EIGHT
"Steve," Adrian said, "I should have guessed."
"Everybody back in your seats!" Steve shouted, waving his gun at the audience, "You're not going anywhere!"
"Steve, what the hell is this all about!?" Trebek asked from behind his podium.
"Shut up and stay out of this, Alex!" Steve fired a shot just over Trebek's head, causing him to crouch fearfully to the floor. "Get off that ladder now, Monk!" he yelled at the detective, aiming at his forehead.
"Put the gun down, pal," came Disher's voice. The lieutenant was standing directly behind the contestant coordinator with his hand in his jacket pocket. "Drop the gun or I shoot," he warned him, gesturing with a pointed object.
"That's not a gun," Steve laughed, "That's your finger."
"It's a gun," Disher said forcefully.
"It's your finger."
"Okay, it's my finger," Disher took his hand out. Seeing the dirty looks his associates were giving him for telling the suspect the truth, he added, "But it's a loaded finger."
Steve burst into laughter. "What idiot put you on the force!?" he asked.
"This idiot!" Stottlemeyer tackled Steve from behind, knocking the gun out of his hand. The captain picked it up and held it to the coordinator's head. "All right smart guy, you'd better tell us how to stop this bomb right now or you'll be a dead man yourself!" he demanded.
Sam reentered the control room at this point. "What's going on?" he asked the crew, "Why aren't we running commercials?"
"Oh nothing really," Rick told him, "Steve's just flipped his lid, and he's about to kill all of us. Where were you?"
"I was constipated," Sam said matter-of-factually, "Give me the headset, I'm going to let America see this in the best Jeopardy fashion."
"All right," Steve whimpered under the withering glance of Stottlemeyer, "The bomb's in the back. The light's just a fake. Take the cover off the back."
"Right," Sharona hand Adrian the pliers. "I—I can't," Adrian said, pushing them away, "They've hit the floor—there's germs galore on them—and I'm out of wipes. And I am really high up here."
"And you're the same guy who went up there so heroically just a second ago!?" Sharona said sarcastically, "Take them Adrian!"
"I wasn't thinking straight a second ago, it was..."
"TAKE THE PLIERS AND DISARM THAT BOMB, ADRIAN MONK, OR I WILL DUMP THE NEAREST TRASH CAN ALL OVER YOU!!!!!!!!!" Sharona bellowed at the top of her lungs. Shaken, Adrian complied. Surprisingly, the cover came off easily. He saw a complex set of wires, and enough C4 to separate California from the rest of the West Coast. He had less than 25 seconds. "Which wire do I cut?" he asked Steve.
"Cut the...Cut the..." Steve fainted dead away. "Perfect!" Stottlemeyer growled. He looked up at his associate. "Take a pick, Monk, and hope it's the right one!" he called.
"Great, which one, which one!?" Adrian thought frantically. He moved the pliers back and forth among the wires, completely unsure.
"Fifteen, fourteen," the conspirators in jail counted down the final seconds, champagne bottles ready to be uncorked, "Thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven..."
"For the love of God Adrian, pick one!!" Sharona screamed desperately at him.
"I...can't...pick...I'll do all of them!" Monk closed his pliers around all the wires.
"DON'T!!!!!!" everybody screamed. They covered their heads in anticipation of the blast. Adrian squeezed the pliers...
With a loud rattle, the bomb died, a mere 1.4 seconds left before it would have detonated. Adrian breathed a huge sigh of relief and immediately dropped the pliers to the ground. Steve came out of his fake faint. "How the hell did you figure that out!!" he demanded to the detective, "I didn't tell anybody else that you had to cut them all and at once to stop it!!"
"Lucky guess," Adrian said, scrambling back down the ladder to solid ground, "For once in my life luck was on my side."
"The one thing I want to know," Sharona said as studio police rushed on stage and handcuffed Steve, "Is why he'd be willing to risk so many lives for this?"
"It was quite simple, Sharona, revenge," Adrian explained, "And he wasn't the mastermind. I noticed earlier a photo in his wallet of him and some other people I've seen before. One of them happened to be a couple that's no longer married. The wife—Steve's sister, I'm presuming—was Lori Conroy, previously known as Lori Conroy Phillbey."
"Phillbey?" Stottlemeyer was surprised at the name, "The science teacher?"
"Exactly, Captain," Adrian said, "I'm guessing that during a visitation, Derek Phillbey put the idea into his mind about helping him in some sort of revenge plot. I accidentally told Derek my address while I was undercover at the school during one moment of weakness, and I guess he relayed it to his brother-in-law. Then it was a simple matter of calling me up and telling me I was on the show. He knew he couldn't kill me in broad daylight, so he had to come up with a more subtle way. A bombed light was a perfect solution. You said earlier the regular light technician called in sick, Steve. I'm guessing you killed him sometime before the show so you could set the rigged light up yourself. You said yourself that just about anybody on this crew could rig a light, and you're no different. I noticed an IATSE card in your wallet too, so you have experience with such work, and the burn marks on your hands right now tell me you were a little careless in putting it up. It was so perfect, and nobody would have suspected you."
"You want to know something, Monk!" Steve yelled, balling up his hands behind his back so no one could see the burn marks in question, "Throughout my life, I was the lonely brain of my class! Nobody wanted to ever hang out with boring, intelligent Steve! Derek was the only friend I had! He was the only one to take me in and see me as a human being! And you took him away from me!"
"Your 'friend' killed two people so your sister wouldn't have to find out he was a lying cheater!" Sharona shouted at the accused, "I wouldn't exactly call him a nice guy!"
"Well you'll never get anything on Derek!" Steve continued, "Because for your information, this wasn't his idea! Someone else was the mastermind!"
"I sympathize with how you feel, Steve," Adrian said, coming in close to his almost-murderer, "But I can't condone your actions. Do your thing, boys," he said to the studio cops.
"Right," the biggest one said, dragging Steve offstage.
"This is going to get me an Emmy for sure!" Sam cackled in delight in the control room, "This is going to put Carpenter's Millionaire show to shame!"
Stunned silence was the situation in Beiderbeck's cell now. Everyone stared blankly at the screen, not letting it seep in just yet that their plans had been foiled. Beiderbeck spoke up first. "Well, it wasn't a total loss," he said optimistically, "We did give him a major scare, wouldn't you say, Mr. Phillbey?"
"But they're mixed together!" Phillbey said softly.
"What?" Beiderbeck frowned.
"But they're even!" Phillbey said, a blank stare on his face. He slowly rose and wandered aimlessly about the room, muttering, "But they're mixed together! But they're even! But they're mixed together! But they're even! But they're mixed together! But they're even! But they're...!"
The sound of footsteps clamored up the hall. "Derek Phillbey, you're under arrest for attempted murder," one of the guards said, entering the cell with about a half dozen of his comrades."
"It was Beiderbeck!" Phillbey shouted, pointing at the fat man, "He planned it! He put me up to it! He blackmailed me! He's behind the whole scheme! He's...!"
"Thank you," the guard brushed him aside, "Dale Beiderbeck, you are under arrest for attempted murder, conspiracy to commit manslaughter, and blackmail," he told the former financier, "You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in..."
"I know my Miranda rights," Beiderbeck grumbled, "And you're violating my privacy."
"That's the least of your concerns, Mr. Beiderbeck," the guard said. Turning to the rest of the group, he continued, "You are all under arrest for conspiracy. Take them back to their cells until they have formal charges prepared, men," he told his fellow guards.
"Look at it this way, folks, now we get to come up with an even better way to kill him," Beiderbeck tried to cheer his conspirators as their were led out of his cell, "Maybe for the next episode we'll plant a poison gas charge in the air ducts and..."
"OH SHUT UP!!!!" everyone yelled at him.
"Well folks, if you were watching that bit we just had on camera, you saw why Adrian is a world-renowned sleuth," Trebek told the viewing public now that things in the studio had calmed down, "And now we can proceed with Final Jeopardy. Here's the clue: This hockey pioneer was killed in World War I, but the NCAA hockey equivalent of the Heisman Trophy bears his name. Thirty seconds players, good luck."
"Do you think he stands a chance?" Sharona asked Stottlemeyer as they watched from a special spot just off stage right.
"Not really," Stottlemeyer admitted, "But I must say, he's really made me and the department proud."
"I hope that carries over to Commissioner Brooks," Sharona said.
"Who cares?" Stottlemeyer shrugged as the lights came back up. "Oliver, we'll start with you," Trebek said, "You put down, 'Who was Sid Abel.' No, that's incorrect, and it will cost you...three thousand dollars, leaving you with a total of $1,000 for today. We move over to Adrian with his commanding lead, and he put down...it looks like several answers he wasn't satisfied with before writing, 'Who was Cal McEnroe, Jr.' No, neither of them played hockey, Adrian. The correct answer is Hobey Baker. Now the all important question, how much did you wager?...You've put down, 'I can't make up my mind, Alex!?' Adrian, that is not a wager."
"Well I can't think of what would be appropriate for this round!" Adrian protested. Trebek groaned. "All right Adrian, for the sake of soundness, you bet nothing, and become our new champion with a one day record of $115,000, congratulations."
The audience rose to their feet and gave Adrian a standing ovation. The detective smiled weakly and waved to them. "One thing I have to know, Adrian, is what was going through your mind in that last round when you were, well, starting to drift a bit?" Trebek asked him.
"Thoughts of passing out," Adrian told him, "In all honesty, I'd like to thank my brother Ambrose for helping me all last week, and without his help I'd never have come this far, and apart from my wedding day, this is the happiest moment of my life...I think."
Everyone in Ambrose's house cheered and patted him on the back at his lauding. Ambrose managed a warm smile. "Thanks Adrian," he told his brother on the screen, "It's great to know you're back."
"So, now that he's made you a star, I guess you're going to the next taping?" Cheryl asked him.
"Uh, no," Ambrose said quickly, "I'm...I'm good to watch it here. No need to go down to L.A."
"What's the matter, scared of L.A.?" Detective Kirk asked him.
"Well, no, it's just that, uh, L.A.'s not this house, and, um, I think the pot roast is ready," Ambrose dashed into the kitchen. He came back out with the pot roast and a large chocolate cake. "To Adrian," he said, holding the cake up as if toasting, "Long may he reign. Let's eat."
Everyone dug in. Julie pulled out her cell phone. "Guess what grandma?" she told her grandmother, "We're going to be rich!"
"After taxes, maybe not," Ambrose reminded her as he cut the cake.
"So will Adrian make this a long run like Thom McKee's Tic-Tac-Dough reign, or will it be a one day affair like Michael Larsen's Press Your Luck win?" Trebek posed to the viewing public, "Tune in tomorrow to find out, till then, take care."
"Adrian, let me just say that you did spectacular," Dr. Kroger informed his patient as the group came back over once the theme came on full blast.
"Yes, better than John Carpenter," Monica said, cutting in. Adrian smiled. Fancy seeing you here," he said.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Monica said, "And I'll be here until you lose. Just like Trudy would have been."
"That's nice," Adrian smiled, "I'm glad so many people care—in a positive way."
"Thanks for not embarrassing us, Monk," Stottlemeyer told him, waving to an audience member that was cheering him for stopping Steve.
"It was an honor not to embarrass you Captain," Adrian said, "And I hope...."
"Lieutenant, what are you doing!?" Stottlemeyer demanded. Disher, who'd been swaying bizarrely to the Jeopardy theme in front of some impressionable young women, stopped abruptly. "Nothing, sir," he said quickly.
"Save it for a murder at a nightclub, Randy," Stottlemeyer told him roughly.
"So, I suppose I get fifty percent of the winnings?" Sharona said, cutting in front of Adrian as he waved to the crowd.
"Fifty? No, no, that's a bit of a stretch," Adrian said quickly, "I'd say twenty-five is a bit more fair."
"No Adrian, I'm your assistant, and you will not cut me out of the paycheck!" Sharona barked, "I deserve half after I practically gave you the will to cut those wires!"
"Oh sure, after I had them practically cut before Steve pulled the gun."
"No you didn't, you're making that up!"
"Okay then, here's a fair compromise: I get fifty percent, and you and the others split the other fifty."
"Now what kind of fair compromise is that, Adrian!?"
"One I like."
Sharona groaned in frustration. "You are the biggest stiff in the world, Adrian!" she growled, "I could probably get more from singing in the streets!"
"I don't think so."
"Why don't you just suck it up and give me the cash, Adrian!?"
"No, you need to suck it up this time."
"No, you do!"
"No, you do."
"No you do!"
"No you do."
"HONESTLY!!" Benjy interceded, "Am I the most mature person here!? Why don't you both get a grip!" Then he sided up along his mother and asked, "This does mean I'm getting a bigger allowance, though, right Mom?"
"Don't bet your life on it," she told him.
"Hey superstar," came a distant voice from Adrian's rear. He turned around and walked backwards toward the source of it. "Trudy," he breathed. His wife was standing near the podiums, where Oliver had his head down and was muttering bloody murder under his breath. He could see through her, but she was definitely there, at least as far as he could tell. "Nice job," she told him, "I'm very impressed."
"I did it in your honor, Trudy," Adrian told her, his heart melting for her, "And I'll keep winning for you, as long as you want me to."
Trudy flashed him a huge smile, the one that always made Adrian feel lighter than air. She moved toward him and puckered her lips, but before she could kiss him...
"Adrian, who are you talking to?" Trebek asked over Adrian's shoulder.
"My wife," Adrian said. He'd turned to Trebek to tell him this, and when he turned back around, Trudy had vanished. "I think," he added.
Trebek shook his head. "What a way to start the week!" he said to himself as he headed backstage, "I should start thinking about that retirement home up in Manitoba if he keeps winning!"
THE END
"Steve," Adrian said, "I should have guessed."
"Everybody back in your seats!" Steve shouted, waving his gun at the audience, "You're not going anywhere!"
"Steve, what the hell is this all about!?" Trebek asked from behind his podium.
"Shut up and stay out of this, Alex!" Steve fired a shot just over Trebek's head, causing him to crouch fearfully to the floor. "Get off that ladder now, Monk!" he yelled at the detective, aiming at his forehead.
"Put the gun down, pal," came Disher's voice. The lieutenant was standing directly behind the contestant coordinator with his hand in his jacket pocket. "Drop the gun or I shoot," he warned him, gesturing with a pointed object.
"That's not a gun," Steve laughed, "That's your finger."
"It's a gun," Disher said forcefully.
"It's your finger."
"Okay, it's my finger," Disher took his hand out. Seeing the dirty looks his associates were giving him for telling the suspect the truth, he added, "But it's a loaded finger."
Steve burst into laughter. "What idiot put you on the force!?" he asked.
"This idiot!" Stottlemeyer tackled Steve from behind, knocking the gun out of his hand. The captain picked it up and held it to the coordinator's head. "All right smart guy, you'd better tell us how to stop this bomb right now or you'll be a dead man yourself!" he demanded.
Sam reentered the control room at this point. "What's going on?" he asked the crew, "Why aren't we running commercials?"
"Oh nothing really," Rick told him, "Steve's just flipped his lid, and he's about to kill all of us. Where were you?"
"I was constipated," Sam said matter-of-factually, "Give me the headset, I'm going to let America see this in the best Jeopardy fashion."
"All right," Steve whimpered under the withering glance of Stottlemeyer, "The bomb's in the back. The light's just a fake. Take the cover off the back."
"Right," Sharona hand Adrian the pliers. "I—I can't," Adrian said, pushing them away, "They've hit the floor—there's germs galore on them—and I'm out of wipes. And I am really high up here."
"And you're the same guy who went up there so heroically just a second ago!?" Sharona said sarcastically, "Take them Adrian!"
"I wasn't thinking straight a second ago, it was..."
"TAKE THE PLIERS AND DISARM THAT BOMB, ADRIAN MONK, OR I WILL DUMP THE NEAREST TRASH CAN ALL OVER YOU!!!!!!!!!" Sharona bellowed at the top of her lungs. Shaken, Adrian complied. Surprisingly, the cover came off easily. He saw a complex set of wires, and enough C4 to separate California from the rest of the West Coast. He had less than 25 seconds. "Which wire do I cut?" he asked Steve.
"Cut the...Cut the..." Steve fainted dead away. "Perfect!" Stottlemeyer growled. He looked up at his associate. "Take a pick, Monk, and hope it's the right one!" he called.
"Great, which one, which one!?" Adrian thought frantically. He moved the pliers back and forth among the wires, completely unsure.
"Fifteen, fourteen," the conspirators in jail counted down the final seconds, champagne bottles ready to be uncorked, "Thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven..."
"For the love of God Adrian, pick one!!" Sharona screamed desperately at him.
"I...can't...pick...I'll do all of them!" Monk closed his pliers around all the wires.
"DON'T!!!!!!" everybody screamed. They covered their heads in anticipation of the blast. Adrian squeezed the pliers...
With a loud rattle, the bomb died, a mere 1.4 seconds left before it would have detonated. Adrian breathed a huge sigh of relief and immediately dropped the pliers to the ground. Steve came out of his fake faint. "How the hell did you figure that out!!" he demanded to the detective, "I didn't tell anybody else that you had to cut them all and at once to stop it!!"
"Lucky guess," Adrian said, scrambling back down the ladder to solid ground, "For once in my life luck was on my side."
"The one thing I want to know," Sharona said as studio police rushed on stage and handcuffed Steve, "Is why he'd be willing to risk so many lives for this?"
"It was quite simple, Sharona, revenge," Adrian explained, "And he wasn't the mastermind. I noticed earlier a photo in his wallet of him and some other people I've seen before. One of them happened to be a couple that's no longer married. The wife—Steve's sister, I'm presuming—was Lori Conroy, previously known as Lori Conroy Phillbey."
"Phillbey?" Stottlemeyer was surprised at the name, "The science teacher?"
"Exactly, Captain," Adrian said, "I'm guessing that during a visitation, Derek Phillbey put the idea into his mind about helping him in some sort of revenge plot. I accidentally told Derek my address while I was undercover at the school during one moment of weakness, and I guess he relayed it to his brother-in-law. Then it was a simple matter of calling me up and telling me I was on the show. He knew he couldn't kill me in broad daylight, so he had to come up with a more subtle way. A bombed light was a perfect solution. You said earlier the regular light technician called in sick, Steve. I'm guessing you killed him sometime before the show so you could set the rigged light up yourself. You said yourself that just about anybody on this crew could rig a light, and you're no different. I noticed an IATSE card in your wallet too, so you have experience with such work, and the burn marks on your hands right now tell me you were a little careless in putting it up. It was so perfect, and nobody would have suspected you."
"You want to know something, Monk!" Steve yelled, balling up his hands behind his back so no one could see the burn marks in question, "Throughout my life, I was the lonely brain of my class! Nobody wanted to ever hang out with boring, intelligent Steve! Derek was the only friend I had! He was the only one to take me in and see me as a human being! And you took him away from me!"
"Your 'friend' killed two people so your sister wouldn't have to find out he was a lying cheater!" Sharona shouted at the accused, "I wouldn't exactly call him a nice guy!"
"Well you'll never get anything on Derek!" Steve continued, "Because for your information, this wasn't his idea! Someone else was the mastermind!"
"I sympathize with how you feel, Steve," Adrian said, coming in close to his almost-murderer, "But I can't condone your actions. Do your thing, boys," he said to the studio cops.
"Right," the biggest one said, dragging Steve offstage.
"This is going to get me an Emmy for sure!" Sam cackled in delight in the control room, "This is going to put Carpenter's Millionaire show to shame!"
Stunned silence was the situation in Beiderbeck's cell now. Everyone stared blankly at the screen, not letting it seep in just yet that their plans had been foiled. Beiderbeck spoke up first. "Well, it wasn't a total loss," he said optimistically, "We did give him a major scare, wouldn't you say, Mr. Phillbey?"
"But they're mixed together!" Phillbey said softly.
"What?" Beiderbeck frowned.
"But they're even!" Phillbey said, a blank stare on his face. He slowly rose and wandered aimlessly about the room, muttering, "But they're mixed together! But they're even! But they're mixed together! But they're even! But they're mixed together! But they're even! But they're...!"
The sound of footsteps clamored up the hall. "Derek Phillbey, you're under arrest for attempted murder," one of the guards said, entering the cell with about a half dozen of his comrades."
"It was Beiderbeck!" Phillbey shouted, pointing at the fat man, "He planned it! He put me up to it! He blackmailed me! He's behind the whole scheme! He's...!"
"Thank you," the guard brushed him aside, "Dale Beiderbeck, you are under arrest for attempted murder, conspiracy to commit manslaughter, and blackmail," he told the former financier, "You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in..."
"I know my Miranda rights," Beiderbeck grumbled, "And you're violating my privacy."
"That's the least of your concerns, Mr. Beiderbeck," the guard said. Turning to the rest of the group, he continued, "You are all under arrest for conspiracy. Take them back to their cells until they have formal charges prepared, men," he told his fellow guards.
"Look at it this way, folks, now we get to come up with an even better way to kill him," Beiderbeck tried to cheer his conspirators as their were led out of his cell, "Maybe for the next episode we'll plant a poison gas charge in the air ducts and..."
"OH SHUT UP!!!!" everyone yelled at him.
"Well folks, if you were watching that bit we just had on camera, you saw why Adrian is a world-renowned sleuth," Trebek told the viewing public now that things in the studio had calmed down, "And now we can proceed with Final Jeopardy. Here's the clue: This hockey pioneer was killed in World War I, but the NCAA hockey equivalent of the Heisman Trophy bears his name. Thirty seconds players, good luck."
"Do you think he stands a chance?" Sharona asked Stottlemeyer as they watched from a special spot just off stage right.
"Not really," Stottlemeyer admitted, "But I must say, he's really made me and the department proud."
"I hope that carries over to Commissioner Brooks," Sharona said.
"Who cares?" Stottlemeyer shrugged as the lights came back up. "Oliver, we'll start with you," Trebek said, "You put down, 'Who was Sid Abel.' No, that's incorrect, and it will cost you...three thousand dollars, leaving you with a total of $1,000 for today. We move over to Adrian with his commanding lead, and he put down...it looks like several answers he wasn't satisfied with before writing, 'Who was Cal McEnroe, Jr.' No, neither of them played hockey, Adrian. The correct answer is Hobey Baker. Now the all important question, how much did you wager?...You've put down, 'I can't make up my mind, Alex!?' Adrian, that is not a wager."
"Well I can't think of what would be appropriate for this round!" Adrian protested. Trebek groaned. "All right Adrian, for the sake of soundness, you bet nothing, and become our new champion with a one day record of $115,000, congratulations."
The audience rose to their feet and gave Adrian a standing ovation. The detective smiled weakly and waved to them. "One thing I have to know, Adrian, is what was going through your mind in that last round when you were, well, starting to drift a bit?" Trebek asked him.
"Thoughts of passing out," Adrian told him, "In all honesty, I'd like to thank my brother Ambrose for helping me all last week, and without his help I'd never have come this far, and apart from my wedding day, this is the happiest moment of my life...I think."
Everyone in Ambrose's house cheered and patted him on the back at his lauding. Ambrose managed a warm smile. "Thanks Adrian," he told his brother on the screen, "It's great to know you're back."
"So, now that he's made you a star, I guess you're going to the next taping?" Cheryl asked him.
"Uh, no," Ambrose said quickly, "I'm...I'm good to watch it here. No need to go down to L.A."
"What's the matter, scared of L.A.?" Detective Kirk asked him.
"Well, no, it's just that, uh, L.A.'s not this house, and, um, I think the pot roast is ready," Ambrose dashed into the kitchen. He came back out with the pot roast and a large chocolate cake. "To Adrian," he said, holding the cake up as if toasting, "Long may he reign. Let's eat."
Everyone dug in. Julie pulled out her cell phone. "Guess what grandma?" she told her grandmother, "We're going to be rich!"
"After taxes, maybe not," Ambrose reminded her as he cut the cake.
"So will Adrian make this a long run like Thom McKee's Tic-Tac-Dough reign, or will it be a one day affair like Michael Larsen's Press Your Luck win?" Trebek posed to the viewing public, "Tune in tomorrow to find out, till then, take care."
"Adrian, let me just say that you did spectacular," Dr. Kroger informed his patient as the group came back over once the theme came on full blast.
"Yes, better than John Carpenter," Monica said, cutting in. Adrian smiled. Fancy seeing you here," he said.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Monica said, "And I'll be here until you lose. Just like Trudy would have been."
"That's nice," Adrian smiled, "I'm glad so many people care—in a positive way."
"Thanks for not embarrassing us, Monk," Stottlemeyer told him, waving to an audience member that was cheering him for stopping Steve.
"It was an honor not to embarrass you Captain," Adrian said, "And I hope...."
"Lieutenant, what are you doing!?" Stottlemeyer demanded. Disher, who'd been swaying bizarrely to the Jeopardy theme in front of some impressionable young women, stopped abruptly. "Nothing, sir," he said quickly.
"Save it for a murder at a nightclub, Randy," Stottlemeyer told him roughly.
"So, I suppose I get fifty percent of the winnings?" Sharona said, cutting in front of Adrian as he waved to the crowd.
"Fifty? No, no, that's a bit of a stretch," Adrian said quickly, "I'd say twenty-five is a bit more fair."
"No Adrian, I'm your assistant, and you will not cut me out of the paycheck!" Sharona barked, "I deserve half after I practically gave you the will to cut those wires!"
"Oh sure, after I had them practically cut before Steve pulled the gun."
"No you didn't, you're making that up!"
"Okay then, here's a fair compromise: I get fifty percent, and you and the others split the other fifty."
"Now what kind of fair compromise is that, Adrian!?"
"One I like."
Sharona groaned in frustration. "You are the biggest stiff in the world, Adrian!" she growled, "I could probably get more from singing in the streets!"
"I don't think so."
"Why don't you just suck it up and give me the cash, Adrian!?"
"No, you need to suck it up this time."
"No, you do!"
"No, you do."
"No you do!"
"No you do."
"HONESTLY!!" Benjy interceded, "Am I the most mature person here!? Why don't you both get a grip!" Then he sided up along his mother and asked, "This does mean I'm getting a bigger allowance, though, right Mom?"
"Don't bet your life on it," she told him.
"Hey superstar," came a distant voice from Adrian's rear. He turned around and walked backwards toward the source of it. "Trudy," he breathed. His wife was standing near the podiums, where Oliver had his head down and was muttering bloody murder under his breath. He could see through her, but she was definitely there, at least as far as he could tell. "Nice job," she told him, "I'm very impressed."
"I did it in your honor, Trudy," Adrian told her, his heart melting for her, "And I'll keep winning for you, as long as you want me to."
Trudy flashed him a huge smile, the one that always made Adrian feel lighter than air. She moved toward him and puckered her lips, but before she could kiss him...
"Adrian, who are you talking to?" Trebek asked over Adrian's shoulder.
"My wife," Adrian said. He'd turned to Trebek to tell him this, and when he turned back around, Trudy had vanished. "I think," he added.
Trebek shook his head. "What a way to start the week!" he said to himself as he headed backstage, "I should start thinking about that retirement home up in Manitoba if he keeps winning!"
THE END