I once had the displeasure of dealing with a client, let’s call him SM, described as a ‘hard-nosed customer’. I don’t mean to sound elitist in what follows, so bear with me. It’s quite a long post, too.

SM’s “handlers” fear him, and when they speak of him, you can hear the strain on their voices; and I’m not just imagining things. This fella is what one would call a typical “bang-table” bastard. And that’s not all, minutes before my meeting with him, I was on the phone with one of his ‘handlers’:

“Becareful of him, hor?” Handler said, as I turned into a parking lot just in front of his building. The location was remote. Dust clouds hung in the air, raised by passing 3- and 5-tonne lorries; the main road was lined with random kampungs in various states of disrepair; buckets of grease were strewn about and the black, screeded flooring gave the impression of dirt absorbed — all of which gave me the impression of being in the middle of nowhere, in a “workshop” town. You could almost smell the rust of 30-year-old diesel monstrosities in the dusty air.

“I’ll be careful,” I said, laughing.

“No, really hor. Even she doesn’t want to deal with him. He only knows how to shout,” Handler said.

“Can’t be that bad, what?” I said.

“And he used to be a big time gangster in that area, so I don’t want to explain to your boss why you kena beaten up, hor?” she said, before putting down the receiver.

I was there to negotiate a price, and I already felt uncomfortable. An hour or so earlier, my boss had spoken to me about what I was to say. For some reason, I had the impression that he was playing a cruel, secret joke on me. I’ll admit. I’ve rarely dealt with difficult types. Make that “had to deal”, period, because I try not to get into fixes I can’t wiggle my way out of.

“You fucked up. You’re a sucker, and now he’s laughing at you. He’s got you by your balls, do you want to be in that position? No, right?,” my boss had said. I protested, I said I tried getting the information I needed, that I needed more time to corner that bastard.

“But you delayed. No, no, no. You delayed, and now he knows. Eh, you think this is the first time he’s dealt with our client ah? You think he would survive in this business if he didn’t know the backroads?” my boss continued. So yeah, I fucked up big time.

“I don’t know how you do it. Do you want me to follow you?” he said, looking up at me, smiling. I love my boss like a father, my at that moment I wanted to punch him right there and then.

“No, no, I’ll talk to him,” I said.

“You go talk to him. Eh, you think I’ve never been in your position? When someone makes a fool out of me, I make bloody well sure that I fight back right to the end. Just do it the ‘right’ way, ok?” he said, before dismissing me.

So there I was, walking past the entrance and toward the short, squat building all in a soft beige and off-pink. It wasn’t a sprawling affair, but it was clean. I took off my shoes and made my way past the empty receptionist’s desk. The stairs up were tiled, as was the whole lobby, in new ceramic and the railings looked like cheap aluminium affairs with faux chrome. I was turning over thoughts of reformed gangsters, new buildings and cheap facades as I was greeted by SM’s secretary, then ushered into his room.

I’d seen him before, and he was solicitous, then. Today he looked every bit the self-made tycoon, short, close cropped hair stubby against a shiny forehead. He had a round, weather-worn face that seemed to have a constant sheen even in his air-conditioned office. He was a short, stocky man, in his early 50s, gruff, constantly licking his lips. He avoided my eyes, and waved his me to a seat in front of him, the gold watch on his wrist suddenly looking cheap to me. I sat forward slightly, suddenly nervous, while he sat back on his leather office swivel chair with hands behind his head. Bloody bastard was pretty confident of the situation, I thought to myself.

I had tried preparing for the ‘meeting’, thinking about how to place the discussions firmly on my side of the equation. I had considered threats to use, had remembered thinking about not pressing the point too hard, playing a game of catch and release. I knew, however, that it would have to boil down to discussing figures, and I hated that because I hated trading figures. I still feel trading figures is about the last resort I should apply, it’s just so bloody crass. I’d rather lay out the situation, then start low, aim low and aim for something less than my mandate. If the client comes away grudgingly happy, I come out very happy.

Then he begins by lambasting me for my delay. I try to play catch up, and try to regain my footing. I explain that obtaining alternatives to his offer was not easy. He then informs me that he just got off the phone with Handler after giving her a royal screwing on the phone; I knew this was true because I caught bits of his conversation in Mandarin just before I sat down. My heart sinks because I knew then that whatever the outcome, I would be in for something bad from Handler. He then goes on to explain how my delay was wasting him money, and I know he’s lying; he’s more than able to meet orders without my finalizing the issue.

Then, as if commisserating with my plight, he brandishes the letter of complaint he had threatened to send out, saying he prefered if we talked about it mano-a-mano.

That pisses me off, and I decide to push. I draw out a competitive offer from another party, willing to do the job for a fraction of his cost, and he hesitates. Then he plays his own card and demands if I think said competitor could give guarantees. I ignore the question because I know no guarantees can be given, and focus instead on the disparity in prices.

Then I overplay my hand. I tell him, to his face, in his office, that the differences in prices means he’s cheating.

Well, ok, he went ballistic. He banged the table, start shouting so loud his secretary looked in. Spittle flew, his face went red, and I suspected I had hit a raw nerve. But not for the reasons I would be pissed off if I was accused of being on the take. His eyes were shifty, and I felt he saw that I knew, which would explain why he calmed down so quickly.

And then he made The Offer. If I would pay half of what he wanted, he’d give me a share. That bastard.

“You can do it for half, ah?” I said.

“Lu buat macam tu lah, lu buat macam tu, nanti lu balik sini lah, I boleh kautim lu,” he said.

“I tak mau bincang tentang ni lah, nanti lu marah, nanti I tak bole cakap apa apa,” I said.

“So lu mau bayar berapa?” he countered. Ah fuck, he wanted to talk figures. I gave him a figure, just slightly above his competitors, and this time he didn’t shout. His eyes went slit-like, he licked his lips and we started bartering like we were in a wet market in Timbuktoo.

Fortunately, I had spent the two days before the meeting rushing from one contractor to the next, finally convincing an engineering outfit to offer a solid quotation fully a third of SM’s original offer. I presented it, and I knew he would take it because it meant fully double the amount he would actually expend to carry out his works. It was my last resort, and when I offered it, I knew I had lost.

He was smiling when I left his office.

A full hour later, I found myself in my boss’ office. I didn’t describe the “negotiation”, if you could call it that, only telling my boss the figure which we had agreed. My boss, of course, laughed long and hard. That bastard. “At least you made him settle for one-third, ah? You know from the figure you bargained with him, you know how much he has made? You know he can do the work in-house right?” he asked, and I could only nod lamely. “You know he doesn’t need to spend a single cent, right?” he said. I shrugged, not knowing what to say.

I left his office with his final words ringing in my head: “You must be in control. You must always think 5 steps ahead of them”.