"Excellent. I hope the auction piece is coming along."
Phil offers me a tired but happy smile. "It's coming." He turns and makes his way to the doors.
"And get some sleep," I call after him.
He throws a hand up in a vague wave and is gone.
The Odour turns from watching Phil go and rubs his hands together. "You look to be killing it, Bess. You'll be able to afford the new rate no prob."
"Yes prob, because it's unsustainable, Theo. You saw how exhausted Phil was. We're all feeling like that."
"It's a good issue to have."
I eye him. "Do you remember when I said the word 'unsustainable'?"
"Get more artists."
I sigh. "Why are you here?"
"To Oprah over Plan B. What's this auction you mentioned?"
Pulling bubble wrap from the bubble wrap roll, I place a pottery platter on top of it. "I'm holding one to raise enough money to buy you out."
The Odour raises his eyebrows. "Savage. I approve."
"Don't give me stuff I don't need or asked for, and I have no idea what 'Oprah'ing means so if you want a conversation with me, stop being cryptic."
He sighs like I've requested something unreasonable. "I'm here to talk with you about the 'Buying Me Out' schematic. Seems from today that's the way you want to head. We never agreed on the size of the tag."
"No. But I assume you will ask market price minus my thirty percent, because you entered into this whole thing in the spirit of charity and will now exit without being an arsehole."
"Well, chica, that's the thing. I'm only willing to let you buy me out if the hustle's worthy enough."
"If it's a profit that will please daddy?”
The Odour says nothing.
“Why the change of heart?"
He pauses before saying, "As you’re aware, I have a financial shortfall. It’s going to take some time before I recoup money if I keep to the rental plan. I’m beginning to wonder if having money now might suit me better."
Of course it would. "Go on then. What's the mark up?"
He raises a finger. "Hold that thought." Then he shouts through to the café. "Lutek, my hombre. One killer flat white to go." He settles his eyes back on me and pauses.
Three steps and I can make contact between his tension-building, smug face and my fist.
"Five hundred thousand."
"Five hundred thousand?"
The Odour crosses his arms, bedding in. "Five hundred thousand on top of the market price. Take it or leave it."
No bank in their right mind would lend me another five hundred thousand on top of the market price.
UnlessA Lettered Manencourages a bidding war to end all bidding wars, we're screwed. Theodore Pinkerton just replaced the handgun he's holding to my head with a rocket launcher.
"One hundred thousand," I counter. "Take it or leave it."
