Chapter 66: Where to Find a Class Representative?

“Did you get paid?”

Anderson had just unlocked the door when his wife’s anxious face appeared. Meeting her gaze, he glanced guiltily at the floor, then turned to bring in the boxes left outside. He answered irritably, “No.”

“No?” His wife’s skin, showing signs of neglect—nasolabial folds, crow’s feet, forehead wrinkles—looked dull and rough. Disappointment etched her face as she instinctively clasped her hands. “What will we do this month?”

Bills were about to arrive. If unpaid, they’d be flagged as high risk. One more default without covering the existing debt would trigger investigations by banks or companies. If investigators deemed them unable to pay, their installment-purchased items—even the house—would be auctioned off to repay debts.

Worse, once one company initiated an investigation, all companies involved in installment plans would follow, destroying families. Several neighbors had already been forced to sell their homes and move to worse, more dangerous areas filled with criminals, pimps, and others. For some, that place was hell; for others, it was paradise.

Anderson carried three cartons inside and sat on the sofa. His wife circled the boxes, asking, “What’s inside?”

His mind overloaded, Anderson snapped, “Stuff the factory gave instead of wages. Maybe you can ask neighbors if they want any. Better than wasting time here and stressing me out, don’t you think?”

They exchanged looks. She stayed, silently cleaning with a cloth.

Before Anderson returned, she’d already cleaned the house thoroughly. For most full-time housewives, aside from tending to kids and husbands, their options were limited: watch TV, chat with neighbors, clean, or sometimes cheat.

When her emotions hit a breaking point, she cleaned silently, isolating herself from the world until calm returned.

Anderson’s headache worsened watching her slip into this state. He felt like the real victim of cold silence. He wasn’t fond of his wife; their marriage was necessity, a common tragedy. Reality never bends to ideals. Only the wealthy and privileged have soil where ideals and romance can flourish.

Anderson left home, needing to clear his head and figure out next month’s plan.

Shortly after stepping out, a young man smiled and handed him a flyer.

Normally, Anderson would crumple such flyers into paper planes or trash them, but now restless, he focused on the flyer.

Gatner, instant payment!

Your friend can lend you thirty or fifty,

Your family can lend you three or five hundred,

Only we can lend you three thousand or thirty thousand!

Gatner, swift, quick, and instant!

A finance company flyer. Anderson almost tossed it, but paused—maybe they could solve his problem.

Soon, carrying the three cartons, Anderson arrived at the address in the flyer, on the edge of Sabin City’s downtown. Unlike other finance firms on city outskirts, this gave him a subtle sense of trust.

The place was crowded, the atmosphere charged—more intense than even earlier years of slower social development.

Though poor before, people had been fulfilled and didn’t worry about losing their jobs.

He looked toward rows of open-air contract tables and piles of collateral stacked like small mountains, sighing silently.

“Pay attention to market trends in this city and nearby towns—don’t be rigid…”

Lynch was discussing valuations with Mr. Fox, his son, and two assistants.

Valuation wasn’t a simple or casual task; it was complex.

The bank had valued some contracts at over three million, but Fox’s estimate approached four million. This excess could mean huge risk for Fox—though it wasn’t real.

But such errors cause many problems: loan amounts shrink, so Lynch had to teach them proper valuation to maximize their money.

“Sabin City lacks specialized consultants, so you must do this yourselves. If you can’t but are willing to pay, I can help,” Lynch said with a smile, always eager to please generous patrons.

“We must identify which items aren’t selling, which sell quickly, which to discount, and which to price higher. It’s a science!”

He scanned the room and suddenly pointed at Anderson’s direction. The four men followed his gaze.

“That man brought three identical, seemingly new items at once.”

“I bet they’re either stolen or used as collateral. So, we can be tough on pricing.”

“To check prices…,” Lynch pulled out a paper with over a dozen phone numbers.

“These are the top dealers in Sabin City. Anything legally sold here, you can verify its price with them.”

“Call and inquire about recent sales, then negotiate lower prices.”

“That way, you get the largest contracts for the least money, and I can raise more funds for you!”

Mr. Fox’s eyes gleamed. He felt his best decision ever was giving Lynch a chance to speak—he’d first thought Lynch was sent to cause trouble.

But Fox generously listened, sparking their partnership and Gatner Finance’s dramatic rise.

The company’s growth accelerated. Fox once considered inviting Anderson to invest but no longer.

Lately, Fox calculated that if all principal and interest were recovered, plus forfeited collateral, his wealth could hit ten million within two or three months.

He’d spent half a lifetime earning a couple million before—now it was just months.

He wouldn’t share such a fortune with Lynch; a service fee of one or two million was plenty.

Young men should know contentment—Lynch understood this well.

He looked increasingly satisfied with Lynch and finally glanced at his son. “You should learn more from our friend Lynch. Stop wasting time with those women, understood?”

Mr. Fox’s son felt awkward but nodded.

To them, Lynch was like a magician—a magician who could turn money into more money.