He inhaled deeply, held his breath for several moments, then slowly tilted his head back and blew thick, pungent smoke toward the ceiling. He was in no rush. He had negotiated many times before and was acutely aware of the value gained from projecting indifference in these situations. David Mitchell peered through the gloom at the figure in the leather chair, but could distinguish little except the indistinct outline of the man's body and the glow of a cigar tip as it moved. David wanted to push the meeting forward but said nothing for fear he might give away his impatience--and in the process, the deal. "So what is my incentive?" the man finally asked, his gravelly voice filtering through the smoke-laden air. "Two million dollars," David answered. "A million when the contract is signed and another million when full production begins." "Two million dollars." The man chewed on the words for a moment, then spat them out. "You've asked a great deal of me. I don't think two million is enough." He tapped the cigar gently on the side of a crystal bowl and a perfectly symmetrical inch-long ash fell into it.
