THE NEGOTIATION

Frank T. Wydra

“You Donnegan?” a voice behind him asked.  It took a lot not to turn around, not to act surprised at the voice, but that’s what he gave it, a lot.

“Who’s asking?” keeping his voice flat, like he was used to having some broad asking him if he was the alias.

“You’re him,” she said, taking a couple of steps and turning so he could see her.  Not bad.  Brunette.  Dark, dark, brunette, maybe five-seven, all legs, at least to where the green leather skirt cut off, six inches over the knees, skirt like paint, matching green jacket open at the neck so that even sitting down he could see she had tits, and an angel face: pouty lips, high cheek bones, eyes to match the hair, suede smooth skin.  A looker.  “Mind if I sit?” she asked, but not waiting for an answer, just pulling out the chair and planting the skirt.

“So who’re you?” he asked.  Close up she wasn’t as sharp.  Nothing wrong with the body, but all he could see of it was the leather.  The face though had some miles on it.  Forty, he guessed.  Forty-two tops.  Just about the time some guys made their first trade in, looking to upgrade, try a newer model.

“Call me, Donna.”  She said it with a smile, knowing he knew she’d never been Donna in this life.

“Okay, Donna.  So whad’ya want?”

“You called the meeting,” she said, little mocking half smile in her voice, like she was in control and he was just a john waiting in line for his turn.

“Yeah?  We’ll how do I know you’re who you are.  Nobody said nothing about a broad.”

“This the Mushroom?”

He didn’t say anything, but from the cocky way she asked it, he knew he didn’t have to.

“You supposed to answer to Donnegan?” 

Again, he didn’t answer.  That was the name.  Why anyone would think that Casimir Winarski, Cazzie-Win in the trade, could pass for a Mick was beyond him, but matters like these it paid to be careful, and the agreed upon alias was Donnegan.

She looked at him, cold as beer, no smile.  “Well, Donnegan,” she made the name sound like a taunt, “we going to talk, or what?  Your dime.”

Imagine, a broad.  Who’d of figured a broad for the shooter?  These days, they was everywhere, doing everything, so why not shoot?  The enormity of the thought and its social implications kept him from saying anything until she put her hands on the table, as if to push away, and said, “You must be the wrong guy.”

“Hold on,” he said, waving her down with an oversized paw.  “Maybe not.”

She moved her hands away from the edge and on to the table, then supporting herself on her forearms, leaned in.  No rings, he noticed.  Maybe married, maybe not.  Nowadays you could never tell by just the rings, but he always looked for them, anyway.  “Nobody said anything about a woman,” he said.

“It’s a problem?

Cazzie Win, a.k.a. Donnegan, pretender to the R.P.I.U. throne, snorted and gave her a smile, let her know it was all right, not her fault, so to speak.  “Not what I’s expecting, is all.”  Might as well let her know he was liberated as any of them. “So why all the secrecy?  This place, and all?”

The pouty lips moved into their mocking smile mode, and she tilted her head, not a lot, but enough to let him know she thought it was an asshole question, but she answered it anyway.  “Way I look, best place to do business is in a crowd; place like this, lunch, always a crowd.  Good food, too.”

He nodded and tried to give her a look that showed he knew what she meant about the way she looked, sort of a signal, let her know that even with the miles on her, after the business was over, she wanted, he was good for some fun.  “Yeah,” he said giving full weight to the sagacity of her argument, “but what about my boys?”

This time the smile was less sassy; there was understanding in the eyes, like she was picking up on his vibes, letting him know that, she, too, knew how to have fun.  “Privacy,” she said.  “What I do, it’s got to be private, just between me and you.”

Was that a signal, or what?  “Yeah, private,” he said, “know what you mean.”

She was leaning into him now, showing off those tits of hers.  “So what’s the job?” she asked in a voice husky enough so that only he could hear it.

He leaned forward so that their heads were only a foot and a half apart across the table.  Private, so to speak.  “How do I know, you’re who you are?”

She straightened. “I’m here.  What else you need?”

“You know who I am?”

“Besides, Donnegan?  Yeah, sure, I know.  Who wouldn’t?”  The leaning in, the mocking smile were back.

It was one of the things that made him feel good, really good, the way people recognized him, not that he’d ever thought he’d be a celebrity, but here he was, people he’d never met recognizing him.  Not that he was big time, cover of Newsweek, type celebrity.  But people in some circles knew who he was.  Even in a place like this a head or two had turned while he’d waited.  Maybe it was good the shooter was a broad, gave some cover to his being here, talking it out.  She didn’t look like a shooter to him; chances were she wouldn’t look like one to any of them.

“So you know the job, then,” he said.

“Hey Donnegan,” in that smart-ass tone, “I’m good, but no mind reader.  You got a mark, say so.”

He liked that about her, the way she didn’t take anything from him, even knowing who he was and all.  “I’m talking about the opposition, here,” he said.

“The opposition?”

It was like she didn’t know who he was talking about, which given that she knew him and all, was incredible.  The opposition, or more specifically the incumbent president of R.P.I.U., Walter P. Kovac, had made the cover of Time; twice.  Once when the Feds had accused him of milking the pension fund.  Then again when the jury had hung.  Money well spent.  How could she not know who the opposition was?  His eyes narrowed.  In a voice he was sure carried menace, he asked.  “You don’t know who I’m talking about?”

Not even flinching from the voice, she asked, “Which one?”

Shit.  He hadn’t even thought about the Preacher, that reformer who wanted to shake things up, ruin a good thing.  The guy had, what?  Ten percent?  No more.  But, he too, had made Time’s cover.  Liberal frigging press.

Cazzie and “Kov” went back.  They’d been at the bridge together, what was it, thirty years ago?  At least thirty years.  Almost like brothers, the way they’d had the vision, understood that there was real money in a working stiff’s ideals.  Back then, there’d been nothing: no pension trust fund, no condos, no strike fund, no political clout, nothing.  Just the two of them herding the sheep, pushing open the gate to the lush fields of organized labor.  Yeah, they went back, cracking a few heads, muscling tight-fisted employers, trying to build a life, live the American Dream.  Well, they’d made it.  And they could have kept right on making it, if Kov hadn’t gotten cold feet, spooked, so to speak, by the Feds hauling him up on that pension thing.  Guy comes out of it, all he can think about is himself, forgets about his friends, the ones what helped him all these years.  “Kov,” he said, looking around to make sure no one heard him say the name, which, as it was, almost stuck in his throat and came out sounding like a grunt.

“Walter P.,” the shooter said with an appreciative groan.  “Go for the moon.” Then she got all serious, moved away again, like she was going to renege on the deal.

“What,” he asked without the question mark. 

She shook her head, not hard, but serious, and the brown-black eyes turned granite.  “Never figured it was him.”

“Hey, you said you knew it was me.  Who else we talking here?”

“Not til I saw you, then I figured the other guy, the Preacher.  Walter P., I don’t know.  Money you’re talking, couple of legs, maybe traction, that’s about it.”

He knew it.  Frigging set up.  She was reneging on him.  “Hey girlie,” he said in little more than a whisper, “deal’s a deal.  You can’t handle it, send someone who can.”

She leaned back in, eyes still granite, and in a voice no louder than his had been said, “Listen fat boy, I didn’t say I couldn’t handle it.  I said for what you’ve got on the table you get legs.  Maybe traction.  That’s all.”

Jesus.  The grit of her.  Turned him on.  Made him feel twenty years younger.  This was some broad, talking to him like that.  “Don’t get personal,” he said.  “And traction don’t do me no good.  He ain’t dead, I’m dead; you got that?

She smiled, the eyes softened up a little, maybe turned to Mexican marble.  “So what’s it worth to you?”

“What’re you saying, the two-fifty ain’t enough?  That what you’re saying?”  He couldn’t believe this.  She was trying to shake him down, and here he was being the sucker.

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“So how much?”

She shook her head, all the while keeping eye contact.  “Not my call.  You’re the one who wants it done, you name the price, I’ll say whether it’s worth it.  That’s the way I do business.”

“I named a price.”

“I said, no.”

“Now you want me to name another price?”

“Up to you.”

“They said two-fifty was your rate”

“Not for Walter P., it isn’t.”

He knew he shouldn’t do it.  He knew that you get into naming prices, there’s no top, you just keep on going.  But the seventeen points, the two-million four and change, the jackpot that went with the job flashed through his head like numbers on a Las Vegas marquee, so that it became a no brainer.  Up the ante, take the jackpot.  Walk away, down in flames.  Be lucky to get out of it alive, himself.  “Make it three,” he said.

The look that came over her face was sunrise in the Poconos.  The granite eyes turned warm walnut, the mocking smile softened to orgasmic joy, the hard lines of emerging age melted into gentle contours.  “Deal,” she said.  “Half up front, the rest in a Swiss account, payable on delivery.”

To say he was surprised was saying slots spit coins.  Not for nothing, he hadn’t spent thirty years at the table.  He figured the first fifty to be an opening move, that she’d work it up to maybe an even half-mil.  For her to say “deal” at the opener set off an alarm in his head.  Something wrong.  Bad wrong.

There as a tap on his shoulder, not hard, but enough to break his concentration.  He shrugged it off, but the tap came back and with it an urgent, “Boss.”  His head jerked around and the sharp movement must have startled Vudge who was leaning down to whisper in his ear because the heavy straightened abruptly.  “Just me,” he said.  “Gotta tell ya this thing.”  Then he leaned over and stage whispered in Cazzie Win’s ear.  “Kov’s dead.  The heart gave out,” thumping his chest to show where Kov’s heart had been.  “Heard it on the T.V.”

Almost so fast he could have missed it, there was a twinge and a whole album of pictures of him and Kov doing things that only brothers could have done: laughing, crying, winning, trying.  But before it could get to him he closed the lid like a coffin.  The feeling that came over was much like slipping into a hot tub, only reversed, starting at the head and working its way down until his toes tingled.  Kov dead.  Free!  No charge.  Three days before the vote.  And him clean as a twelve year old virgin.  “You sure?” he asked, this time watching Vudge’s face.  Not a smart face, but one that easily betrayed doubt or insecurity.

“Heard it on the T.V.,” Vudge repeated as if it were an official recount.

Casmir Winarski, self-anointed winner of the soon to be election, turned back to the shooter, Donna, who had been sitting there, taking it in but having no clue about how her sweet deal had soured.  She was still a good looking broad, and he remembered how her style, her balls had turned him on.  “Deal’s off,” he said, and her only reaction was a tightening of the smile and an almost imperceptible narrowing of the eyes.  Cazzie Win had seen the look across the table a thousand times.  It was the look the best players showed when they knew they’d lost the game.  “Still five-thousand in it,” he said, “ for a little fun.  Sort of a consolation.”

She almost snorted and the big, sunshine smile returned.  “No thanks,” she said.

“You’ll read about it in the news,” Cazzie said, “So I might as well tell you”  He thumped his chest as Vudge had.  “Kov’s dead.  His ticker.”

The cold beer look was back, same one she’d had before, like she could bottle it.  “No kidding,” she said.  Then, as abruptly as she’d sat, the looker, the shooter, the classy broad who said her name was Donna, stood.  “Guess the meeting’s over,” and she put out her hand for a shake.  “Nice meeting you Mr. Casimir Winarski.”

He stood and took the hand.  “Sure you don’t want the five-k?  Easy money.  Might be fun.”  It was good playing with her, letting her know how things were, that in the end she was just a piece of meat he could buy or leave in the counter.

“Not my kind of action,” she said, turned, and walked away.

“Hey,” he called after her, not caring what the suits who turned to look at him thought, “What’s your name, your real name.”

She stopped and turned and even in the dim light he could see the mocking half smile on her face.”

***

Clipper was at the wheel and Vudge held the Fleetwood’s door open.  It almost seemed as though they came out of the air, but before he knew they were there, six of them surrounded the car, hardware in one hand, shield in the other.  “Far enough, Winarski,” one said.  “Tell your boy to cool it.”

One by one Cazzie gave them a lazy look.  Six service pieces were leveled.  No odds.  “So what’d ya want?” he asked the one who’d spoken.

“You Donnegan?” a voice behind him asked.  It was a soft voice one that he’d heard before in exactly the same tone with exactly that same, saucy inflection.  “Who’s asking?” he heard himself say.  He turned around to look at her, and there she stood, green leather, great body, nice face, little age on it, and an outstretched arm holding the tape player.  She clicked it off, but in his head the voices kept on rolling, him doing all the talking, naming names, saying dead or no deal, talking price, just what the D.A. needed.  She’d played him like a pinball.  He gave her a big smile and his best wink, let her know he knew how good she was. 

“FBI, Cazzie, “she said.

“Figures,” he said.  “Kov really dead?”

She nodded.  “Like Vudge said, heart attack, while we were talking.”

He gave his head a little jerk, like he’d fallen for an old gag.  “So what’s this mean?” he asked, knowing what it meant but wanting to hear her take on it.

“Means the Preacher gets elected,” she said.

“So to speak,” he said, knowing there was a long way between a collar and a cage.

“So to speak,” she said and gave him that mocking little smile.