Roger Swindon, clad in a gray robe and gray cowl, pulled a handkerchief from some unseen pocket in the robe and mopped his face of perspiration before setting a little silver pince-nez on the bridge of his nose. “There we are,” he said. He breathed a sigh, clearly relieved to be free of the mask. “Can I come in?”
“We were just talking about you, Roger, my boy,” said Wigman, gamely waving the way forward. “We were beginning to wonder when you’d show up.”
“Good news, good news, my friend,” said Roger as he walked briskly across the office floor toward the bookcase. “I have our second maker. The circle is complete. The construction can begin.”
Wigman trotted to keep up with the man. “Well, that’s fantastic news. Really great, Roger. Now, we’ll just need to . . .”
But Roger was not listening; instead he was searching the bookshelves for the latch to operate the panel. Wigman, catching up, slid between him and the bookcase. “Hold up, there, Roger, m’friend.”
Roger paused and glared at Wigman. “Yes?”
“Where is this guy, this Esben?” He looked around the room. “I don’t see that you brought him with you.”
“No, I didn’t bring him with me,” responded Roger, sounding annoyed. “What a ridiculous idea. He’s safe in the Wood, the Impassable Wilderness, where he will soon be reunited with his old partner and our work will commence. Now: Which is the book that opens the door?”
Wigman laughed. “Which book. That’s rich. As far as I’m concerned, nothing’s changed here. As far as I’m concerned, you still don’t have your guy. I’m not turning over anyone until I’m assured of my position here, Roger. And while we’re at it, what’s with the getup?” He flicked his finger under a fold in Roger’s robe.
“Nothing,” said Roger. “None of your concern.” He seemed thrown by Wigman’s obstructionism. “Listen, the deal remains the same. You can have your access—exclusive ties to the Wood. You will have control over a percentage of—”
“Blah, blah, blah,” said Wigman, sock-puppeting his hand. “That’s just talk. Anything that goes down, any kind of cog that’s going to be made, has to happen right here, in plain sight. Do you hear me? That was the deal.”
Roger massaged his forehead, his exasperation shining through. “Just . . . trust me on this, Mr. Wigman. Between business partners.”
“Trust you? Trust you? Do you think I got to where I am today by just willy-nilly trusting anyone who had the great fortune to call me, Bradley Wigman, a business partner? No! I didn’t get Industrialist of the Year three years in a row from Tax Bracket magazine because I am a trusting soul. I didn’t become the godfather to not three, but four children of Portland’s esteemed mayors because I believe in human goodness. I got to where I am because I am ruthless, Roger. And I don’t think I’ll be stopping now, thank you very much.”
Roger had no response. He backed away from the bookcase and sized up his opponent. Wigman lifted his dimpled chin defiantly. Desdemona, by the desk, watched the standoff with bated breath. Neither man spoke nor moved a muscle. The awkwardness was terrible, all-consuming, and Desdemona shifted uncomfortably in her high heels, trying to think of something to say that might dispel the tension. Thankfully, in the end, she didn’t have to think of anything, because something presented itself that did the job fairly organically, snapping both of the men out of their current states of agitation.
It was the buzzer on the intercom.
Wigman looked at Desdemona. “Get that?”
Desdemona pushed the button on Brad’s desk, and a voice chirped through the speaker. “Mr. Wigman, sir?”
“Yes?” called Wigman; his eyes remained fixed on Roger.
“Someone to see you, sir. At the front gate.”
One of Wigman’s eyebrows broke away and intrepidly scaled his forehead. “Who?” he barked, annoyed.
A pause. “It’s the Machine Parts Titan, sir.” Another pause. “Sir, it’s Joffrey Unthank.”
Desdemona felt her face flush; Brad glowered. He glanced over at the intercom. He nodded to Desdemona, who depressed the talk button while he spoke. “Tell him it’s late. Tell him to come back tomorrow.”
There was a pause; Desdemona let go of the button. She looked at Brad imploringly. “He might be hurt, Bradley. He’s been missing for these months!”
“Joffrey Unthank means nothing to me now, Dessie,” said Wigman. “He should mean less to you. He ran that factory into the ground; he allowed a rebellion to happen on his watch.”
“Please,” implored Desdemona.
“All he wants is to horn back in on this deal. And if you think for a moment I’m going to send the welcome wagon, you don’t know Bradley Wigman,” said Wigman, referring to himself in the third person, which was something he did occasionally.
The intercom buzzed again; Desdemona answered. “Yes?”
Bzzz. “He says it really can’t wait.”
Desdemona, dredging from the depths every last reserve of actorly charisma, fixed Wigman with a look that both scorned and pleaded. “Please,” she whispered.
Brad swore under his breath and shouted, “Let him in, but don’t send him up. Keep him in the lobby. I’ll meet him there.” He wagged a finger at Roger and said, “You stay put. Dessie, keep an eye on this one. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. Though considering what I’m benching these days, I could pro