheme or something?’
‘I was hoping you might have.’
Biggo snorted. ‘You’ve got to be joking. Have you taken a proper look at those lads? Not exactly dripping with Rolex and Gucci are they?’
‘No, but I thought . . . well, if I could invest in something . . .’
‘An investment? You mean you’ve already got some money?’
‘Yes.’ Scott had to force himself not to tilt his head towards his car outside.
‘How much are we talking about?’
‘Couple of grand.’
Biggo stared at him. After what seemed like a full minute, he suddenly grinned. It made him appear even more ugly than usual.
‘That makes a difference.’
‘Does it?’
‘Course it does. You know the best way to make a shitload of money?’
‘No.’
‘Start off with a shitload of money. That’s how it works. Haven’t you noticed how the rich always get richer?’
Scott looked around. He felt awkward, out of his depth. He knew about cars; he didn’t know about drug dealing.
‘What kind of profit could I make?’
‘With a couple of grand? You could double that easy. Maybe more.’
Scott did some quick mental calculations. He didn’t want to risk the whole three thousand. But maybe two. Two would be okay. If he could double that – a conservative estimate according to Biggo – then that would be four, plus the thousand he kept back. Adding that to the money he had already paid brought it to a grand total of nine thousand, three hundred. That was pretty damn close to his 10K target. And if Biggo was as confident as he sounded, it might be even closer.
A cloud of suspicion crossed his mind.
‘Why don’t you do this?’ he asked. ‘I mean, keep doubling your profits?’
Biggo looked irritated. ‘I already told you. You need to start big to earn big. Nobody is interested in the loose change I’ve got in my pockets. The chickenfeed I make goes on weed and beer.’
Scott thought some more. He’d landed in an alien world without the right survival gear. Gut instinct was all he had to go on. That and a dash of desperation.
‘All right, let’s do it,’ he said.
Biggo laughed. ‘Let’s do what?’
Scott felt even more inept. ‘A deal. I want to make a deal. I can put in two grand.’
Biggo looked at him long and hard, then shook his head. ‘How do you think this works? You think you can just hand over two grand and then I buy product, sell it on, and give you four back? Name me one business that operates like that.’
Scott was glad of the dim lighting, because he knew his cheeks were burning.
‘All right. So how does it work?’
‘This is a market. Supply and demand; everyone in the chain takes a cut.’
‘That sounds . . . complicated.’
‘It’s the way it is. Factory workers get paid shit, but we end up paying a fortune for the things they make. I hardly ever went to school and even I know that.’
Scott glanced at his watch. The evening was ticking away. ‘Yeah, I know. What I meant was . . . I was hoping it would be simpler. Quicker.’
‘How quick, exactly?’
‘Today. Now.’
A guffaw of laughter this time. Enough to make Biggo’s mates look over, wondering what they might be missing out on.
‘Now? Like, right this minute? Jesus, you’re a dark horse, aren’t you?’
