For every action

An excerpt

“YOU’VE BEEN SERVED,” the biker said, planting the envelope down on the restaurant table. “Princess,” he added for emphasis. Heads turned, peering through the palm fronds at the tall, thin, leather clad man, as out of place as a tiger would have been in this exclusive French restaurant where every face was either famous or sitting next to one. Tiffany twisted around as the courier’s motorcycle boots banged across the Provencal tiles. She noticed two waiters, rocking hesitantly back and forth on their heels, looking nervously at each other as much as the biker, hoping he was heading directly to the doors. Only once he’d left, the noise from his boots clattering down the marble steps onto the street, did normal lunchtime chatter return but not without disapproving glances shot at Tiffany.

“Whatever could this be?” she breezed lightly at the man opposite. He made a neutral face.

Privately, she didn’t feel so cool. Nobody had told her that afterwards it would be like this. All those You go girl’s and rounds of applause as she stood in front of the courts, cameras clicking, microphones thrusting had rather faded away. Along with far more, things that really mattered, counted. Those reporters urging her, pushing her into it, banging their drum on and on about striking a blow for women, against exploitation, all that twaddle she didn’t actually give a fig about, they hadn’t warned her what it would cost.

Even the men wining and dining her had declined, in number and quality. Last year, she could have free lunched every day. This one must be fifty, hopefully no more than that, and what a belly. He didn’t look like a casting director either. And that wasn’t all. Men, even civilians just walking by her on the street, made a show of giving her a wide berth, swerving or feinting to make sure they didn’t even appear to brush against her. And yesterday, when she’d walked into her apartment’s lift, a man, quite a tasty one too, had walked straight out, to wait in the lobby for the next one.

* * *

“Thanks for coming in,” DeBrett said to Finagle, pointing him at a pair of winged chairs, upholstered in the same colours as the room’s other soft furnishings, as he came round his desk to shake hands. DeBrett took one of the chairs before Finagle could choose. “Pot of coffee,” he told the secretary. “Tasty,” he winked at Finagle as the door was closing. “But when this, you know, this thing we have planned pays off, I’ll hire identical twins. There are agencies who’ll find them for you, you know.”

Finagle nodded but said nothing.

“I expect you’re heartily sick of legal chambers, eh? Each time you come out of one, you’re another million light?” DeBrett tried for light-hearted. Finagle made a neutral hum.

“Your secretary mentioned,” he began, “though she was remarkably stingy with details, an investment into a fund that may return some of my money to me.”

DeBrett was instantly all business. “We have nine investors already on board. Our projected cash flow analysis requires one more. Then we’ll start. Although we have already several avenues lined…”

“Only one spot left?” Finagle didn’t attempt to wipe the sarcasm from his voice. “Get it or regret it? Flying off the shelves?”

DeBrett raised his hands. “It sounds like a beginner salesman’s gambit, I know. Amanda’s skills aren’t in sales,” he left a suggestive pause. “Hence that short script.” He broke off as the door opened. The delicious smell of coffee wafting from the tray made them both draw in breaths through their nostrils. “I didn’t only hire Amanda to answer the phone,” he said as she leaned forward to pour, her sheer black stockings shining in the light cascading from a tall lampstand by the desk.

“Sir,” she purred, handing a bone china cup and saucer to Finagle. “And Sir,” she rolled the r to double its usual length as she bent at the waist to place his on the wing. Finagle’s eyes narrowed in on calves and thighs an Olympic swimmer would kill for.

“I’ll stay for the coffee,” Finagle said sourly, leaving the ‘but’ unsaid.

“The needing ten investors part is true,” DeBrett nodded as sincerely as he could manage. “It’s a two point seven million buy in, and the early investors, the ones we wanted, were comfortable with that much but no more. Hence ten.”

Finagle lifted the cup with his pudgy thumb and forefinger. “I applaud your taste in coffee.”

DeBrett crossed his legs. “You were on my list from the start,” he told Finagle who rolled his eyes. “But the others, you’ll meet them all once you commit, were wary. Some were dead set against you. ‘Too toxic to our PR’, one said. ‘What he brings is outweighed by all the fallout’, another said. They’re right, Ari. If you come on board, we’d have to…er…”

“Finagle it,” Finagle said deadpan. “Tres amusant.” He drained the cup. “I don’t have two point seven.” He stood up to leave.

“You’ve got three cases pending,” DeBrett said, still seated. “They’ll all begin before year’s end. Two for procuring sexual congress under false pretences, one for rape. If even one of them is successful, that’s another ski lodge gone. That halves your income and takes a big bite out of your capital.”

“So?” Finagle said, still standing.

“So? So you don’t have to just bend over and take it. Coming in with us means two things. One, you’ll win some money back. Not the whole amount, not all the fines and punitive damages. And your winnings are split ten ways. After legal costs. But once we land a big one, and that’s where you come in…”

Finagle sat. “Call the girl in to pour another one.”