Nathan P. Bergman, scion of one of the wealthiest families in America, leaned back in his chair and heaved a great sigh of contentment. "Well, there we are," he said. "Another few upstanding citizens significantly enriched, another couple hundred thousand dollars' worth of my family's stinking fortune taken off my hands… a profitable evening all round. Pass the mushrooms, would you, Howard?"

The younger man so addressed, Mr. Bergman's accomplice and sole confidante, shook his head in wonder as he shoved the bowl toward his employer. "You know, Mr. B., I can't figure you out," he said. "Why does a man like you feel the need to hide all the good that you do behind this mask of yours?"

"Are you complaining?" said Bergman with an arch of his eyebrows.

"Well, no, of course not," said Howard. "I mean, if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be a household name right now. But still – if you want to give away your family's money, why not just start a foundation, like Oprah or someone?"

Bergman took a bite of his mushrooms and chewed thoughtfully. "Do you ever read the Bible, Howard?"

"No, of course not," Howard said. "I work in Hollywood, remember?"

"Ah, yes," said Bergman with a chuckle. "Well, if you did, you'd find that there are very stern imprecations in it against doing good for public acclaim. Let not your right hand know what your left hand is doing and all that. That always bothered me in Ms. Winfrey's case: anyone who can't even feed a starving African child without turning it into an hour-long program testifying to her selflessness must be missing the point somewhere."

Howard nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, that's fair," he said. "So why didn't you just donate anonymously to charities?"

"Because they would have found me eventually," said Bergman. "You can't keep dropping hundred-thousand-dollar wads into the laps of unsuspecting missionaries and not expect them to start wondering, sooner or later, just who their mysterious fairy godmother is. So the only thing left was for me to go the opposite route: to firmly establish myself as a hateful, petty, thoroughly mean-spirited fellow, and never let people ask themselves why so loathsome an individual had arranged things so that he had to give away ever-increasing gobs of money three or four days a week. And you must admit that, so far, it's worked fairly well."

"Yeah, it has," Howard agreed. "Though it'd all collapse in a second if any of your clients ever got a good look at you."

Bergman smiled broadly, the dimples in his cheeks combining with the placid good-nature in his eyes to prove Howard's point amply. "Well, they never will, will they?" he said. "We've been doing this for over a year now, and none of them have ever even heard my voice. All they get is that delightfully slanderous version of me that you give them – and, by the bye, I loved what you said to Mr. Wishneski this evening about how I was 'gnashing my teeth' at the thought of having to pay him $230,000."

"Well, that is my job," said Howard.

"And you do it very well," said Bergman. "In fact, I think our combined efforts this evening call for a toast."

He uncorked the bottle of 1993 Riesling at his side, filled two glasses to the brim, and raised one of them aloft. "To philanthropy, Mr. Mandel."

Howard Mandel grinned, and raised his glass in turn. "To philanthropy, Mr. Banker."

Disclaimer: Deal or No Deal? belongs to CBS, Inc. Howie Mandel belongs to himself, and long may his grand deception succeed.