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Business is Business

Cigar smoke and Conversation

By Obsidian WordsPublished 3 years ago 7 min read
1

His trepidation is evident as his restless eyes linger for only moments on every element within the room. His thoughts displayed carelessly in his expression; discomfort, disdain, disinterest - disaster. He may not be playing poker but he has revealed his hand in the form of a royal flush that has crept up his neck and tints his cheeks with violent rouge. I’ve spent long enough reading people to know the suit well, the diamond edge of frustration distilled in the bitterness of his own lack of power - no chance of a win here and he knows it but even with the cards dealt he tries to deny it, to defy it.

I hide my smirk with my whiskey and wait until the moment is perfectly ripe, until the room holds the sweet edge of uncomfortable silence and the tension forms a taste all on its own. I run my tongue along the edge of my teeth, savouring the lingering hint of smoke from the liquor, relishing the warmth in my chest. Nothing pairs better than an aged drink and languid anticipation.

~

They talk about controlling a room, commanding it. You can pay for walls and carpet, you can even own the souls of those who walk the floor but owning the room is all about respect. Gorvetti had lost it all and it couldn’t be more obvious, it was evident in every shifting glance, every unoffered handshake, every empty seat that cluttered the room.

Gorvetti’s wife was not the subservient type, she never took his shit - didn’t take it from anyone, and people knew it. She had earned most of that respect, and most of the fear that accompanied it, the day she shot her own father after discovering the abuse her mother had suffered at his hand for years. That was the day she became the head of the house and the company, it had run better ever since.

Gorvetti may have loved her but their marriage was political and everyone knew it, most believed that there was never any love between them at all but simply a mutually beneficial agreement. Gorvetti looked more impressive being tied to a woman of powerful repute - a power he could never achieve on his own, and Sibbion would get rid of the line of suitors trying to get into her coffers or grip her coattails to success.

To no one's surprise, the arrangement had not lasted. Three years of curious observation and whispers of their split had spread like wildfire. Everyone now stood in the smouldering ruin waiting for it to be made official.

That is where I come in.

~

I downed the last of my drink and made my way over to the small gathering of cigar smoke and conversation that congregated in the corner.

“Mr. Gorvetti.” I called as I approached, my voice warmed by the whiskey rang across the short distance. The tension grew taught amongst those who had gathered as I sauntered over to them; my reputation must precede me.

“Mr. Curtis, what a pleasant surprise.” His voice held an edge and his cordial words hid the true question of ‘why the fuck are you here?’ but politics often gets left between the lines and I was happy to act the part.

“May I have a moment?” I inclined my head in the direction of his office door. He hesitated then laughed with empty humour and clapped his hand on my shoulder.

“Anything you need to discuss can be done at the bar, old friend.” If I were not skilled at composure I may have cringed visibly at his display, many of his compatriots didn’t hide their judgement quite so well. His concern had made him foolish, his fear had made him down write stupid. I shrugged, it was not my concern if he dug himself a deeper grave than necessary. His back was bunched tight as he and his two right-hand men walked to the bar whilst I strolled behind them at a leisurely pace.

I cased the room as I walked, feigning disinterest as I read the postures of those around us. Almost everyone in this room knew who I was, or at the very least my line of business, and all of them were desperate to know why I was here.

“Two, neat.” Gorvetti called to the barkeep before sitting on a stool and indicating to the one beside him. I took the seat and the drink, savouring the woody tannins before it flamed its way down my throat. Mid-shelf, either the barkeep was an idiot or Gorvetti had shit taste, but I was most definitely a borderline alcoholic and would drink it regardless.

Without looking at me, his grim expression focussed on the back wall full of liquor, he took a sip, followed by a deep exhale and then asked, “Why are you here Curtis?”

“Business.” He knew that, he knew that I would never be seen dead here for anything else. The real question was what tangent of ‘business’ was I here for, but if he was going to avoid direct questions I was going to avoid direct answers. Instead I pulled a folder from my case and slid it across the counter to him. He looked at the blank front, took another sip and flipped it open. His jaw clenched when he read the title on the documents before slamming the folder shut.

“What the fuck Curt?” He tried to keep his voice low but it failed to settle on one emotion. Relief that it wasn’t a call for my traditional line of business clashed with the anger at what I was here for.

“Like I said, it’s just business.” My nonchalance only fuelled his anger.

“Bullshit, why the fuck would she send you for this?” He demanded before downing the rest of his drink and flagging for another.

“You know why Bill, don’t make this worse.” I tried to keep the boredom from my voice but this wasn’t my game and eventually the amusement would wear down to annoyance, I wanted it over before I reached that point. There is only so much patience money will grant me and I have always been short on change.

“You were mine Curtis, damnit.” He finished the new drink too and nearly broke the glass as he all but dropped it back onto the bar in his tantrum.

“Fuck off Bill, you know I don’t belong to any of you, now sign the damn papers before you really piss me off.” I was down to pennies.

I knew this wouldn’t be a particularly tidy contract, but I didn’t think it had so much potential to get messy. I would only take so much disrespect before I reminded whoever had crossed me exactly how I had earned my reputation. I waited, sipping my drink and tapping my foot.

Sibbion paid well and that was a language I listened to, because of that she held my respect. She was also ruthless, like me, if you pissed her off you knew about it and she would understand the consequences if Gorvetti pushed me too far, honestly she might even be grateful. Gorvetti had really pissed her off and that anger had already earned him a public collection for his signature on his divorce papers in his own club, I’d loathe to be him and risk creating collateral that angered her further. Sibbion wasn’t just ruthless, she was thorough, that is why she had sent me.

“Then why send you, unless she wanted to make this personal?” His defeated tone told me he didn’t need an answer but I felt obliged to rub salt into the wound after his attempt to claim me like a pet.

“This is personal Gorvetti, you made it personal when you fucked another woman, now sign the papers so I can leave.” I punctuated my statement by finishing my drink and placing a pen on the folder. After all, why would you send a private contractor to deliver divorce papers to your soon-to-be ex husband? It was a display of power, a message to everyone, and a warning. Sibbion had played her cards well and Gorvetti knew it. This, a public call-out, had the potential to ruin him and stood to remind everyone else not to fuck with her because she would surely bury the next person who crossed her.

Gorvetti had learned the hard way that a side piece always cost too much in the end; no matter how good it isn’t worth your life. You could see the wash of emotions bleed through him as the ink bled through the pen to spell out his signature.

‘Tis hard to fall from grace, it is harder still for those who never beheld it.’ My mothers words came to mind as I collected the paperwork and left Gorvetti to slum on the bar stool and wallow in his self pity.

I didn’t even try to hide my smirk as I sauntered away - I may not own a single soul within this room but I could say for certain that not one of them had a hold on mine.

Short Story
1

About the Creator

Obsidian Words

Fathomless is the mind full of stories.

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