This is a shorter, dialogue-style section. The story alternates between the journal and these Interludes and I hired this is easier to read, digest and critique than the heavier journal entries.
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Part 2 - Interlude - Tuesday 8:29 am - 7 Jan
Smythe enters the rented office to find his contact, a man in his late 30’s by the name of Watts, placing along the window. There are papers and a large tablet in a pile on the table. The man frowns at his watch as Smythe sits down and takes out his own tablet and modest pile of paper.
As the time ticks over from 08:29 to 08:30 he says, “Good morning, thank you for being punctual.”
“Thank me…?” begins the man before choking back his words, “Yes, well, good morning. Let's get on with it shall we?”
“Quite,” he says, turning his document to the signature page and taking the lid from his pen.
“Wait a moment,” the man says, “We're not there yet. I've spoken with my partners and they have reservations.”
“Really,” he says, and in a level tone adds, “I am surprised.”
“Oh, that's nice,” the man paces once more, “You're surprised my partners and I have issues with this,” he says waving his hand dismissively at the paperwork.
“You raised no concerns on Sunday,” he says.
“Well, no but that was…”
“You did not even mention there were clauses you would query.”
“No, but…”
“Yet your partners have done so, probably yesterday, and you bring this to our meeting now.”
“Yes.”
“You didn't agree new wording with them and email it to me in advance.”
“No, b-…”
“Have you that wording here?”
“No, I have…”
“And these are the same partners I have met, who have quizzed me, researched me, produced the initial letters of intent, read this and other paperwork, done their due diligence and sent you to complete the deal.”
This time Smythe receives nothing but a frosty stare.
“Am I right in thinking your partners have left you to be ‘hands-on’ with this and are trusting you to deliver the deal.”
Another stare. A tight-lipped nod.
“And the clause being challenged is in fact one that affects you specifically, therefore your partners have given you leave to do so but they are apathetic towards it?”
Just the stare this time.
“I have done many such deals and I know the clause in question. It specifically limits the profits that can be taken from the business and sets a baseline for investment. That is correct?”
“Yes, it ties my hands!”
“It stops you being greedy.” He puts the lid on his pen and withdraws the paperwork, “I have done more than just my due diligence. Two previous business ventures were successes, but sold for much less than the capital invested. However, you did very well, using not the returned capital but your inflated salary and bonuses to move on to new ventures.”
“What are you saying?”
“That you have skill, but not with money. This clause removes temptation, the business will thrive and both you and your investors will be rewarded in time.”
“You're trying me like a child, how dare you?”
“I treat nobody like a child, not even children. I have found a need to correct a flaw in your business acumen to everyone's benefit.”
“It's outrageous, an insult!”
“Have you been instructed not to sign if you do not get satisfaction for this issue?”
Silence.
Smythe waits.
Eventually, “No.”
“So, refusing to sign now will just create a delay to signing.”
Silence again.
“And what might a delay do? I should say another delay. I am not the only underwriter you have approached, am I?”
A shake off the head.
“They were not so honest with you, were they.”
Silence again. Smythe picks up his pen once more.
“This deal will make you money. Work hard and it will make you rich by most men's standards. Work even harder and you will be free of men like me.”
He holds out the pen.
Five minutes of the meeting spent productively, Smythe thinks, followed by ten minutes of bluster, then we sign. A waste of time for a small man's ego, but a healthy margin. At least there was the satisfaction of bruising said ego, so it was not a total loss.
Smythe packs his things the moment his new client leaves, carefully measuring the time as he does so. On the way down the corridor he checks his emails and drafts a list of prompts for his man.
“Hello, Smith! My, aren’t you looking tired!”
He ignores the mispronunciation of his name as it is a voice he expected to hear.
“Jones,” Smythe says, sending the message he has just drafted, “Incorrect but please, continue.”
“Double tall on the way in,” Jones grins at him, “That's a lot of early morning caffeine. You're no spring chicken Smith, can't burn the candle at both ends any more.”
Jones’ fake Welsh accent grates on him. Jones was a nickname, godness knew why he had affected the accent as well.
“And how would you know this?”
“I saw you in Brewster's, didn't I?”
Smythe paused as he received the reply from his man. He didn't read it, it was only important the man had replied within thirty seconds of receipt. He could see Jones' broad grin in the corner of his eye.
“No, you did not.”
Jones just keeps grinning at him as he looks up from his tablet, “Course I did…”
“No, you weren't there. But Sandra was. She is correct, of course, but she isn't one to gossip. You should probably think less of my morning coffee and more of why she chose to tell you about it.”
“I reckon I'm onto something,” Jones presses on, trying to regain his stride, “You'd finished it by the time you walked in the lobby, you had. That's barely five minutes, that is. Must have had a thirst on to down it that quickly, I reckon.”
Jones annoyed him intensely but now Smythe has the man on the back foot he could relax and enjoy it a little. He returns to his tablet.
“You weren't in the lobby either, Jones, so you talked to Dustin on reception after taking to Sandra. I had finished my coffee outside and discarded the cup so as not to carry the thing past everyone while I searched for the right bin,” he does not look up, “What none of you seem to know is that Brewster's know me and my habits very well and put four ice cubes into my drink when it is made.”
He sent another email. Jones’ eyes had stopped smiling but he kept his grin fixed in place. Smythe could see the improvisation beginning.
“Well, when the lot in your next room see the bags under your eyes they'll know you're overdoing it,” he says.
Smythe looks up, “Then they will have something in common with you, although if they are there already they lack your other major talent.”
“What do you mean?” The grin was fading.
“Firstly,” he says, mockingly smoothing the skin under his eyes, “They will be as wrong as you are. Secondly, they must lack your incredible tardiness. According to the board your nine o’clock is in the North Wing, which is five minutes away.”
And with that he walks off leaving behind an exclamation of “Shit!” and some receding, muttered curses he was glad he did not have to hear clearly.
With only a moment's pause outside the door to the next rented office to check the time and the lower end of the stock market, he is satisfied his own timing is correct.
He opens the door and ignores the couple sitting nervously at the table. He produces the next small bundle of papers and places his tablet on the table, taking his seat just as the time ticks over from 08:59 to 09:00.
“Good morning,” he says, without pause for reply, “Shall we proceed?”
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