Verbal racks and diplomatic thumbscrews

[This is part two of a serialised story that I'm writing with remarkable inconsistency. Here's part one.]

The man across the table was Cavendish Scroot. Lording over a sheaf of papers like a hungry albatross scanning the water’s surface, he was impatiently waiting for Alacrity Johnson to wind up his sermon. 

Oh how he would relish being the bearer of bad news. He'd already planned how he would look up into the man's eyes as he delivered the killing blow. He would see the confusion, the refusal, the dawning anguish. 

He would hear the man beg to retain his position. He would listen with studied apathy as he kicked the legs of this swindling, masses-deluding charlatan out from under his body. 

There was a certain smile often deployed during these moments. Equal parts sympathetic and recalcitrant and entirely absolving of blame. It was a smile that said I would love to but I can't but which really meant I've done everything in my power to make sure this terrible circumstance came to be. And I revel in it. You swine.

Cavendish caught himself forming the smile too early and adopted his most neutral, trustworthy face. Johnson noted the change and was put in mind of someone receiving alarming news while squinting into the blinding sun. 

Mr Scroot was not, few would disagree, considered a particular charming man. But he could hold a grudge like gravity holds mountains. He tuned back into Johnson's spiel. 

"Quite a remarkable turnaround after all that business in Trundel. But that's miners for you: stubborn as iron. Thankfully they rust up just as fast. If the horrific conditions didn't do most of them in by 25 they could rule the world. The last chief was so decrepit she was almost mythical. Died of miner's throat last month at 34 years old. The new chief, at 14, is far more pliable. The total revenue from this new deal will be," here Johnson paused to check his notes, failed to discover any on the table, and continued without missing a beat, "quite substantial, to be sure." 

He met Cavendish's eyes, emanating trust and confederacy. His eyes twinkled at a practised 1,500 lux. 

Unswayed, Cavendish seized on a rare moment on quiet. "I'm afraid I've got some bad news," he began, before immediately berating himself for the tepidness of the statement. In a vain attempt to compensate, he added, "disturbing news." 

A salutary action of the eyebrows was Johnson's only response. 

"You received a warning for Behaviour Unbecoming of Senior Leadership last April. This placed you on official probation. Subsequent beaches of conduct would, naturally, result in disciplinary action and, in severity, dismissal." 

He glanced at Johnson. "You understand that embezzlement, your own personal thin ice notwithstanding, is a terminable offence?" 

The eyebrows held their ground. "Embezzlement?" 

"And that the company," Cavendish pressed on, "can hardly afford to retain an employee caught with their hand in the cookie jar? There's no mitigation here Johnson, no loophole, no—why are you smiling?"

Cavendish knew he had the man dead to rights. And yet. Alacrity Johnson was a slippery bastard. He seemed to bumble from success to extraordinary success, courting disaster but always slipping away and leaving it to pay for dinner. 

"Oh, nothing. Do go on, Mr Scroot," Johnson's face was open and jovial. To Cavendish eyes, it was an expression of insufferable vanity and rebellion. 

"Two hundred thousand dollars, Johnson. Straight from the Alderway Corporation to your account." He sighed. "Let's not drag this out, eh? I have your severance papers here. As chairman, I don't need anyone else's approval. You're out, Johnson." 

Cavendish looked up into Johnson's eyes as planned, and knew he'd timed the moment perfectly. He was therefore tremendously startled to find that instead of confusion, refusal or the dawning of anguish, all he saw was a mild bemusement. 

"Anything else?" Johnson enquired politely. 

"Don't make me call security, Al." 

"Oh-kay. Right. Miss Egg," he gestured vaguely at the bored-looking young woman sitting at the far end of the table, "would you please explain the situation to Cavendish here?" 

Cavendish glanced at the sullen figure of Caitlin Gregg and, as she began to response, attempted to talk over her. This achieved about the same success as water pistols attempting to fatally wound through sheet Kevlar armour. 

“As I was saying… As a result of the tremendously profitable and aforementioned Trundel business, each hardworking executive was magnanimously endowed with a cash sum. A token of thanks and vote of confidence for their indubitable hard work and tenacity. As broker of the Trundel deal, Mr Johnson's sum was marginally higher than the others. It was agreed between the other trustees that an internal transfer would maximally benefit Mr Johnson with the added, quite unintended benefit, of avoiding public records and, happily, public scrutiny. 

"I have here a receipt, signed by each of your fellow trustees, confirming that the money has lawfully been passed to Mr Johnson. Your own personal bonus of A$50,000 was, I know, accepted without hesitation several weeks ago and converted, unless I'm much mistaken, into that fabulous vehicle occupying your parking space this morning. I hardly need to explain that by terminating Mr Johnson on the basis of embezzlement, with you yourself a beneficiary of an identical payment, you would be casting your own career into murky and perilous waters? 

"It was Mr Johnson's assumption, naturally, that you called this meeting to give thanks for his stellar work in securing such a lucrative contract for the company. What would be quietly implied, he assumed, was gratitude for the aforementioned tax-free bonus - something gentlemen like yourselves need hardly vocalise. 

"How does she drive, by the way?"

Sounding substantially more like a bored attorney than a bored business graduate, Miss Gregg wound her up statement by continuing to stare listlessly into the distance. An awkward quiet fell. 

Certainly it was awkward from the perspective of Cavendish Scroot, who had never bothered to ask why an extra A$50,000 had landed in his account. Probably just a nod to his stellar work and recognition of his dedication. He was feeling terribly uncomfortable with the whole situation. 

Johnson was beaming at the tectonic expression of Scroot and found the silence positively wholesome. Whatever contempt looked like when it was stripped of any real energy or judgement, that was how Miss Caitlin Gregg observed the silence. Or rather, ignored it. 

When no response was forthcoming, Johnson chirped in with his take on proceeding.

“Now that that’s all sorted, anyone for a brandy?”