Mr Hook's Big Black Box

«Splitting the Party»

"Some professionals," Dwayne muttered under his breath, "I wouldn't trust them with anything valuable."

"You trusted them with the Box," Kris cut back, "You all did. Don't make out like you had some misgivings about this plan, because I'm sure none of you saw through it right away."

"Not until we got there," Marco said, "You gave us the directions, and said it was someone you trusted. We took your word for it, but when we got there we could all see something wasn't right."

"How could you tell that? I mean I know Spenser isn't the sharpest knife in the chopping block, but he maintains a distinct air of respectability. Even before you factor in his illegitimate earnings, the legal money from his shipping business is enough to lead him a comfortable life."

"Half the guys working at that warehouse have tattoos, and probably a shoe size larger than their IQ."

"Can I slap him?" Marco jerked a thumb in Dwayne's direction, "We know you're a nerd, but a shipping firm normally hires for brawn, not brains. Can you put your prejudice out of the way for a minute?"

"I'm no racist," Dwayne waved his hands in the air as he tried to find a better way to explain what he had meant, "It wasn't their colour, or accent, or even looking like they were built out of bricks. It was the way they stared at us all the way in. Looking at us like we were prey or something. Like they were hungry. Not to mention the guys following us on the way, and the cops at the gate."

"Did someone try to stop us getting in?" Destinee asked, leaning forward excitedly now. She barely knew any of this story, but she was managing to line up where her scant memories fitted into it better than anyone could have expected. Just seeing how excited she was to learn the truth, Kris was starting to regret that he hadn't shared his own version of the truth with her years before.

"You could say that," Dwayne declaimed, and the others could see now that he had his phone standing up on the table in front of him, scrolling through the prose he'd written so many years before like some kind of autocue. "Before we even got to the warehouse, there was someone on our trail. Marco did his best to shake them off, but he'd never learned defensive driving, and he was constantly worrying about Ferrari and Monty on the back, so –"

"Hey," Marco interrupted, "If you're talking about my elite pursuit-evasion skills, I should be the one telling the story. I was the one doing everything, after all."

"Wasn't Ferrari the narrator just a few minutes ago?" Kris interrupted.

"Well, yeah, maybe," Marco hesitated, "But the story pretty much goes two ways here. You wouldn't know, you were in your lecture. But before long we had to part ways, and we had the Box so that's the more important version of the story."

"I had some guys to fight," Ferrari nodded, "But I wasn't with the others for long. I think we should let Destinee choose. Do you want to hear my story, leading the people who were following us on a wild goose chase? Or would you rather go with the part you were there for?"

"I think let's stick with me now," Destinee said with virtually no pause for thought, "We can always go back to Ferrari's part."

"I guess I'm up then," Marco tilted his seat back to lean against an intact part of the wall, and began to speak.