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“I don’t like your tone,” Zeke said. “I don’t like it at all.”
“And I don’t like that you came into my factory making wild claims,” Bret said, leaning forward over the table.
“I bet you don’t,” Zeke said, and when his smile returned, it was more vicious than amused. “Is that why you ran away like a little bitch sissy boy?”
Bret showed his teeth like a lion. “I don’t run away from fights.”
“All right, boys,” I said, holding up my hands. “If you want, I can get a ruler so we can settle this dick-measuring contest the proper way.”
Zeke continued to stare at Bret, and Bret held that gaze, neither man moving. Jakub loomed, like a big, bald mountain, made up of both fat and muscle, though I guessed mostly muscle. I started to imagine he had all sorts of awful things hidden under that track suit jacket: guns, knives, clubs, medieval torture devices. Finally, Zeke broke the tension, and leaned back again.
“I can’t blame you for being prickly,” he said, “considering Lady doesn’t have the highest opinion of me. I’m willing to bet she neglected to tell you why I say I own the patent to her best-selling biscuit then?”
“She said it simply wasn’t true,” Bret said. “She called you a liar.”
“Of course she did.” Zeke looked at me and shook his head. “We had an ugly divorce, which I’m sure she mentioned. I wasn’t my best self, and in some ways, she wasn’t at the top of her game, either. We let things go to our heads, and our arguments got heated. Frankly, we tried to kill each other, both literally and figuratively, and to this day I wish I had comported myself with more dignity.”
“I bet you do,” Bret said, and I shot him an angry glare. He only smirked back at me, with his arms crossed over his chest.
“During the divorce,” Zeke continued, ignoring Bret, “I won certain concessions from her. In order to make things go smoothly, and to avoid making a scene, she gave me certain privileges. You know how Lady is about her family’s image, don’t you?”
“Of course,” I said, nodding slightly. “They take their family name very seriously.”
“In order to shut me up, Lady gave me access to certain artifacts of her business. She gave me some office space they owned in Chicago, some buildings out in LA, and bundled up in that package, perhaps without her knowledge, was the American patent to her famous Fluke Biscuit. I doubt she even realizes it, but it’s all legal and above board. I can send over the paperwork.” He beamed, and for one second, I believed every word.
I could see it happening: young Lady Fluke, desperate to get divorced, and even more desperate to hide her shame, gave this idiot gangster whatever her asked for. She might not have even looked closely, or understood what he wanted. Maybe he didn’t realize it, either, and he ended up with the patent, or whatever it was, simply by accident. Whatever the case, I could see Lady Fluke letting it happen purely to keep his mouth shut and avoid scandal.
After all, scandal was the biggest problem in her life. She hated any hint of scandal, and was willing to break off friendships, alliances, and business associations at a moment’s notice if there was any indication of anything untoward going on. She was ruthless when it came to scandal.
But this was absurd, of course. Maybe she gave him money and property, but Lady Fluke loved her biscuit company more than anything else in the world, and I couldn’t imagine anything prying even the smallest piece of that company away from her, no matter how much disgrace might be involved. Those documents likely didn’t mean much to her back then, since the idea of opening an American wing of her business seemed like an impossibility until recently, but even still, I didn’t believe a word this man was saying.
“I’d appreciate it if you sent those documents to my lawyers,” I said, keeping my back straight and doing my best to channel my inner Lady Fluke. “I’ll send you their contact information.”
“Of course,” Zeke said, then looked back at Jakub and snapped his fingers.
Jakub grunted and pulled something from his pocket. I flinched, but it was only a simple white business card. Bret leaned forward and took it. He frowned, then passed it over to me.
There was a phone number and an email address, and nothing more.
“My contact information,” Zeke said, shrugging. “I find that a simple business card is more mysterious.”
“Right,” I said, tucking it into my pocket, and cleared my throat. He smiled at me, looking benign, but his bodyguard was a constant presence behind him, like a threat made flesh. “I need to ask, but what do you think is going to happen here?”
