“Sold out isn’t the word for it,” he said. “That receipt you signed will stand up anywhere. We got the legal machinery to make it stand up, and we got other machinery, too, planet-size machinery. Once my client takes possession, the human race is finished, it’s kaput, gone with the wind, forget about it. And you’re Mr. Patsy.”
It was hot in that hotel room doorway, and I was sweating like crazy. But I was feeling better. First that ethics pitch, now this routine of trying to scare the hell out of me. Maybe his deal with his client wasn’t so good, maybe something else, but one thing I knew—Eksar wanted to do business with me. I grinned at him.
He got it. He changed color a little under all that dirt. “What’s your offer, anyway?” he asked, coughing. “Name a figure.”
“Well, I’ll admit you’re entitled to a profit. That’s only fair. Let’s say thirty-one hundred and five. The twenty-seven you paid, plus a full fifteen percent. Do we have a deal?”
“Hell no!” he screamed. “On all three deals, you got a total of thirty-two hundred and thirty dollars out of me—and you’re offering thirty-one hundred five to buy it back? You’re going down, buddy, you’re going down instead of up! Get out of my way—I’m wasting time.”
He turned a little and pushed me out of the way. I banged across the corridor. He was strong! I ran after him to the elevator—that receipt was still in his pocket.
“How much do you want, Eksar?” I asked him as we were going down. Get him to name a price, then I can bargain from it, I figured.
A shrug. “I got a planet, and I got a buyer for it. You, you’re in a jam. The one in a pickle is the one who’s got to tickle.”
The louse! For every one of my moves, he knew the countermove.
He checked out and I followed him into the street. Down Broadway we went, people staring at a respectable guy like me walking with such a Bowery-type character.
I threw up my hands and offered him the thirty-two hundred and thirty he’d paid me. He said he couldn’t make a living out of shoving the same amount of money back and forth all day.
“Thirty-four, then? I mean, you know, thirty-four fifty?”
He didn’t say anything. He just kept walking.
“You want it all?” I said. “Okay, take it all, thirty-seven hundred—every last cent. You win.”
Still no answer. I was getting worried. I had to get him to name a figure, any figure at all, or I’d be dead.
I ran in front of him. “Eksar, let’s stop hustling each other. If you didn’t want to sell, you wouldn’t be talking to me in the first place. You name a figure. Whatever it is, I’ll pay it.”
That got a reaction. “You mean it? You won’t try to chisel?”
“How can I chisel? I’m over a barrel.”
“Okay. It’s a long, long trip back to where my client is. Why should I knock myself out when I can help somebody who’s in trouble? Let’s see—we need a figure that’s fair for you and fair for me and fair all around. That would be—oh, say, sixteen thousand.”
So there it was. I was booked for a thorough bath. Eksar saw my face and began laughing. He laughed himself into a coughing fit.
Choke, you bastard, I thought, choke! I hope the air of this planet poisons you. I hope you get gangrene of the lungs.
That sixteen thousand figure—it was exactly twice what I had in the bank. He knew my bank account cold, up to the last statement.
He knew my thoughts cold, too. “You’re going to do business with a guy,” he said, between coughs, “you check into him a little.”
“Tell me more,” I said sarcastically.
“All right. You got seven thousand, eight hundred and change. Two hundred more in accounts receivable. The rest you’ll borrow.”
“That’s all I need to do—go into hock on this deal!”
“You can borrow a little,” he coaxed. “A guy like you, in your position, with your contacts, you can borrow a little. I’ll settle for twelve thousand. I’ll be a good guy. Twelve thousand?”
“Baloney, Eksar. You know me so well, you know I can’t borrow.”
He looked away at the pigeon-green statue of Father Duffy in front of the Palace Theater. “The trouble is,” he said in a mournful voice, “that I wouldn’t feel right going back to my client and leaving you in such a jam. I’m just not built that way.” He threw back his twitching shoulders—you knew, he was about to take a beating for a friend, and he was proud of himself. “Okay, then. I’ll take only the eight thousand you have and we’ll call it square.”
“Are you through, you mother’s little helper you, you Florence Goddamn Nightingale? Then let me set you straight. You’re not getting any eight thousand out of me. A profit, yes, a little skin I know I have to give up. But not every cent I own, not in a million years, not for you, not for Earth, not for anybody!”
I’d been yelling, and a cop walking by came in close for a look. I thought of calling out “Help! Police! Aliens invading us!” but I knew it was all up to me. I calmed down and waited until he went away, puzzled. But the Broadway we were all standing on—what would it look like in ten years if I didn’t talk Eksar out of that receipt?
“Eksar, your client takes over Earth waving my receipt—I’ll be hung high. But I’ve got only one life, and my life is buying and selling. I can’t buy and sell without capital. Take my capital away, and it makes no difference to me who owns Earth and who doesn’t.”
“Who the hell do you think you’re kidding?” he said.
“I’m not kidding anybody. Honest, it’s the truth. Take my capital away, and it makes no difference if I’m alive or if I’m dead.”
That last bit of hustle seemed to have reached him. Listen, there were practically tears in my eyes the way I was singing it. How much capital did I need, he wanted to know—five hundred? I told him I couldn’t operate one single day with less than seven times that. He asked me if I was really seriously trying to buy my lousy little planet back—or was today my birthday and I was expecting a present from him? “Don’t give your presents to me,” I told him. “Give them to fat people. They’re better than going on a diet.”
And so we went. Both of us talking ourselves blue in the face, swearing by everything, arguing and bargaining, wheeling and dealing. It was touch and go who was going to give up first.
But neither of us did. We both held out until we reached what I’d figured pretty early we were going to wind up with, maybe a little bit more.
Six thousand, one hundred and fifty dollars.
That was the price over and above what Eksar had given me. The final deal. Listen, it could have been worse.
Even so, we almost broke up when we began talking payment.
“Your bank’s not far. We could get there before closing.”
“Why walk myself into a heart attack? My check’s good as gold.”
“Who wants a piece of paper? I want cash. Cash is definite.”
Finally, I managed to talk him into a check. I wrote it out, he took it and gave me the receipts, all of them. The twenty for a five, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Sea of Azov—every last receipt I’d signed. Then he picked up his little satchel and marched away.
Straight down Broadway, without even a good-by. All business, Eksar was, nothing but business. He didn’t look back once.
All business. I found out next morning he’d gone right to the bank and had my check certified before closing time. What do you think of that? I couldn’t do a damn thing: I was out six thousand, one hundred and fifty dollars. Just for talking to someone.