Bentenman

Arthur Bentenman paced up and down in his office. Fuck. He paced over to the door, grabbed the handle and hesitated. Fuck. He paced back over to his desk and sat down. The leather creaked. He leaned back. Fuck. He stood up again suddenly, causing spots to appear before his eyes. Fuck, fuck fuck.
He placed his hands on the desk and breathed deeply for a few moments, like his personal trainer had taught him to, back when she was still teaching him anything. She was twenty six, lithe, bouncy and he'd been fucking her behind his wife's back for eight months. Fuck.
Of course he wasn't getting the type of exercise he was paying for, but on the whole he preferred their current arrangement. All that shagging meant he was trimming up slightly too, so his wife assumed it was from the exercise. Plus it meant she wasn't getting bothered by his advances all the time, so she was happy. Did she know? Maybe, but if she did she either didn't care or else had decided the benefits outweighed the fact that he was having an affair.
He paced again. What the fuck had happened at that garden party? He was all ready to let that bastard Lanchester know that his precious little girl was banging some young stud and was so looking forward to seeing the look on that bastard's face when he realised that Bentenman was telling the truth. Oh god, it would have been sweet. Then for some reason, just as Lanchester was on his way over, his fucking dog exploded.
Who makes a dog explode? More to the point, why? What could that possibly achieve? It must have been an attempted hit gone wrong. Someone hired some fuckwit on the cheap who claimed he could shoot and the stupid turd missed and hit the dog.
Problem was, who hired the turd? He knew he hadn't and he'd made damn sure no one in his employ had gone over his head and done it. It was difficult to guess. Henry Porter Lanchester was an arse at the best of times, but even if he stiffed you on a deal he made you feel like you should be the one apologising, it was part of his charm. Besides, he hadn't stiffed many people and as bitter as Bentenman was about being one of them, he knew that Lanchester wouldn't have done it to him unless it was necessary, meaning Bentenman would have done the same thing to Lanchester if the roles had been reversed.
You had to respect a man like that. Not actually like him per se, but respect him. Bentenman ran through a list of names in his head, those either powerful or foolish enough to have pulled this debacle. Garnet - no, he lived in Lanchester's pocket. Dover - no he didn't have the balls. Harper - maybe but unlikely. Pinon - definitely up himself but Lanchester would wipe him out in a second and he knew it. That left Simmons, Du Prix, Van Horn, Elijah, (who goes by just their first name? Pretentious prick,) Murraybell and himself. Out of that list, Bentenman was the most likely to have pulled this caper. He had the resources, the connections and for fuck's sake, he had motive. Fuck.
He almost wished he had pulled it, at least then he would have had the satisfaction of it in the face of what was coming. Lanchester had already run the same list through his head and come to the same conclusion no doubt. Fuck. Even the fact that he was walking over to Bentenman when it happened made it look more like he'd done it - risking being showered with dog brains to make it look like he wasn't part of it - a classic double bluff. Well, apart from the dog brains bit. There was nothing classic about that. He'd showered for an hour after that and somehow the smell hadn't quite gone away until the next day.
He buzzed the intercom and asked his lovely secretary Tamsin, who he was also fucking, to send someone in for him to shout at. She knew better than to question him, even just by raising her inflection and replied in a straight tone that she would see to it. That was part of what he liked about her - she never questioned him. If he asked for someone to shout at, she got someone. If he asked her to bend over the desk and frig herself with his letter opener, she'd do it. Not like his wife. His wife was the complete antithesis of Tamsin. She questioned everything. If he told her he was going for a shit she'd ask how long he would be. Who in their right fucking mind knows how long they're going to be?
Bentenman could hear collected whisperings and scufflings outside the door for a moment. They were deciding who the sacrificial lamb would be. There was a trembling knock on the large oak doors which sounded more like a drum roll. Very apt, thought Bentenman and bade whoever it was in.
A young man with a severe side parting and a cheap shirt appeared in the room. His pits were already damp and he looked at any moment like he might shit himself. He was not going to be any sport at all, Bentenman could make this lad crap a housebrick just by saying good morning. The poor lads knees were trembling so Bentenman dissmissed him as nicely as his mood allowed before the little Herbert pissed on his carpet.
Bentenman leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling for a while, hoping a plan of action would come to him but nothing came. He had to try and second guess what Lanchester might do next. It would probably go one of two ways, he'd either take the softly-softly approach or else he's just go all out. If he went all out, Bentenman would have to be very careful. He could wake up in the night to find men in his house, who would rough him over, place a bag over his head and then put him in the boot of a car before driving him to some remote location, probably a warehouse out in the sticks somewhere. Lanchester would be waiting for him there, and then the shit would begin. As powerful as Bentenman was, Lanchester would get to him if he wanted to.
So, he had a limited set of options. He could run, he could hide, he could wait and see what happened and then react as best as he could or he could preempt Lanchester and strike first. Bentenman had never been much for running and although his considerable wealth would mean hiding would involve either five star hotels or else one of his little out of the way properties somewhere, probably one of the one his wife didn't know about for when he needed to entertain , the thought of hiding from that bastard for something he hadn't even done turned Bentenman's stomach. Besides, something like this would not blow over quickly, if ever, so it might mean permanent exile and he had too many concerns here that would go undealt with if he wasn't around.
So that left waiting or striking first. Waiting left him vulnerable, there was no doubt about that. It meant hoping that Lanchester would be reasonable enough to find out who really had shot his fluffy rat and there was no guarantee of that. Lanchester could be called a reasonable man, but only to a point. In his current frame of mind he was less likely to be feeling reasonable, as well, murderous. Bentenman didn't like his odds and certainly didn't like leaving his life in the hands of hope, which in his experience often dropped the ball. You left your life up to hope, it often got snatched from you.
So that was decision made then. Strike first and strike hard. Hard enough that your opponent didn't get back up again. Machiavelli would be proud. He picked up the phone and dialled.
"Giles? Arthur. Yes, hello mate, it has been a while. Listen, I need some work doing. It's rather a large job so I need professional work. Who's available? Hmm? Parker? No I don't think it's his type of thing. Mendez? No this particular work requires a little more... finesse than Mendez can provide. Right. Uncle Darkness? Yes I think he would enjoy the work and I know I can rely on him. Ok, give him a tinkle and ask him nicely for me would you? Lovely. Yes I'll be in touch with details once our dear Uncle has shown interest. Say hi to the wife for me. Ta ta."
Uncle Darkness. Bentenman sat back in his chair and rocked gently. He chuckled to himself - Christ, it was almost cruel. Still, that was that taken care of, on with the business of the day. It was probably time he gave his secretary a good seeing to.