Fat Chance stared at Clay while absently picking bits of tobacco from his tongue. “You’re right,” he said finally. “Nuts, understand, but right.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“No way. I’ll send the report up.”
“If I’m wrong, he’ll have me to chew out in person. He won’t have to chew you to get me.”
Fat Chance hit his intercom. “Shirley, see if Mr. Carroll can see Mr. Clay. Tell him it’s about possible fraud. Buzz me when you know.”
“That’s Dr. Clay,” said Clay with a genuine smile, “but we’ll keep that a family secret, eh, Marv?”
Clay deposited twenty thousand of his bonus in trust funds for the twins. He spent something over three thousand dollars of the rest on a very friendly word processing system to help him write his torrid romance. He gave the rest to Ginger, insisting that she spend it on something frivolous. She had the dents and holes taken out of Brunhilde, had her repainted and polished, and parked her shining in the driveway as a surprise. The rest she invested.
Everybody was happy. Everest was happy, and paid him a thousand dollars, which was nice of them, if cheap. Mountain Valley Mutual offered Clay a job, which flattered and amused him, and which he politely declined. Even Fat Chance was happy. After Acme, Everest, and Mountain Valley Mutual had convinced Mrs. Cannon’s parents that an exhumation would be wise, and after an autopsy found that the heart had been skewered clean through by a thin, round, sharp object, like an ice pick, and after Cannon had pled guilty to reduced charges, Fat Chance even threw his arm around Clay and said to his boss, “Yessir, Mr. Carroll, real proud of this brother-in-law of mine. Threw him this case special. Knew if something smelled, he’d find it.” And Clay had stood there, apparently smiling.
So everybody was happy, but Clay had been happiest longest of all. Almost from the first moment that he had edged into Mr. Carroll’s chrome and glass office to make his pitch for fraud, he had known things were going to work out.
“How do you do?” he had said. “My name is Adameus Clay.”
“Adameus?” puffed Carroll. “Don’t you mean Amadeus?”
Clay shrugged apologetically. “My mother meant Amadeus.”
“Did she, by thunder?” Carroll boomed. “Well, my name is A. Belk Carroll. My mother, bless her soul, named me for her favorite department store and her favorite brand name patent medicine. Can you guess what the ‘A’ stands for?”
Clay looked down at the letterhead on the report he was holding. “Acme?” he ventured.
“I’ve never forgiven her for that,” Carroll said, “until now. Sit down, Adameus. I think we’re going to like each other.”
And they did.