 I had to let the mystery rest, because my co-workers were lining up for a ride in the Porsche. At one point during the next trip around the city, I did a U-turn. Not being used to the handling, I cut the turn sharp and scraped the curb. Flooded with panic, I stopped the car and thoroughly checked the tire for damage, but there was none. I sighed relief and drove back to the office, where I found waiting for me another pizza and another two subs. With this delivery, however, my amusement turned to annoyance, because this one came with a credit card slip for one hundred and twenty-five dollars. I checked the number on the receipt against my own credit card number. They matched. I looked at the delivery guy. "Is this a joke?" "No." He held out a pen for me to sign. "I didn't order these! Do I have to sign?"
"All right, this is not funny anymore," I barked on the phone to Jay Stevens, my Media Shower business partner. "What are you talking about?" he said, with not a hint of guilt in his voice. "Are you sending me these deliveries?" "I have no idea what you mean." He was utterly convincing, and I immediately dropped him from the suspect list. Meanwhile, the e-mail messages were pouring in:
This was turning into a game of Clue. At any minute I was going to turn around and find Colonel Mustard wielding a goddamn candlestick.
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He looked around uncomfortably. News of the unexpected pizzas had spread around the office, and co-workers had gathered to witness this event. I didn't know what to do: turn the guy away and look like a dick, or sign for a bunch of illegally-ordered food? I should have been a dick, of course, but hindsight is 20/20.
