I’ll post the rest of that little scene here, just so you can know what the “condition” is–since I’m not really sure when the anthology will be published–
Bartholomew shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s a business decision, man. Nothing personal,” he said. Sherlock shook his head.
“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong,” he whispered, an evil, almost feral grim spreading across his face. “It’s nothing but.” He walked back to his chair, sat down, and propped his feet on his desktop. “I’ll loan you the money for a period of two weeks, that’s it, but there’s going to be conditions.” I nodded.
“All right, two weeks it is, but what are the conditions?”
“For this kind of thing, I can’t go through the bank, it has to be from my personal cash.” He sat up straight, putting his feet on the carpet. “I won’t even charge you interest, hotshot, and you can give the cash to your butt buddy there, but there IS something I want if you default and I call the loan due.”
My face lost a little color, because if he couldn’t go through the bank, it wasn’t looking too good.
“What is it?”
“What you fags seem to love the most.” I snorted.
“I love my money, and you’re already going to get that, I—guess I love—shit I almost said your son’s name—
what’s in my pants here,” I said, grabbing my crotch just a little, and I snickered just a little.
“Bingo, the man gets a cigar.” I stared at him.
“You can’t be serious.”
“As a heartbeat—or a cockbeat, in your case.”
“No Fucking Way!” Bartholomew shouted. He turned to me panicked, and grabbed my arm.
“You can’t do this, Tony it’s ridiculous, I don’t need the money that bad, I’ll think of something I—“ I held up my hand.
“What did I tell you before, Bartholomew? I said it’s a sure thing, right?” He nodded, wordless. I turned back to Sherlock, who wore that shit-eating grin on his face again.
“We’ll do it, get the cash here right now.”
Without a word, Sherlock unlocked his lower desk drawer and got out a metal cash box, unlocking that. He brought out five thick bundles of cash and laid them on his desktop in a neat row.
“Those bundles have two thousand dollars each, five bundles for a total of $10,000. Take them and put them in your cute little man purse, Mr. Singer.” He gestured at the cash bundles, and Bartholomew gave me a glance. I nodded at him and he got the bundles, stuffing them in his messenger bag.
“Now get the hell out of here, you fruitcakes. I’ll see you in two weeks.” He turned his attention to his computer. “If I don’t, I’ll at least see a part of you.”
Without another word, we left the office.