The dinner, like most service club events, was held at a banquet hall owned by some member’s cousin. That avoided any obvious conflict of interest, but still kept the money within the circle of trust that the elected officers liked to build around themselves.
Not that the man could complain; his accounting firm had been retained on exactly the same basis, but his boss had been unable to attend the club’s annual awards banquet and he had been seconded the duty of bearing the briefcase with the award winner’s name to the feast.
“Some feast,” the man muttered under his breath as his fork bounced off the rubbery chicken that no amount of sauce could convince him was edible. The club president stood at the podium, speechifying.
“As you know, I’m a man of few words,” he said for the fourth time. There was a glassy look on the faces of the tables of businessmen as they regarded him; it was, by now, doubtful if anyone believed him. At last he got to the point of the proceedings.
The accountant unlocked the briefcase and passed the envelope up to the president, who slipped the card out.
“The award goes to…”
Comments
Be the first to comment.