John Miller - The Last Day

“A trial would be hard on both of you.”

“They put in a regular outlet instead of a GFI to cut maybe eight bucks and add it to their bottom line, and it killed my son,” Ward said, feeling the familiar anger boiling up inside him. He punched the table with his trigger finger. “I want everybody they ever wire a home for to be watching over their shoulders and making sure their costcutting can't kill anyone else. Not negotiable. End of discussion.”

“There's the expense of a trial and no guarantee that you'll win the suit. Look, let's just hear their offer. They're looking at a lot of bad publicity and they don't want to admit wrongdoing.”

“A confidentiality agreement is a deal- breaker,” Ward told him. He wasn't going to let that company cover up what their cost- cutting did to his son, to him, to Natasha, to people who loved Barney or would have in the years to come. “If you feel real strongly about it, I can find another lawyer to handle it and you can bill me for your time and your out- of- pocket to date.”

Gene threw up his hands in real exasperation. “You're the boss, Mr. Bullhead,” he said. “I'll tell them, but as I've said a hundred and two times, they can drag this out for decades.”

“I plan to live a very long time,” Ward said. “Now, I'd like to eat and get back to work.”

“Okay, one condition.”

“Name it.”

Gene put the pad away and closed his briefcase. He leaned across the table and fixed Ward with his dark blue eyes. “You'll tell me all about those showgirls you were stranded in the Grand Canyon with.”

Ward laughed out loud and felt a wave of relief sweep over him. Gene smiled; then his eyes focused behind Ward, and he said in a low voice, “Trey Dibble at twelve o'clock and closing.”

The scent of Trey Dibble's cologne ran ahead of the man like a wind- driven, toxic cloud. Ward braced himself and stared at the white linen tablecloth, clinging to the bright blue cloth napkin.

“Gene Duncan,” the confident voice boomed from behind Ward. “They'll let anybody eat here. You know what they call a hundred lawyers drowning in the ocean? A good start.”

“I've never heard that one before, Trey,” Gene said, trying his best to hold on to his smile.

“You know the difference between a lawyer and a turd?”

“No,” Gene said.

“Neither does anybody else,” Trey said, snickering.

“Another good one,” Gene said.

“Just kidding, Gene.” Trey Dibble moved to the side of the table within Ward's view to shake Gene's hand.

“You know I'm crazy about you,” Trey said.

Trey looked down at Ward and smiled as though he was surprised to see him there. Since Ward's company had a long- term contract for Flash Dibble's race team memorabilia, Ward looked up and forced himself to smile. He didn't personally care for all of his clients, but he was always polite to them. DME, or Dibble Motorsport Enterprises, ran a lot of money through RGI for the products they needed to sell to fans to promote their racing team.

Bracing himself, Ward shook the clammy hand belonging to the most unpleasant human being he knew.

Trey Dibble was a poster boy for the spoiled only son of a man who had worked both tirelessly and brilliantly most of his life to build a billion- dollar empire. Flash employed a lot of people, and appreciated-even if he didn't show it-people who had the ability to help build his holdings. So, on one hand, Ward had a lot of respect for what that man had accomplished and the good he'd done. Trey, on the other hand, had a reputation for doing damage without any positive results.

Without lifts, Trey was five five, weighed a good two hundred pounds, wore his inch- long black hair heavily oiled, and had bushy sideburns and a thin mustache that gave him the look of a local-cablechannel evan gelist. His shirt was opened to show off a gold chain the size of a ski rope that supported a gold medallion with the letters TD spelled in diamonds within a field of rubies. The face of the gold Rolex precisely mirrored the medallion's design, and several thick gold bracelets wrapped his other wrist like overfed snakes.

“Ward, how the hell are you?” he asked, with the sincerity of a snake-oil salesman.

“Fine,” Ward said. “And you?”

“Good as a man can feel with his clothes on. Speaking of which, this beautiful young thing is Tami with an i Waterman. Not terribly long ago she was featured in an issue of none other than Playboy magazine.”

A woman in her late thirties, with overlarge lips, tight facial skin, and a sculpted nose, stepped into Ward's view. She was chewing enthusiastically on a piece of gum.

“Waterman like the pen. It's a French name. She's not Jewish,” he said, smiling.

“I'm a Sagittarius,” she said in a high- pitched voice that brought to mind a cartoon chicken character.

Trey guffawed and slapped Ward on the shoulder. “She's not Jewish, she's a Sagittarius! Tami, honey, this is Ward McCarty You've heard me talk about him.”

Tami Waterman's tight gold pantsuit coated her contours like latex, showing off her narrow waist and muscular legs. Her enormous breasts were like twin racing blimps, running neck and neck, and she wore enough jewelry to decorate a Christmas tree. She offered her hand to Ward as though she expected him to kiss it. He took her hand and shook it once, wondering if her inch- long nails were glued on.

“He inherited that little toy company you're buying, right?” she gushed. “I love toys.”

“We're still talking it over,” Trey said with a straight face. “Ne-go-see-ate-ting. Ward here is holding out… for a bigger payoff.”

Ward ignored that, tried hard to keep the smile from falling from his face to the floor.

“Not toys. NASCAR memorabilia,” Gene told her. “Everything the race fan desires.”

“You don't sell those little toy cars?”

“They do,” Trey said. “And a lot of other things.”

Using her tongue, Tami moved her gum to one side. “Well, did you ever think about making calendars featuring drivers with their shirts off, maybe in BVDs. Female fans would buy them by the thousands, I bet. And what about a line of fragrances or charm bracelets with itsy-bitsy cars on-”

“Whoa, Tami!” Trey interrupted. “Don't give away your moneymaking ideas for free.” He narrowed his eyes. “Man, I tell you, Ward. She has got a million of them.”

Tami's smile wavered, and she looked at Trey before meeting Ward's eyes again. “You wouldn't steal my ideas, would you?”

“Of course not,” Gene assured her. “New product ideas have never been a problem for Ward.”

“Gene here tell you the good news?” Trey asked, changing the subject.

Ward turned his eyes to Gene, and despite their friendship, wondered if this meeting was a chance encounter after all. Try to read a lawyer's eyes sometime.

“He was just telling me about your father's latest offer,” Ward told him.

“Trey running a toy company,” Tami said. “Can you just imagine it? His toys are mostly big expensive ones. Have you seen his new Viper? Oh, my god! Cherry red with those little sparkle flakes and heavenly yellow leather interior. And my lord, is it ever fast.”

“I bought it because it matches her lipstick and hair,” Trey said.

Ward couldn't think of anything at all to say that wouldn't have been insulting.

“Well, are we close to a deal yet?” Trey asked.

“We were just discussing it,” Gene said.

“Actually,” Ward said, “I've decided that although your father's offer is generous, I'm not interested in selling RGI at the present.”

Trey's smile remained, but something in his eyes was now decidedly reptilian. “That so? We'll leave the door open awhile yet. I'm sure you'll come to see that selling to us is in everybody's best interest.”