consultancy fees. No two per cent commission. No lifeboat.
Shit.
“Or do you just feel caught?”
I sighed. Whittington was topping up my wine glass.
“You really want to know?” I said.
“Even more than I want to know where you got that rather fabulous tie from.”
So I thought about it for a silent minute, the restaurant around us fading to quiet, and then really told him.
If you’re wondering why I bothered, why I didn’t just tell the mad old fool to get stuffed, head back to the shop and begin nailing out-of-business signs over the windows, then I’ll tell you. And I can be sure of this because I’ve spent a great deal of time recently asking myself that very question.
It was because … hell, because the truth was I didn’t feel guilty. I knew I should. But I didn’t. Even with him sitting there in front of me. I mean he’d come into my shop, yelling, shoving, shouting the odds. Criticising this, pointing at that, knocking over displays. And despite her protests during our massage, I had Jane to support. A young family to think of.
Frankly, it had served him right.
“Of course it served him right,” and my host gave a shiver of disgust. “I’m surprised you went as easy on him as you did. Most people just hide the Siegel & Shuster under their desk and throw me out.”
“ Most people ?”
“Whereas Whittington ? You wouldn’t dream of swindling him , correct? You, Neil Martin, like most, have decided to treat the world depending on how it treats you first. With either contempt or courtesy depending on whether it’s a Rudy or a Whittington. Good, good,” and with a smile and a twinkle and a little nod, that seemed to be that. He clicked his finger to beckon over our waiter, whom I watched as he bowed smartly and wafted off for the sweet trolley. When my eyes fell back on the table, a stiff brown envelope had appeared between us.
“To beeswax then,” Whittington said. “I require, as I mentioned at the outset, your help. If you will, a hand . I have in my possession –” and he paused, weighing the words, placing two flat palms on the envelope, “an item of interest.”
I licked my lips.
“Valuable?”
“Bahh, schmaluable. The trick, poppet, is not in finding an item of value. But in finding a customer who values your item. But if this satisfies your curiosity, a short correspondence with a friendly gavel-wielder has fenced off a sterling ballpark of high six figures. But only if –”
And he stopped mid flow, the waiter approaching the table, gliding a silver trolley across the rug. We sat in silence while he talked us through the spread in a clipped public school brogue, Whittington pointing at the cheesecake, which was sliced and served. The waiter wheeled off and Whittington resumed.
“… if waved about in a room full of the right people, of course. Mmmn, dig in dear fellow.”
“Can I ask what it is?” I munched.
“What it is , old chum, is for sale . Which is where I’m hoping Neil Martin and his Brigstock Place emporia de retrograde might come in. Mmmn! Didn’t I tell you? This cheesecake is to die for. I shouldn’t really,” Whittington said, licking his lips and delving in again, “but I had to. A man called Grayson – dealer like you – told me if I was ever here I was to try it.”
“You want me to display this thing in my shop?”
Whittington continued to munch.
“Where I guarantee it will be snapped up within hours . Now, naturally I wouldn’t … mmn this biscuit, dreamy. Naturally I wouldn’t expect you to do this for nothing, little chum. So what do you say? What’s fair?”
My heart began to thud, hope rising in my chest. I concentrated on my fork, slippy in a clammy grip.
“Shall we say, what? Twenty per cent of whatever you can get for it? How’s your dessert by the way? Isn’t it divine ?”
Well I mean . The dessert might have been divine. Or it might have been turds and biscuits. At that point, my head was suddenly, and
Shit.
“Or do you just feel caught?”
I sighed. Whittington was topping up my wine glass.
“You really want to know?” I said.
“Even more than I want to know where you got that rather fabulous tie from.”
So I thought about it for a silent minute, the restaurant around us fading to quiet, and then really told him.
If you’re wondering why I bothered, why I didn’t just tell the mad old fool to get stuffed, head back to the shop and begin nailing out-of-business signs over the windows, then I’ll tell you. And I can be sure of this because I’ve spent a great deal of time recently asking myself that very question.
It was because … hell, because the truth was I didn’t feel guilty. I knew I should. But I didn’t. Even with him sitting there in front of me. I mean he’d come into my shop, yelling, shoving, shouting the odds. Criticising this, pointing at that, knocking over displays. And despite her protests during our massage, I had Jane to support. A young family to think of.
Frankly, it had served him right.
“Of course it served him right,” and my host gave a shiver of disgust. “I’m surprised you went as easy on him as you did. Most people just hide the Siegel & Shuster under their desk and throw me out.”
“ Most people ?”
“Whereas Whittington ? You wouldn’t dream of swindling him , correct? You, Neil Martin, like most, have decided to treat the world depending on how it treats you first. With either contempt or courtesy depending on whether it’s a Rudy or a Whittington. Good, good,” and with a smile and a twinkle and a little nod, that seemed to be that. He clicked his finger to beckon over our waiter, whom I watched as he bowed smartly and wafted off for the sweet trolley. When my eyes fell back on the table, a stiff brown envelope had appeared between us.
“To beeswax then,” Whittington said. “I require, as I mentioned at the outset, your help. If you will, a hand . I have in my possession –” and he paused, weighing the words, placing two flat palms on the envelope, “an item of interest.”
I licked my lips.
“Valuable?”
“Bahh, schmaluable. The trick, poppet, is not in finding an item of value. But in finding a customer who values your item. But if this satisfies your curiosity, a short correspondence with a friendly gavel-wielder has fenced off a sterling ballpark of high six figures. But only if –”
And he stopped mid flow, the waiter approaching the table, gliding a silver trolley across the rug. We sat in silence while he talked us through the spread in a clipped public school brogue, Whittington pointing at the cheesecake, which was sliced and served. The waiter wheeled off and Whittington resumed.
“… if waved about in a room full of the right people, of course. Mmmn, dig in dear fellow.”
“Can I ask what it is?” I munched.
“What it is , old chum, is for sale . Which is where I’m hoping Neil Martin and his Brigstock Place emporia de retrograde might come in. Mmmn! Didn’t I tell you? This cheesecake is to die for. I shouldn’t really,” Whittington said, licking his lips and delving in again, “but I had to. A man called Grayson – dealer like you – told me if I was ever here I was to try it.”
“You want me to display this thing in my shop?”
Whittington continued to munch.
“Where I guarantee it will be snapped up within hours . Now, naturally I wouldn’t … mmn this biscuit, dreamy. Naturally I wouldn’t expect you to do this for nothing, little chum. So what do you say? What’s fair?”
My heart began to thud, hope rising in my chest. I concentrated on my fork, slippy in a clammy grip.
“Shall we say, what? Twenty per cent of whatever you can get for it? How’s your dessert by the way? Isn’t it divine ?”
Well I mean . The dessert might have been divine. Or it might have been turds and biscuits. At that point, my head was suddenly, and
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