Just Deserts

Rhonda Sellers, new Associate Professor of Finance, grabs Allan's crotch hard so there's no mistaking her message.

“Allan, I want to sit in on your statistics class this fall. If you stop by my apartment three hours before class - you can do it, I checked the schedule - I can assure you a pleasant time while you tutor me. I got divorced four years ago and have had no man since. Nor have I had one appeal to me like you do.”

Taken aback, Allan, a married man, decides to play the situation straight. He tries to ignore her hand, smiles, says, “Sure, glad to extend the professional courtesy. Is there a specific topic you require?”

Rhonda doesn't move her hand, winks, says, “I need to know what a 'significance level' is, how to choose the 'appropriate' level to use, state why I chose it, and be able to defend my choice. It's important in conference presentations and referred papers.”

Allan looks at her hand, then gives her a skeptical look.

“No, for real, I need to know about significance levels,” she says.

“OK. You've selected the correct class. But why mine? Others teach the same class.”

She squeezes harder. “Your class begins at eight in the evening, convenient for me. You show on an illustration board how to use a spreadsheet to calculate a test statistic and its significance level. The spreadsheets are downloadable so I can study your formulas.”

. . .

Allan walks into class the first evening, sees Rhonda, is shocked she's there, gazes with mouth open wide, recovers, he hopes, in time to not make a negative impression on the students.

Seated first row center, he thinks. Made sure I can't miss her. She meant what she did and said. She is trouble with a capital 'T'. What woman isn't? She's good looking, and she knows it.

She's wearing a tight black skirt that's ridden up to her crotch, has spread her long, shapely, silky smooth, tanned legs far enough apart to invite a peek. Her white blouse struggles to cover her ample breasts, accentuates their size.

Is she wearing a bra? Does she need one?

Her long blonde hair which frames her face shines like it's spun from a skein of sunrise molten gold. She has a perfect bronzed complexion and exotic dark blue eyes the color of lazulite, are alluring when she favors Allan with looks. Her raven-black arched Cleopatra-like eyebrows, the antithesis of the color of her hair, form a wonderful contrast. She has pouting red honey sweet lips, sparkling white teeth, and an angelic smile below a perky nose. A sculptor could not have fashioned a more beautiful woman.

Comparing her to undergrad co-eds is like comparing moonshine whiskey to single malt scotch. She's twice their age, but she knows how to showcase her assets.

Allan falters as he tries to call roll.

I hope I'm not making a spectacle of myself gawking at her. I must retain my composure, make a positive impression. It's a good thing I have this illustration board to duck behind if an embarrassing hard arises.

“Class, many of you recognize Dr. Rhonda Sellers. Some of you may be taking her classes. She holds a Ph.D. in Finance, but recognizes the importance and universality of statistics. It's an honor to have her in this class. All you quant management majors, I expect y'all to not let her outdo y'all. And to tell me if she steals any of this class's techniques.” Allan smiles at her as he says this.

. . .

Allan sits up in bed, surveys Rhonda's gorgeous naked body.

“We have done a great job of hiding our relationship from students, faculty colleagues, and university administration. Now we have to hide it from Tonya. She is becoming suspicious. Not being able to perform is causing her to question me. I don't want to stop making physical love to you. Our relationship has, for me, become more than physical. I am in emotional love with you. You're in my thoughts all the time. Was this your intention?”

Rhonda smiles. “I'm glad you said it first because I'm in emotional love with you, too. Yes. This was my intention.”

“Did you really need to sit in on my stat class last fall? Or was it only an excuse to get me to your apartment?”

She shakes with laughter, says, “Aren't you conceited? Yes, I wanted to learn about significance levels. But I knew physical love had to come first. You must admit our physical love making has been fun.”

“Yeah, well, your initial unorthodox, forward way of getting my attention worked. But how did you know I'd respond?”

Rhonda grins. “I didn't, but I figured, 'What the hell.' I knew I had to have you the first time I saw you.”

. . .

“Bob, may I talk with you?” asked Allan as he sticks his head in Bob Bonner's office.

“Come in,” says Bob, an attorney and fellow Management Department member. “What can I do for you?”

“I've come to ask for advice, to seek your opinion.”

Bob grins. “Please remember two facts. First, advice is worth exactly what you pay for it. Second, opinions are like a singular feature of the body's anatomy, everyone has one.”

“I'll chance it.”

Bob shrugs. “As long as you know what you're getting. Ask away.”

“Thanks,” said Allan as he closes the door.

“Door closed, this must be serious.”

“It is. Let's talk divorce.”

Bob shakes his head. “Not my specialty. I can discuss it only in unspecific terms.”

“Yeah, but you know more about it than me. I would like this conversation to be confidential.”

“Then hire me. Give me a dollar.”

Allan hands Bob a one dollar bill.

“You are now my client, confidence guaranteed. What do you want to know?”

“I'm thinking of divorcing Tonya, want to know what awaits me.”

Curiosity creeps across Bob's face. “Is there another woman?”

“Yes.”

“Don't tell me who it is. I want to remain objective. It'll be difficult because I know Tonya.”

“What can I expect if I divorce her?”

Bob's face changes to a stern, no-nonsense expression. “Let me review your situation. Married how long?”

“Over fifteen years?”

“This is the first and only marriage for both of you?”

Allan nods.

“To use a baseball metaphor, strike one against you. Were you married when you sought your Ph.D.?”

“Yeah, but she completed her B.S. in Math while I was in school.”

“Doesn't matter. Any children at the time?”

“Yeah, one.”

“Was Tonya employed at the time?”

Allan shakes his head.

“So Tonya and the child sacrificed so you could go to school?”

“Sacrificed? No. I had savings. I received a graduate stipend. And I taught two additional classes. They always had a roof over their heads, never went hungry.”

“Was Tonya able to buy clothes for herself or the child when she wanted to? Did she have a late model car of her own to drive? Was she able to come and go as she pleased? Did y'all own a house while you were in school?”

“No, no, no, and no.”

“Tonya's lawyer will define 'sacrifice.' The judge will let him. You'll come off looking like Ebinezer Scrooge. Strike two. Y'all have three young children now, right?”

Allan nods.

“Tonya's lawyer will portray you as skipping out on your parenting responsibilities, another strike. You'll have to support all three children through college or until employed full time or married. Has Tonya ever held a full time job?”

“Nope, she maintains being a stay-at-home mom is a full time job.”

“Another strike. How old are you?”

“Forty.”

“And Tonya?”

“Also forty.”

“The other woman?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“So you're leaving Tonya for a younger woman?”

“Yes. But what's a year?”

“A year may not be much to you, but it will be huge when her lawyer gets hold of it. Another strike against you. Has Tonya ever cheated on you?”

“I've had suspicions, but none I can prove.”

“Suspicions aren't worth anything in a court of law, only proof. You can't prove unfaithfulness, so her lawyer will cast her as the faithful wife you want to leave. Another strike.”

“You're cheating on her now?”

“Yep, but I've been careful. She can't prove a thing.”

“Don't get caught before the divorce is final. Otherwise her lawyer will paint you as a philanderer. It'll be a disaster for you.”

“Can I say anything to a judge to mitigate this situation?”

“I doubt it. I hate to ask you all these questions, but I must paint a realistic picture of what you'll face. Tonya's lawyer will ask them if you file.”

“Better now than surprised in court.”

“You have six strikes against you going in, so you're doomed. My professional advice is to not do it. She'll clean you out. You'll have to support her until she gets a job or remarries. You'll have to pay child support. Any judge will take a dim view of you citing 'another woman' as a reason for seeking a divorce. The divorce petition may say 'irreconcilable differences,' but any judge will know the real reason. So don't do it. Seek another way to get rid of Tonya.”

“Can I assume any judge and the legal system will side with Tonya?”

“Yes. It's the price you'll pay to be free to pursue the other woman.”

“Thanks Bob,”: says a forlorn Allan. “You've provided information so I can make a decision. Now it's up to me.”

Divorce is out. I want to be with Rhonda, I'll have to think of another way to get free of Tonya.

. . .

Allan has an idea three days later.

I'll hire a hit man to get rid of her. A hit'll cost lots of money, but it'll be cheaper than a divorce. Dave Griffin can find one. He deals with low-life killers every day. He owes me a favor.

Allan speeds to Dave's 'Sudden Bail Bonding' business located near the Metro jail in the seedier part of town.

“Hi Allan,” says Dave. “Long time, no see. What brings you to this part of town? I hope none of your respectable university friends need my services.”

“No,” says Allan, forces a laugh. “I need your help.”

“Anything for you. This computer system you developed to help keep track of the people I've bailed out of jail sure beats three by five cards.”

“This conversation is confidential?”

“Anything you say.”

“I need a hit man. Can you find one?”

“Yeah, I can talk with one. The going rate for a non-celebrity hit is twenty thousand cash. The fee for my service is ten percent. Who do you want killed?”

Allan whispers, “My wife.”

A matter-of-fact look on his face, Dave warns, “Results are final. There is no going back, no calling the hit man off if you get cold feet or have a pang of remorse.”

“Hire him. When can I expect results? I need to practice grief.”

“It'll take me two or three days to contact one. A week for him to investigate your and your wife's movements. So max ten days. How soon can you get the cash? Cash will establish you're serious.”

“Cash? Tomorrow. I'll tell anybody who asks I founds a steal of a buy on a Jaguar. Movements, tell him I'm in class Monday through Thursday nights from eight until ten and don't get home before eleven. She's home those nights, puts the kids to bed at nine, then goes to bed herself. Tell him to not wake the kids. Here's a key to the back door.”

“I'll start looking this evening. About the cash, be sure the largest bill is a hundred, serial numbers aren't sequential. We never had this conversation.”

“I understand. I'll not say a word because a solicitation of murder is as indictable as if I had done it myself. I'll go to prison if word gets out.”

. . .

Allan and Tonya lie in their king-sized bed at ten thirty on Wednesday night. Tonya sits up, an expression of shock on her face as the hit man walks in. Allan has to suppress a smile, to feign a look of terror. Without a word, the hit man shoots Tonya through the heart with his silenced revolver. Thwpppp. Blood spatters on the sheet, the floor, and Allan as she falls back into a reclining position. She dies at once.

He trains the revolver on Allan.

“Wait,” says Allan as he raises both hands, palms away from him, tries to back up. He realizes what's coming and has a genuine look of horror on his face. “I'm the man who hired you. I contacted Dave. I wanted my wife killed so I could be free to pursue another woman. I'm never home this early. There was a power outage at the university, so I canceled class.”

“What you say may be true”, says the hit man. “But it don't mean nothin' to me. You're having a bad day and it getting worse. You seen my face and can identify me. I have to kill you. Can't be no loose ends.”

Thwpppp.