The Negotiation

A Thursday Prompt story
© 2017 by Walter Reimer


Prompt word: Thousand



The room smelled largely of cigar smoke. The smoke was at least of a high quality, coming from the finest Cuban tobacco meticulously paw-rolled (it was said) on a virgin’s thigh. There were other smells in the room; smells of well-maintained oiled leather, rich wood, a whiff of brandy fumes coming from a pair of snifters. The light in the room glittered off the delicate glass of the snifters and picked out highlights in the dark wood paneling.

The wolf behind the desk reached out a chubby paw, gently cupped the snifter, and brought the glass to his nose. His palm and fingers warmed the swelling belly of the glass, pregnant with its golden-brown cargo, before raising it to his nose, taking a gentle sniff of it before moistening his lips. The lights glittered on small items of jewelry; cufflinks, a diamond stickpin, a signet ring bearing his family crest carved on the square stone.

The crest matched the small plaque on one wall of the room: argent on a chevron gules, three wolves’ heads regardant azure.

The lupine lowered the snifter and raised a single eyebrow at the canine seated across from him. “Come sir,” he said affably in a deep, rumbling basso profundo. “Once the liquor is poured, it must be drunk.”

The Scottish deerhound smiled. He didn’t need to say that he was waiting until the grossly fat wolf in the expensive suit had drunk first, but he didn’t need to. It was an expected part of the etiquette of the meeting. Now he reached out and picked up the snifter, bringing it close to mull it gently before taking a sip. “Fine brandy, my Lord,” his voice showing no sign of a Highland burr. In fact, he had no accent at all, his English very precise. “But then, I’d expect nothing else.”

“Indeed. I do appreciate a certain delicacy, sir,” and a finger reached out to brush a tip against a single sheet of paper on the desk, “which makes this article rather disharmonious.”

“My retainer, my Lord.”

“A thousand pounds, for a mere retainer? Gad, sir, you rate yourself rather high.”

Again, the smile, and the deerhound said, “My services are much in demand, and thus my retainer must reflect that. My Lord,” and he took another sip of his drink.

The slight hesitation wasn’t lost on the wolf, who filed it away for future reference. He would crush this one, by and by. As it was, he had the upper paw for now.

For now.

The wolf steepled his paws. “You are, of course, familiar with my current . . . situation.”

“Yes, my Lord. You and your sister are due before the Court of the King’s Bench in two weeks. Your petition to be tried before the Lords was denied by His Majesty.” The canine took another sip of brandy. “Of course, you are under police surveillance. I take it that you have made the proper preparations?” he asked in an almost insinuating tone.

The wolf smirked. “Those were made long ago, along with certain other arrangements.” He allowed himself a look at the view from his windows as the clock in the hall chimed the hour. In the distance, the smokestacks of his family’s factories spiked the silhouette of the industrial port city of Barrow-in-Furryness, under a leaden Cumbrian sky. “In a way, I think I may miss this place. Still,” and he rubbed his fleshy paws together, “a change of scenery is required. A more salubrious climate, what?”

“As you say, my Lord. My, ah, retainer?” the deerhound gently prompted.

His host nodded and took his checquebook from a desk drawer. A glance at the ledger showed that there was precisely one thousand pounds remaining in his account, the rest having been carefully and slowly abstracted over the past months. Certain trusted people had placed the funds in secure accounts in Switzerland, which would be at least one of his and Susan’s stops.

He reached for the inkstand, opening the pot and dipping a silver-barreled fountain in the crimson fluid. He filled the checque out swiftly, adding a flourishing paraph to his signature, then sprinkling a bit of fine sand on the document. “Everything is ready, of course?” the wolf asked as he blew the excess sand away and extended the checque toward the deerhound, who took it.

The deerhound smiled, placing the checque into a leather briefcase that had earlier sat at his feet. “Of course, my Lord. Everything is arranged, and the police will be properly distracted in order to spirit you and your sister out of the country.” He took a last sip of brandy, set the snifter on the desk and stood. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, my Lord. We will not meet again, but I am leaving you in the paws of my man Coleridge.”

The fat wolf chuckled. “An ancient mariner, eh?” He hoisted himself out of his chair and walked with the deerhound to the front hall. The canine allowed the butler to help him with his overcoat, and he took his Homburg and umbrella from the butler’s paw. “You will forgive me if I do not step to the threshold to bid you farewell, sir, but the police are undoubtedly watching.”

“Of course. However, it should be simple to avoid them. Farewell, my Lord,” and the man made his way down the front steps of the townhouse.

The wolf made his slow way to the ground floor living room and gazed up at the portraits of his ancestors. Some had made their way honestly, while others had achieved fortune and furthered the family’s influence through betrayal, corruption, and other less savory activities. He felt that they were passing judgment on him, but would understand the necessity of leaving Britain.

He allowed himself a smile and sketched a salute at his assembled forebears before waddling into the drawing room for his luncheon. If nothing else, his family were survivors.

The words of the old poem followed him: ”And a thousand thousand slimy things / Lived on; and so did I. “




End