Stone Junction

He left the Diamond and money under the table and walked up front, taking the empty pitcher and glass with him. Carl was in the kitchen wiping down a prep table. He came out immediately, looking nervous. ‘Hate to hurry you, sir, but the boss’ll be here to cash out in about five minutes, and he gets really pissed if the place ain’t cleared – you know, on account of robbers and all.’

Daniel said, ‘Carl, you should explore the spiritual life. You must be a mind-reader, because I was just going to ask you if the boss was coming in tonight. When he gets here, would you inform him that I would like to see him for a moment at my table. My name is Nova Rajneesh. I have a business proposition for him.’

Carl was backing away. ‘Oh no, now, come on, mister, please. I shouldn’t of said nothing.’

‘I’m not a robber,’ Daniel assured him. ‘I want to do business.’

‘Well geez, do you think you could call him in the morning?’

‘Unfortunately, I’m forced to leave town tonight. And let me assure you that he’ll find my business proposition so enjoyable he’ll likely give you a bonus that will make my recent tip seem meager. Now, if you’d be kind enough to lend me a pen and one of those empty pizza boxes, I’ll let you return to your work.’

Carl reluctantly unclipped the pen from his velveteen smock and handed it and a pizza box across the counter. ‘You sure this won’t get me in trouble?’

‘You’re covered,’ Daniel said. ‘I promise.’

Daniel began writing rapidly on the pizza box. When he had finished, he opened the briefcase and counted the money: nineteen thousand dollars. He doled out four grand and zipped it in the day pack. When he looked up, a red-faced man, forty pounds overweight and bald, was bearing down on him. Daniel rose to greet him.

Before he could, the man bellowed, ‘My name’s Max Robbins, I own this place, and I’d like to know what the fuck you think you’re doing here after closing time? Carl, one of my fucking cretin employees, said you want to talk business. I don’t wanna talk business. I want your ass outa here.’

Daniel lifted the case’s lid and turned it so that Mr Robbins received the full effect of the neatly bound sheaves. Daniel offered his hand. ‘Mr Robbins, my name is Nova Rajneesh. I am what the media fondly refer to as an “eccentric millionaire.” Actually, I’m an impulsive multimillionaire, but why quibble.’ They shook hands, then Daniel continued, ‘I haven’t much time, so excuse me for jumping to the point. I’m the Supreme Chairman of the Nova Rajneesh Philanthropy Fund, a perfectly legal tax dodge, the intricacies of which need only concern my attorneys. The substance of my proposition is contained in this hastily drawn contract.’

Daniel picked up the pizza box. ‘You’ll note, Max, there are actually two contracts, but they’re identical. One will be my copy. If you’ll allow me to read:

The owner of Jackrabbit Pizza herewith agrees to accept the sum of $15,000 to provide free mechanical pony rides for all children upon request until such time as the money (at 25? a ride) is exhausted. Administrative and bank fees may be subtracted from the original sum, but in no event may the total fees exceed $3000.

In further consideration of this bequest, no employee of Jackrabbit Pizza will be forced to wear any type of uniform or costume as a condition of employment, effective on signature of this agreement.

A separate account shall be kept of this bequest, with books subject to audit at any time.

Dated and signed, etc.

Robbins said, ‘Don’t see much there for me.’

‘Then you’re either stupid or greedy. Not only do you get a customer attraction which will undoubtedly be reflected in increased revenues, you also get an undeserved reputation as a generous man – and, of course, most of the three-thousand-dollar administrative fee.’

‘All right, prick, you’re on.’

Daniel called Carl to witness the deal. Daniel tore the signed boxtop in half, giving Robbins his copy along with the briefcase of money. Robbins sat down to count as Carl and Daniel watched. Finally Robbins smiled. ‘All there,’ he said, starting to close the case.

Daniel cleared his throat. ‘I believe, Mr Robbins, that the witness fee is properly an administrative expense. Two hundred dollars is standard.’

Robbins glared. ‘Witness fee? What’s this shit? You think you can just roll me over and fuck me?’

‘Fair enough,’ Daniel said, ‘we’ll split it.’ He gave Carl two fifties from the day pack.

As Robbins reluctantly handed Carl a matching hundred from the briefcase, Daniel said, ‘While this pizza-box contract may strike you as unusual, and while it’s true my ways are unorthodox, I didn’t become wealthy by accident. I am an excellent businessman. My contract and litigation departments are used to seeing contracts written on cocktail napkins, the upholstery of Rolls Royces, bicycle seats, lipstick on mirrors, paper bags; and in every court case we’ve undertaken – and there have been many – those contracts were found to be binding. My contract department also directs our teams of investigators, whose random visits will ensure that the provisions of the contract are being followed to the letter. And the penny.’ Daniel stowed his copy in the day pack.

Robbins was rereading his copy of the contract, his lips moving slightly. ‘Don’t see nothing about investigators here. Where’s it say investigators?’

‘Auditors – same thing.’ Daniel put an arm through the day pack’s strap and slung it over his shoulder. Carl was carefully securing the two hundred dollars in his billfold.

‘So, all right,’ said Robbins, ‘these investo-auditors come, maybe somebody’s spilled coffee on a ledger, numbers don’t come out exactly even, stuff like that. What happens?’

‘The investigators or auditors, as the case may be, report to the contract department. Contract calls litigation. Litigation assembles a battery of attorneys. We file suit. We own a little pizzeria in Reno, the whole business probably worth less than a tenth of our legal fees. You see, Mr Robbins, with me it’s a matter of principle, not money. How many more millions do I need?’

‘I didn’t hear none of this lawsuit shit when we were signing contracts. Forget it. I’m backing out. It smells like grief.’