Page 79 of Negotiating Tactics

His amusement faded. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“I didn’t offer it, but my name is Noah. Noah Wilder,” I said.

I didn’t extend my hand for a shake, and he didn’t either.

“And how do you know my daughter?” he asked.

He wasn’t hostile, mostly curious, and I could see the calculation in his eyes.

“She’s a friend of mine,” I said.

“What kind of friend?” her father asked.

“The kind that would inspire me to come and visit you,” I said.

“Let’s go have a seat,” her father said.

I followed him through a narrow hallway, dimly lit by sunshine, and into the kitchen.

He gestured toward the circular table with four chairs covered with one of those plastic tablecloths with fruit on it.

“Have a seat,” he said.

I sat in the chair, then looked at him.

He looked back at me, and I decided to ask a question.

“Why not name her Alexandra?”

He shrugged. “My name is Alex, and her mother insisted she be named after me,” he said.

“You didn’t care either way?” I asked.

It was an effort to keep my anger under control, but I knew he was aware of it.

“I always told Alex it was nice to have a namesake, but to be honest, I didn’t care one way or another. Not really,” he said.

My anger spiked, and I waited one moment, another, and then I spoke.

“I hear you’ve had some recent trouble,” I said.

“Is life anything but trouble?” her father asked.

“It can be,” I said, dangling the bait that I knew he would take.

“What is this about?” he asked.

I looked around the kitchen.

“It looks like you’re building something nice for yourself here,” I said.

“I’m trying,” her father responded.

“I bet your girlfriend is pissed about your most recent arrest,” I said.

His expression hardened, but I kept going.

“It might push her over the edge if she found out you’re behind on rent, too,” I said.

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