“The conspiracy theorists saw their chance, Dana,” Chris replied. “All they needed was a forum in which to give their evidence, and the trial provided that. And as an incidental effect, it got Leon off the hook.”
“Yeah, the creep will get parole anytime now.”
They were motoring their way through a huge apple pie covered in whipped cream that Chris had slapped together while Dana was still in court. He had also put a bottle of chilled Dom Perignon on the table, which they were rapidly consuming. Suddenly, a deep, throaty murmur came rumbling out of Bam-Bam, and he ran toward the door. Chris got up and followed the Saint Bernard.
“Who’s there?” Chris asked defensively. The sting of Tyra’s attack was still fresh.
“Delivery for Ms. Dana Wittenberg,” came the voice on the other side of the door.
“Okay. We’ve had some trouble with people delivering things here lately. Slide some ID under the door.”
“What you say, man?”
“ID. Shove it under the door, please. What company are you with?”
“DHL.”
“Okay. Shove your driver’s license and the weigh bill under the door.”
“Say what, man?”
“Just do it,” shouted Chris. “People have been shooting at us and we’re a little nervous, okay?”
The DHL driver did as he was ordered. Chris reviewed the material and nodded to Dana. “Looks okay to me. I’m opening the door.”
Getting a solid grip on Bam-Bam’s collar, Chris opened the door. A short man handed him two large, heavy boxes and asked Chris to sign the delivery slip. He asked for his driver’s license and was gone.
Chris brought the boxes back to the sitting room and the two of them ripped them open. On top was a short, poorly written note in an envelope. It said, “U did a heluva job, kid, and u dserve this. LL.”
Dana swept the newspapers out of the way and gasped at what was there.
Money. Thousands of clips of hundreds.
“Holy shit, Chris,” said Dana, counting rapidly. “I think it’s cash!”
“I think it’s a million in cash.”
“It’s from Leon Lestage. It has to be drug money,” Dana said.
“What do we do with it?”
“Maybe it should go to the police,” Dana replied. “Maybe it belongs to Blankstein deFijter.”
“You don’t know those things,” Chris argued. “You don’t know it’s drug money.”
“I guess I don’t.”
“And, Dana, baby, who says it belongs to Blankstein deFijter? Those assholes hung you out to dry. They pigged out on the ten mil retainer, and when that was done, they threw you in front of one of the toughest, meanest judges that there was and did not lift a finger to help you.”
“You think we should keep it?”
“Of course I do, Dana. It’s a gift. It’s a tip for a job magnificently done.”
“But we can’t deposit more than $10,000 at once without all kinds of complications.”
“Let’s do what the Hallett/Lestages did. We’ll each open a bunch of bank accounts. We’ll deposit $9,000 in each account each week. That means we can deposit $100,000 per month. In each account. In a year we’ll have it stashed away and you can start a law firm with it.” Bam-Bam was wagging his tail ferociously.
Dana’s eyes opened wide. “What if the police find out? This is wrong, isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t,” said Chris. “Maybe it is drug money, but that’s just kind of speculating, isn’t it?”
“I agree. This is a gift, and we’re just speculating that it’s coming from evil deeds.” Dana became convinced. She unclipped a bundle of hundreds and counted them. “Total of a hundred. Here’s $10,000 for you.” She threw the bills at Chris, some of which drifted onto him and onto the apple pie he’d been eating.
“Why you cow!” he said, grabbing a bunch of hundreds. He unclipped them and threw the bills at Dana. The fight was on. Soon the air was thick with hundreds, fluttering throughout the small basement suite.
Dana took it to the next level. She grabbed her plate of apple pie and whipped cream and, with a surprisingly rapid move, rubbed Chris’s face into it. Chris, of course, did likewise, and in another minute there was pie, whipped cream, and hundred dollar bills raining down like a tropical storm.
Somehow in the middle of it all, clothing started to come off, and they ended up making love in the pie, the cream, and the thousands and thousands of hundreds. Bam-Bam was in the middle of the action until the last scene unfolded. Not knowing what to do, he entered the small bedroom, wondering what it was about his masters that led them to screaming, howling, laughing, and rolling around on the floor stark naked.
People sometimes are rather odd, he thought as he curled up and promptly fell asleep.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RICHARD AARON is an experienced trial attorney and brings his years in the courtroom to life in his writing. He lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with his four children and various dogs and cats. He has university degrees in mathematics and law, and a Masters in Law from the London School of Economics.
