The Offer

The Offer

The Grill Room at the Ritz-Carlton on Stockton Street was near capacity. With the financial district two blocks away, it was a favourite luncheon haunt for the areas financial movers to meet clients and talk shop. Chasing the American dream, the almighty dollar. 

The room was a picture of noise and movement as Armani and Versace designs doused with expensive colognes and perfumes collided with the aromas of the kitchen, garlic, onions and the hotels famous sourdough rolls. Busboys hurried through the crowded space skilfully juggling large silver trays bearing the Room’s famous rib eyes steaks and lobster Thermador. Accompanied by equally expensive wines, all compliments of the expense account and the Gold Amex card.  

The woman with the long blond hair in a pony tail dressed in an off-white linen pant suite with a mauve silk blouse watched with interest as the floor show unfolded before her. The table, especially chosen was against a wall, affording the sitter, full visual access to the room.  

After glancing at her watch, she began tapping the toe of an expensive gold and silver sandal in a show of annoyance. ‘You’re late,’ she muttered under her breath, lighting another cigarette. After all, he’d requested the meeting. She was pissed, the least he could do was show up on time. On top of everything, the sights, smells and the sounds of the room were making her feel hungry, a reminder she’d hadn’t eaten for some time. 

The Grill room, was her suggestion one of her favourite places in the city. She liked the atmosphere, conservative at the same time relaxed. It also afforded her a platform for her favourite pass time, people watching.

The waitress interrupted her train of thought, removing the $200 bottle of Sonoma Valley Sauvignon Blanc before toping up her glass. Another aspect of the room she liked, being waited on, a service a sizable tip guaranteed. As he would be paying, she knew he would be generous when paying the bill.

Looking through the throng to the entrance she saw him finally arrive. He was shaking hands with the Matre de and laughing. She wondered if there was anybody he didn’t know. Leaving the Matre de he approached her table, as usual, he was immaculately dressed, grey double-breasted suit, with a cream shirt and pale-yellow tie. Didn’t seem to matter what the fashion of the day was, he always wore his own mode of attire. At first, she’d thought it eccentric, later, coming to realise it was just sheer wealth. He had it and dressed as he chose.

‘My darling girl,’ he bent, kissing her hand, ‘a million apologies for the lateness,’ the waitress appeared, after greeting him by name, pulled out his chair, he smiled at her and sat, ordering a J&T, telling her the bartender knew how he like it. He continued, ‘the traffic from the airport was a nightmare, plus, my driver was late.’

‘Well,’ she offered coldly, ‘you’re here. So, given we never discuss business over the phone, what’s the story? I trust there is one? Not just a free lunch.’

Holding up a hand, waved a manicured finger. ‘Patience my dear, patience. You always were an eager soul, all in good time.’ Picking up the menu, continued, ‘Firstly, I’m famished, the food on the flight, even in First Class was ordinary. I managed some cheese and a glass of passable Cabernet Sauvignon, nothing more. As a result, I’m rather hungry, let’s talk food before discussing business, which, I might add will be to your advantage,’ he said smiling. Opening the menu, peered at her over the top, grinning, before moving to the offerings. What the hell she thought, he would tell her in his own good time. He always did.

‘Let’s,’ she reluctantly agreed, butting out her cigarette, picked up the other menu.

She watched as he perused the menu hungrily. She knew from past experience his appetite could be enormous. The size of his stomach attested to that.

‘I’m thinking oysters Kilpatrick, followed by a bone-in rib eye with Hasselback potatoes and a green salad,’ he closed the menu, ‘and you? True, she was hungry, but not for oysters and steak, she chose a Chef’s salad and the grilled flounder.  

‘Excellent choice,’ he offered, waving a waiter across placed their orders. The Sommelier appeared, knowing his preference for expensive red wines suggested a French Burgundy, 2011, he agreed.  

They ate in silence; the food was delicious.

Placing his knife and fork together onto the plate, signaling he had completed his meal, a waiter swooped, removing the plate. 

‘To business,’ he said.

Taking another mouthful of the Burgundy, looked around, satisfied no one was interested in them, he handed her a small colored photograph, a head and shoulders shot of a middle-aged man with dark skin. ‘My client, and their associates are concerned this person,’ he paused, tapping the picture with a manicured fingernail, ‘could cause them extreme embarrassment, should they speak to, shall we say, certain parties and, would rest easier if that were never to happen.’

She turned the photograph over; a name and address were written on the back. She nodded, after adding the image and contact details to memory, returned the photograph.

‘When? She asked, scooping the last of the fish into her mouth.

‘Seventy-two hours, after that, it’s feared he’ll be removed from circulation and isolated.’

She nodded her head, whilst considering his answer. For two minutes they sat in silence. He knew better than to interrupt, she needed to consider all possibilities.

After what seemed to him to be an eternity, she finally answered, lighting a cigarette, she raised her wine glass. ‘I can do it,’ she said, confidently.

 ‘Excellent,’ he replied, his shoulders slightly sagging in relief. Removing an envelope from his shoulder bag pushed it across the table, leaning closer, adding, ‘It’s all there.’

She smiled, placing the envelope into her tote bag, ‘I’m sure I don’t need to count it.’

‘Now my dear, to the all-important question, dessert?