Page 5 of How To Plot a Payback

“That one’s for you.”

“What? You’re joking. Are you mad?”

“Shhh!” Paula hisses, slapping the hand of a man trying to take hold of the dog in my arms.

A man I’m almost certain is Rowan Atkinson.

“Do you realize what this is?” she says in a rush. “These dogs are the goody bags!” She bellows, “The goody bags!”

Okay, we’ve officially entered Princess Diana Beanie Baby–era level.

She rubs the puppy maniacally as she continues, “This is a Chow Chow. They’re worth over $11,000! And here they are just giving them away.” Her eyes run over the bins of puppies labeled with a variety of exotic names. Löwchen. Pharaoh Hound. Tibetan Mastiff. One particularly rowdy bin in the back is peculiarly labeled Program Dropouts.

“Terrific,” I reply. “But it’s also a dog. And you have four kids.”

“So?”

“Two other dogs.”

She gives an annoyed what-does-that-have-to-do-with-this? sniff.

“One stray cat. Two snakes,” I continue.

Her bottom lip begins to pucker out.

“In a house that’s twelve hundred square feet with a dining table that doubles as your office.”

Silence.

“Just last week you tried to give away your cat. To me.”

The curls nestled at the nape of her neck quiver as she shakes her head. “Mike texted you, didn’t he?” she spits out, squinting at me. “You’re teaming up on me.”

“The last thing you need to add to your life is a puppy. Despite the fact they’re worth more than your minivan.”

“But—”

Our eyes lock for several seconds. Continuous dings are coming from both our phones, no doubt all from Mike.

Finally, with a massive shrug that sets off all the sequins down to her toes, she groans through her teeth. “Fine.” Multiple hands appear magically to take the dog, which she blindly releases. She then plops the dog I’m holding into a second set of hands. “You know, if you ever fall into a bad case of thallium sulfate poisoning, don’t come looking for me to bail you out with any Radiogardase antidote.” She flings her arms out. “Because heaven knows you can’t support me despite all I do for you.”

A short bark of a laugh explodes behind us, and simultaneously, Paula and I turn.

A man thirty years my senior stands before us, quietly outdressing everyone in the room, including the woman dressed as a sheet of computer paper and egg. A single red rose rests in the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket. Thick salt-and-pepper brows hover like rain clouds over baby-blue eyes. A frank, permanent crease sits between his brow, as though he’s spent much of his life disapproving of people and is unafraid to show it.

But his eyes are bright, earnest even, as he looks at me and stretches out one hand. As we shake, Paula’s eyes become round as saucers.

And all at once it clicks.

This is Victor Goodwin in the flesh.

Creator and executive producer for Goodwin Productions. The brains behind fifteen films that have brought in over $2 billion at the box office worldwide. Innumerable TV series. The creator of Neighbors, the long-running sitcom for Wagner Television beloved by billions of people around the world.

Victor Goodwin. The legend in the flesh.

Another man moves around us.

No, that’s not correct.