Page 15 of Negotiating Tactics

“Have a nice meeting, Alex,” he said before he took a sip.

I watched his throat work, trying to formulate a response.

I knew that I had been bested, and besides, I didn’t have time for this.

“Don’t touch my shit, Noah,” I called out in warning.

He looked at me, smiled, then took another sip.

Alex

“Thank you for being so accommodating about the meeting time, Alex,” Mr. Francois said.

“Oh, it’s no problem at all, Mr. Francois,” I responded, shaking his hand as he led me into his office.

“Please, call me George,” he said.

I smiled. “Okay, George.”

After I left Noah, I called a car, though not the car service that had taken me to the townhouse. Birdie had given me the company’s information and told me to call anytime, but I was true to my word about not taking from Birdie.

The ride to the city center took less time than I’d thought it would, probably because I was leaving later in the day, though with Boston traffic, you never knew.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” George asked as he led me into his office.

“No thank you,” I said, as I shook my head and settled in the chair he offered.

George sat behind his desk, which was stacked high with papers, and smiled apologetically. “I can’t get a handle on this mess. Every paper I move comes back as three more.”

“I understand,” I said, and empathized because I was not unfamiliar with the fight against paper myself.

He laughed. “I guess paper is a part of your profession,” he said.

“It is. But I’m surprised you have so many,” I said.

“Me too. But every order comes with an invoice and order form, sometimes change orders, and so on,” he said, his voice lit with amusement that only livened his already bright accented English.

George was a Haitian immigrant, and over his forty years in the US, he’d grown his small delivery service into a regional powerhouse and had become a real estate investor, which was what had brought me to his door.

“So, the building?” he said, not wasting time with meaningless small talk, which oddly made me inclined to talk to him more.

“You know I’m interested,” I said to George.

He smiled, his dark brown gaunt cheeks almost cherubic with his amusement. “You’ve made that very clear.”

And I had.

I had found out that George owned the building, and even before he had put it up for sale, I had contacted him.

“I’m impressed by your tenacity. Now, what do you plan on doing with it?” he asked as he leaned back in his chair, managing to look like a ruthless businessman and loving grandfather at the same time. I had no doubt that dichotomy had served him well over the years.

“You know that’s not really a standard question for a real estate transaction,” I responded.

“It’s not, but I hope that you’ll indulge me,” he said.

The suspicious lawyer in me resisted the question, but instinct told me George was a good guy.

“Why not?” I said. “The building is currently zoned commercial, but—and I probably shouldn’t tell you this, so don’t use it against me, please—” I said.

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