So far, the dinner conversation had been entirely innocuous, as I carefully steered things away from the subject of international money laundering. And while I had told Nadine what was going on with her aunt Patricia, I’d couched things in a way that made it all seem perfectly legit—glossing over the finer points, like the thousand and one laws we were breaking, and focusing on how Aunt Patricia would be getting her own credit card, allowing her to live out the twilight of her life in the lap of luxury. Anyway, after a few minutes of inside-cheek-chewing and some halfhearted threats, Nadine had finally bought into it.

At this particular moment Suzanne was explaining how the AIDS virus was a U.S. government conspiracy, not much different than Roswell or the Kennedy assassination. I was trying to pay close attention, but I was distracted by the ridiculous straw hats she and Aunt Patricia had decided to wear. They were larger than Mexican sombreros, and they had pink flowers around the brim. It was plainly obvious that the two of them weren’t residents of Jew-Hampton. In fact, they looked like they were from a different planet.

And as my mother-in-law continued bashing the government, the delectable Duchess began nudging me under the table with the tip of her high heel, the unspoken message being: “Here she goes again!” I casually turned to her and gave her the hint of a wink. I couldn’t get over how quickly she’d bounced back after Chandler’s birth. Just six weeks ago she looked like she’d swallowed a basketball! Now she was back at her fighting weight—a hundred twelve pounds of solid steel—ready to smack me at the slightest provocation.

I grabbed Nadine’s hand and placed it on the table, as if to show I was speaking for both of us, and said, “When it comes to your theories about the press and how everything’s a pack of lies, I couldn’t agree with you more, Suzanne. The problem is that most people aren’t as insightful as you.” I shook my head gravely.

Patricia picked up her wineglass, took a prodigious gulp, then said, “How convenient it is to feel that way about the press, especially since you’re the one those bloody bastards keep bashing! Wouldn’t you say, my love?”

I smiled at Patricia and said, “Well, that calls for a toast!” I raised my wineglass and waited for everyone to follow suit. After a few seconds I said, “To the lovely Aunt Patricia, who was blessed with the truly remarkable talent of being able to call a horse’s ass a horse’s ass!” With that we all clinked glasses and drank five hundred dollars’ worth of wine in less than a second.

Nadine reached over to me and rubbed my cheek and said, “Oh, honey, we all know that everything they say about you is lies. So don’t you worry, sweetness!”

“Yes,” added Suzanne, “of course it’s all lies. They make it seem as if you alone are doing something wrong. It’s almost laughable when you think about. This all goes back to the Rothschilds, in the 1700s, and to J. P. Morgan and his brood, back in the 1900s. The stock market is just another puppet of the government. You can see…”

Suzanne was off again. I mean, there was no denying she was a little bit kooky—but who wasn’t? And she was smart as a whip. She was a voracious reader, and she’d single-handedly raised Nadine and her younger brother, AJ, doing one hell of a job (at least with Nadine). And the fact that her ex-husband hadn’t given her one ounce of support, financial or otherwise, made her accomplishment that much grander. She was a beautiful woman, Suzanne, with shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair and brilliant blue eyes. All in all, a good egg.

Just then Starr walked over to the table. He wore a white chef’s jacket and a towering white chef’s hat. He looked like a six-foot-four-inch Pillsbury Doughboy.

“Good evening,” said Starr in warm tones. “Happy Labor Day to all of you!”

My wife, the aspiring people-pleaser, immediately popped up out of her chair like an eager cheerleader and gave Starr a pleasant peck on the cheek. Then she began the process of introducing her family. After a few wonderful minutes of meaningless small talk, Starr began explaining the evening’s specials, starting with his world-famous pan-fried soft-shell crabs. But in less than a millisecond, I stopped listening and started thinking about Todd and Carolyn and my $3 million. How on earth were they going to get it all there without getting caught? And what about the rest of my cash? Perhaps I should have used Saurel’s courier service? But that had seemed risky, hadn’t it? I mean—to meet a complete stranger at a sordid rendezvous point and hand over that much money?

I looked over at Nadine’s mother, who, by chance, was looking at me too. She offered me the warmest of smiles, an altogether loving smile, which I returned without hesitation. I had been very good to Suzanne. In fact, since the day I’d fallen in love with Nadine, Suzanne had never wanted for anything. Nadine and I bought her a car, rented her a beautiful home on the water, and gave her $8,000 a month in spending money. In my book, Suzanne was aces. She had never been anything but supportive of our marriage, and…

…then all at once the most devilish thought occurred to me. Hmmm…it was really too bad that Suzanne and Patricia couldn’t carry some money over to Switzerland. I mean, really—who would ever suspect them? Look at them, in those stupid hats! What would be the chances that a Customs agent would ever stop them? Zero! It had to be! Two old ladies smuggling money? It would be the perfect crime. But I instantly regretted thinking any such thought. Christ! If Suzanne got in trouble—well, Nadine would crucify me! She might even leave me and take Chandler. That was an impossibility! I couldn’t live without them! Not in—

Nadine screamed, “Earth to Jordan! Hello, Jordan!”

I turned to her and gave her a vacant smile.

“You want the swordfish, right, baby?”

I nodded eagerly and kept smiling.

Then she added with great confidence, “And he also wants a Caesar salad with no croutons.” She leaned over and gave me a wet kiss on the cheek, then sat back down in her seat.

Starr thanked us, complimented Nadine, and then went about his business. Aunt Patricia raised her wineglass and said, “I’d like to make another toast, please.”

We all raised our glasses.

In a serious tone, she said, “This toast is to you, Jordan. Without you, none of us would be here tonight. And thanks to you, I’m moving into a larger flat, closer to my grandchildren”—I looked out the corner of my eye at the Duchess to gauge her response. She was chewing on the inside of her mouth! Oh, shit!—“and it’s big enough so they can each have their own bedroom. You’re a truly generous man, my love, and that’s something to be very proud of. To you, my love!”

We all clinked glasses, then Nadine leaned over to me and gave me a warm, wonderful kiss on the lips, which sent the better part of five pints of blood rushing to my loins.

Wow!How wonderful my marriage was! And it was growing stronger every day! Nadine, myself, Chandler—we were a real family. Who could ask for anything more?

Two hours later I was knocking on my own front door, like Fred Flintstone after he’d been locked out by Dino, his pet dinosaur. “Come on, Nadine! Unlock the door and let me in! I’m sorry!”

From the other side of the door, the voice of my wife, dripping with disdain: “You’re sorry? Why—you—little fuck! If I open this door I’m gonna smash your face in!”

I took a deep breath…and slowly exhaled. God, I hated when she called me little! Why did she have to call me that? I wasn’t that little, for Chrissake! “Nae, I was only kidding around! Please!I’m not gonna let your mother carry money over to Switzerland! Now open the door and let me in!”

Nothing. No response, just footsteps. God damn her!What was she so mad about? It wasn’t me who’d suggested that her mother bring a couple of million dollars over to Switzerland! She’d offered! Perhaps I had led her into it, but, still, she had made the official offer!