The Broker

No one ever really knew what he did, because the truth of the matter was that he never really did anything. He would arrive in a black, bespoke suit, a suit he wore like no one else, a tie creased to perfection and a white shirt of pristine crispness. He never had a case, a bag, a file or folder, he wore his hair clipped and his nails trimmed, he never seemed hurried or hurrying, he was never late, never early, but always precisely, supremely, majestically on time. When he walked in the room he would move directly to the chair at the far end and draw it in like an impending storm. Officially his card said he was a broker, but that wasn't the truth, wasn't even close. I can tell you what he really did, why he was really there; he was a breaker, plain and simple. He sat there letting others talk themselves into holes and walk themselves out of a job. And there was no one better at it. He'd watch unblinking as nerves failed, he'd raise his eyes at the precise moment of embellishment or call for coffee during the height of the pitch. Ties would be loosened, sweat would glisten, water would be sipped from, chairs adjusted. He once demolished a firm of investment bankers by attempting to reassemble a ball-point pen. Without fail he'd weed out the bullshitters, separate the wheat from the chaff and anyone still at the table after seventeen and a half minutes was sure as hell worth their salt. Then, once he'd purged our premises of all the pretenders, he'd stand up, look at the remainder, nod to his employee and walk out without a look backwards. The room would always seem smaller after he'd left, smaller than it was even before he arrived. He was there to create an impression, a certain kind of impression, and they paid him well for it.