your picture and is eager to please. That should loosen your purse strings.”
“I was frustrated by our last negotiation,” the sheik said, horse-trading. “We had a verbal agreement and you did not deliver as promised.”
His Excellency was a short, round man in his thirties. Round-faced, round pink mouth, round body. Dark brown pomaded hair and a close-clipped Vandyke that only served to focus attention on his weak chin.
He sat on an overstuffed filigree white silk couch in an expansive, white-columned room with an intricate geometric pattern of cobalt blue, white, and gold wall tiles. The opulence had been paid for in part by an illegal Iraqi oil deal that Malic had brokered between Halliburton and his old friend before he immigrated to the United States.
The highly polished black marble floors reflected the image of Angelica from the sheik’s massive flat-screen television.
“Accidents happen. It is an inexact science, but this one is guaranteed to make your other girls jealous.”
“I would need a full blood workup.”
“Already in the works. She’s a talented woman from a warrior’s bloodline.”
“And what if I’m stuck with damaged goods?”
“Your trainer can handle any contingencies. She is beautiful. She has fire, just like your Arabians. Headstrong, willful, dangerous, a winner.”
“But the price?” he asked as if the number physically pained him.
Malic thought it tiresome that Sheik Ibrahim would pay two million for an untested stallion without blinking an eye but negotiate for weeks on end for human flesh and blood. He had already kept his new acquisition longer than was comfortable, but Malic had a keen eye for pricing and refused to sell below market value. He turned up the volume as Angelica lit up the high-definition screen.
The sheik’s eight-year-old son walked silently into the room holding an iPhone in both hands. He smiled slyly while pointing the phone toward the television.
“What are you doing, my son?” his father asked, sensing his son’s presence behind him.
“Playing Angry Birds.” The boy adroitly switched to the games app and showed his father the screen.
“Go, run, to bed,” he scolded gently in English. “We are conducting business here.”
“Yes, Father.” And the boy scampered out of the grand room.
“Tell me again, how I will be protected if this woman is damaged?” he asked, still negotiating.
The digital feed switched from Angelica to Malic’s museum-lit Matisse masterpiece. “Collateral. Ten times the value of the woman,” he said, aware of the sheik’s love of fine art.
“Done,” the sheik said. “One million eight hundred thousand dollars. I only hope that she is damaged. An oil painting does not talk back. Send me the medical certificates and I will send my jet.”
“I’ll need the money wired ASAP. The interest on my construction loan is due. We have already delayed breaking ground on the new project once. The deal is tenuous.”
“From oil to real estate? A mogul now?”
“One adapts. Seize the opportunity. No?”
“Hold,” the sheik said as he set down his phone. He buried his head in a handheld device as if he were nearsighted. He hit a few keys, then a few more; looked up at the Matisse on his big screen; and ceremoniously hit Send. A cruel smile curled his moist lips as he picked up the phone and resumed his conversation.
“It is done and done. One million eight hundred thousand dollars are now in your account. Don’t fuck me, Malic.”
Malic feigned offense and started to reply, but the sheik was already on to other business. “Call me,” he said, clicking off.
He hit a button on the remote and the Matisse instantly disappeared, replaced by a moving crawl of commodity symbols, oil futures, and stock quotes from trading floors around the world. He stood up and stretched his five-foot-five frame as he had been doing since he was a boy praying to Allah that he would grow tall.
The sheik remained, stubbornly,
“I was frustrated by our last negotiation,” the sheik said, horse-trading. “We had a verbal agreement and you did not deliver as promised.”
His Excellency was a short, round man in his thirties. Round-faced, round pink mouth, round body. Dark brown pomaded hair and a close-clipped Vandyke that only served to focus attention on his weak chin.
He sat on an overstuffed filigree white silk couch in an expansive, white-columned room with an intricate geometric pattern of cobalt blue, white, and gold wall tiles. The opulence had been paid for in part by an illegal Iraqi oil deal that Malic had brokered between Halliburton and his old friend before he immigrated to the United States.
The highly polished black marble floors reflected the image of Angelica from the sheik’s massive flat-screen television.
“Accidents happen. It is an inexact science, but this one is guaranteed to make your other girls jealous.”
“I would need a full blood workup.”
“Already in the works. She’s a talented woman from a warrior’s bloodline.”
“And what if I’m stuck with damaged goods?”
“Your trainer can handle any contingencies. She is beautiful. She has fire, just like your Arabians. Headstrong, willful, dangerous, a winner.”
“But the price?” he asked as if the number physically pained him.
Malic thought it tiresome that Sheik Ibrahim would pay two million for an untested stallion without blinking an eye but negotiate for weeks on end for human flesh and blood. He had already kept his new acquisition longer than was comfortable, but Malic had a keen eye for pricing and refused to sell below market value. He turned up the volume as Angelica lit up the high-definition screen.
The sheik’s eight-year-old son walked silently into the room holding an iPhone in both hands. He smiled slyly while pointing the phone toward the television.
“What are you doing, my son?” his father asked, sensing his son’s presence behind him.
“Playing Angry Birds.” The boy adroitly switched to the games app and showed his father the screen.
“Go, run, to bed,” he scolded gently in English. “We are conducting business here.”
“Yes, Father.” And the boy scampered out of the grand room.
“Tell me again, how I will be protected if this woman is damaged?” he asked, still negotiating.
The digital feed switched from Angelica to Malic’s museum-lit Matisse masterpiece. “Collateral. Ten times the value of the woman,” he said, aware of the sheik’s love of fine art.
“Done,” the sheik said. “One million eight hundred thousand dollars. I only hope that she is damaged. An oil painting does not talk back. Send me the medical certificates and I will send my jet.”
“I’ll need the money wired ASAP. The interest on my construction loan is due. We have already delayed breaking ground on the new project once. The deal is tenuous.”
“From oil to real estate? A mogul now?”
“One adapts. Seize the opportunity. No?”
“Hold,” the sheik said as he set down his phone. He buried his head in a handheld device as if he were nearsighted. He hit a few keys, then a few more; looked up at the Matisse on his big screen; and ceremoniously hit Send. A cruel smile curled his moist lips as he picked up the phone and resumed his conversation.
“It is done and done. One million eight hundred thousand dollars are now in your account. Don’t fuck me, Malic.”
Malic feigned offense and started to reply, but the sheik was already on to other business. “Call me,” he said, clicking off.
He hit a button on the remote and the Matisse instantly disappeared, replaced by a moving crawl of commodity symbols, oil futures, and stock quotes from trading floors around the world. He stood up and stretched his five-foot-five frame as he had been doing since he was a boy praying to Allah that he would grow tall.
The sheik remained, stubbornly,
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