He tore it off. Dropped it on the desk. It lay there in a tangle.
‘Thank you, Mr Stone,’ Tony said quietly.
‘What do you guys want?’ Stone whispered.
Tony opened a different drawer and came out with a handwritten sheet of paper. It was yellow and filled with a dense untidy scrawl. Some kind of a list, with figures totalled at the bottom of the page.
‘We own thirty-nine per cent of your corporation,’ he said. ‘As of this morning. What we want is another twelve per cent.’
Stone stared at him. Did the maths in his head. ‘A controlling interest?’
‘Exactly,’ Tony said. ‘We hold thirty-nine per cent, another twelve gives us fifty-one, which would indeed represent a controlling interest.’
Stone swallowed again and shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I won’t do that.’
‘OK, then we want seventeen-point-one million dollars within the hour.’
Stone just stood there, glancing wildly left and right. The door opened behind him and the thickset man in the expensive suit came in and padded soundlessly across the carpet and stood with his arms folded, behind Tony’s left shoulder.
‘The watch, please,’ Tony said.
Stone glanced at his left wrist. It was a Rolex. It looked like steel, but it was platinum. He had bought it in Geneva. He unlatched it and handed it over. Tony nodded and dropped it in another drawer.
‘Now take Mr Hobie’s shirt off.’
‘You can’t make me give you more stock,’ Stone said.
‘I think we can. Take the shirt off, OK?’
‘Look, I won’t be intimidated,’ Stone said, as confidently as he could.
‘You’re already intimidated,’ Tony said back. ‘Aren’t you? You’re about to make a mess in Mr Hobie’s pants. Which would be a bad mistake, by the way, because we’d only make you clean them up.’
Stone said nothing. Just stared at a spot in the air between the two men.
‘Twelve per cent of the equity,’ Tony said gently. ‘Why not? It’s not worth anything. And you’d still have forty-nine per cent left.’
‘I need to speak with my lawyers,’ Stone said.
‘OK, go ahead.’
Stone looked around the room, desperately. ‘Where’s the phone?’
‘There’s no phone in here,’ Tony said. ‘Mr Hobie doesn’t like phones.’
‘So how?’
‘Shout,’ Tony said. ‘Shout real loud, and maybe your lawyers will hear you.’
‘What?’
‘Shout,’ Tony said again. ‘You’re real slow, aren’t you, Mr Stone? Put two and two together and draw a conclusion. There’s no phone in here, you can’t leave the room, you want to talk with your lawyers, so you’ll have to shout.’
Stone stared blankly into space.
‘Shout, you useless piece of shit,’ Tony screamed at him.
‘No, I can’t,’ Stone said helplessly. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Take the shirt off,’ Tony screamed.
Stone shook violently. Hesitated, with his arms halfway in the air.
‘Get it off, you piece of shit,’ Tony screamed.
Stone’s hands leapt up and unbuttoned it, all the way down. He tore it off and stood there holding it, shaking in his undershirt.
‘Fold it neatly, please,’ Tony said. ‘Mr Hobie likes his things neat.’
Stone did his best. He shook it out by the collar and folded it in half, and half again. He bent and laid it square on top of the jacket on the sofa.
‘Give up the twelve per cent,’ Tony said.
‘No,’ Stone said back, clenching his hands.
There was silence. Silence and darkness.
‘Efficiency,’ Tony said quietly. ‘That’s what we like here. You should have paid more attention to efficiency, Mr Stone. Then maybe your business wouldn’t be in the toilet. So what’s the most efficient way for us to do this?’
Stone shrugged, helplessly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Then I’ll explain,’ Tony said. ‘We want you to comply. We want your signature on a piece of paper. So how do we get that?’
‘You’ll never get it, you bastard,’ Stone said. ‘I’ll go bankrupt first, damn it. Chapter eleven. You won’t get a damn thing from me. Not a thing. You’ll be in court five years, minimum.’
Tony shook his head patiently, like a grade school teacher hearing the wrong answer for the hundredth time in a long career.