After making the obligatory stop in Atlanta, the Delta DC-9 landed in a cold rain at Memphis International. It parked at Gate 19, and the tightly packed crowd of business travelers quickly disembarked. Mitch carried only his briefcase and an Esquire. He saw Abby waiting near the pay phones and moved quickly through the pack. He threw the briefcase and magazine against the wall and bear-hugged her. The four days in Washington seemed like a month. They kissed again and again, and whispered softly.
"How about a date?" he asked.
"I've got dinner on the table and wine in the cooler," she said. They held hands and walked through the mob pushing down the concourse in the general direction of the luggage pickup.
He spoke quietly. "Well, we need to talk, and we can't do it at home."
She gripped his hand tighter. "Oh?"
"Yes. In fact, we need to have a long talk."
"What happened?"
"It'll take a while."
"Why am I suddenly nervous?"
"Just keep cool. Keep smiling. They're watching."
She smiled and glanced to her right. "Who's watching?"
"I'll explain in just a moment."
Mitch suddenly pulled her to his left. They cut through the wave of human traffic and darted into a dark, crowded lounge full of businessmen drinking and watching the television above the bar and waiting for their nights. A small, round table covered with empty beer mugs had just been vacated, and they sat with their backs to the wall and a view of the bar and the concourse. They sat close together, within three feet of another table. Mitch stared at the door and analyzed every face that walked in. "How long are we going to be here?" she asked.
"Why?"
She slid out of the full-length fox and folded it on the chair across the table. "What exactly are you looking for?"
"Just keep smiling for a moment. Pretend you really missed me. Here, give me a kiss." He pecked her on the lips, and they smiled into each other's eyes. He kissed her cheek and returned to the door. A waiter rushed to the table and cleaned it off. They ordered wine.
She smiled at him. "How was your trip?"
"Boring. We were in class eight hours a day, for four days. After the first day, I hardly left the hotel. They crammed six months' worth of tax revisions into thirty-two hours."
"Did you get to sightsee?"
He smiled and looked dreamily at her. "I missed you, Abby. More than I've ever missed anyone in my life. I love you. I think you're gorgeous, absolutely stunning. I do not enjoy traveling alone and waking up in a strange hotel bed without you. And I have something horrible to tell you."
She stopped smiling. He slowly looked around the room. They were three deep at the bar and yelling at the Knicks - Lakers game. The lounge was suddenly louder.
"I'll tell you about it," he said. "But there's a very good chance someone is in here right now watching us. They cannot hear, but they can observe. Just smile occasionally, although it will be hard."
The wine arrived, and Mitch began his story. He left nothing out. She spoke only once. He told her about Anthony Bendini and old man Morolto, and then Nathan Locke growing up in Chicago and Oliver Lambert and the boys on the fifth floor.
Abby nervously sipped her wine and tried valiantly to appear as the normal loving wife who missed her husband and was now enjoying immensely his recollection of the tax seminar. She watched the people at the bar, sipped a little and occasionally grinned at Mitch as he told of the money laundering and the murdered lawyers. Her body ached with fear. Her breath was wildly irregular. But she listened, and pretended.
The waiter brought more wine as the crowd thinned. An hour after he started, Mitch finished in a low whisper.
"And Voyles said Tarrance would contact me in a couple of weeks to see if I will cooperate. He said goodbye and walked away."
"And this was Tuesday?" she asked.
"Yes. The first day."
"What did you do the rest of the week?"
"I slept little, ate little, walked around with a dull headache most of the time."
"I think I feel one coming."
"I'm sorry, Abby. I wanted to fly home immediately and tell you. I've been in shock for three days."
"I'm in shock now. I'm not believing this, Mitch. This is like a bad dream, only much worse."
"And this is only the beginning. The FBI is dead serious. Why else would the Director himself meet with me, an insignificant rookie lawyer from Memphis, in fifteen-degree weather on a concrete park bench? He's assigned five agents in Memphis and three in Washington, and he said they'll spend whatever it takes to get. So if I keep my mouth shut, ignore them and go about my business of being a good and faithful member of Bendini, Lambert & Locke, one day they'll show up with arrest warrants and haul everybody away. And if I choose to cooperate, you and I will leave Memphis in the dead of the night after I hand The Firm to the feds, and we'll go off and live in Boise, Idaho, as Mr. and Mrs. Wilbur Gates. We'll have plenty of money, but we'll have to work to avoid suspicion. After my plastic surgery, I'll get a job driving a forklift in a warehouse, and you can work part-time at a day care. We'll have two, maybe three kids and pray every night that people we've never met keep their mouths shut and forget about us. We'll live every hour of every day in morbid fear of being discovered."
"That's perfect, Mitch, just perfect." She was trying hard not to cry.
He smiled and glanced around the room. "We have a third option. We can walk out that door, buy two tickets to San Diego, sneak across the border and eat tortillas for the rest of our lives."
"Let's go."
"But they'd probably follow us. With my luck, Oliver Lambert will be waiting in Tijuana with a squad of goons. It won't work. Just a thought."
"What about Lamar?"
"I don't know. He's been here six or seven years, so he probably knows. Avery's a partner, so he's very much a part of the conspiracy."
"And Kay?"
"Who knows. It's very likely none of the wives know. I've thought about it for four days, Abby, and it's a marvelous front. looks exactly like it's supposed to look. They could fool anyone. I mean, how would you and I or any other prospective recruit even think of such an operation. It's perfect. Except, now the feds know about it."
"And now the feds expect you to do their dirty work. Why did they pick you, Mitch? There are forty lawyers in."
"Because I knew nothing about it. I was a sitting duck. The FBI is not sure when the partners spring the surprise on the associates, so they couldn't take a chance with anyone else. I happened to be the new guy, so they set the trap as soon as I passed the bar exam."
Abby chewed her lip and held back tears. She looked blankly at the door across the dark room. "And they listen to everything we say," she said.
"No. Just every phone call and conversation around the house and in the cars. We're free to meet here or in most restaurants, and there's always the patio. But I suggest we move farther away from the sliding door. To be safe, we need to sneak behind the storage shed and whisper softly."
"Are you trying to be funny? I hope not. This is no time for jokes. I'm so scared, angry, confused, mad as hell and not sure where to turn. I'm afraid to speak in my own house. I watch every word I utter on the phone, even if it's a wrong number. Every time the phone rings, I jump and stare at it. And now this."
"You need another drink."
"I need ten drinks."
Mitch grabbed her wrist and squeezed firmly. "Wait a minute. I see a familiar face. Don't look around."
She held her breath. "Where?"
"On the other side of the bar. Smile and look at me."
Sitting on a barstool and staring intently at the TV was a well-tanned blond man with a loud blue-and-white alpine sweater. Fresh from the slopes. But Mitch had seen the tan and the blond bangs and the blond mustache somewhere in Washington.Mitch watched him carefully. The blue light from the tube illuminated his face. Mitch hid in the dark. The man lifted a bottle of beer, hesitated, then, there!, shot a glance into the corner where the McDeeres huddled closely together.
"Are you sure?" Abby asked through, clenched teeth.
"Yes. He was in Washington, but I can't place him. In fact, I saw him twice."
"Is he one of them?"
"How am I supposed to know?"
"Let's get out of here."
Mitch laid a twenty on the table and they left the airport.
Driving her Peugeot, he raced through the short-term parking lot, paid the attendant and sped away toward midtown. After five minutes of silence, she leaned across and whispered in his ear, "Can we talk?"
He shook his head. "Well, how's the weather been while I was away?"
Abby rolled her eyes and looked through the passenger window. "Cold," she said. "Chance of light snow tonight."
"It was below freezing the entire week in Washington."
Abby looked flabbergasted at this revelation. "Any snow?" she asked with raised eyebrows and wide eyes as if enthralled with the conversation.
"No. Just raw cold."
"What a coincidence! Cold here and cold there."
Mitch chuckled to himself. They rode silently on the interstate loop. "So who's gonna win the Super Bowl?" he asked.
"Oilers."
"Think so, huh? I'm for the Redskins. That's all they talked about in Washington."
"My, my. Must be a real fun city."
More silence. Abby placed the back of her hand over her mouth and concentrated on the taillights ahead. At this moment of bewilderment, she would take her chances in Tijuana. Her husband, number three in his class (at Harvard), the one with Wall Street firms rolling out the red carpet, the one who could have gone anywhere, to any firm, had signed up with the... Mafia! With five dead lawyers notched on their belts, they most surely wouldn't hesitate with number six. Her husband! Then the many conversations with Kay Quin swirled around her brain. The Firm encourages babies. The Firm permits wives to work, but not forever. The Firm hires no one with family money. The Firm demands loyalty to. The Firm has the lowest turnover rate in the country. Small wonder.
Mitch watched her carefully. Twenty minutes after they left the airport, the Peugeot parked in the carport next to the BMW. They held hands and walked to the end of the driveway.
"This is crazy, Mitch."
"Yes, but it's real. It will not go away."
"What do we do?"
"I don't know, babe. But we gotta do it quick, and we can't make mistakes."
"I'm scared."
"I'm terrified."
Tarrance did not wait long. One week after he waved goodbye to Mitch at the Wall, he spotted him walking hurriedly in the cold in the direction of the Federal Building on North Main, eight blocks from the Bendini Building. He followed him for two blocks, then slid into a small coffee shop with a row of windows facing the street, or the mall, as it was called. Cars were prohibited on Main Street in Memphis. The asphalt had been covered with tile when the boulevard had ceased being a street and had been transformed into the Mid-America Mall. An occasional useless and desolate tree rose from the tile and stretched its barren limbs between the buildings. Winos and urban nomads drifted aimlessly from one side of the mall to the other, begging for money and food.
Tarrance sat at a front window and watched in the distance as Mitch disappeared into the Federal Building. He ordered coffee and a chocolate doughnut. He checked his watch. It was 10 A.M. According to the docket, McDeere had a brief hearing in Tax Court at this moment. It should be very brief, the clerk of the court had informed Tarrance. He waited.
Nothing is ever brief in court. An hour later, Tarrance moved his face closer to the window and studied the scattered bodies walking quickly in the distance. He drained his coffee cup for the third time, laid two dollars on the table and stood hidden in the door. As Mitch approached on the other side of the mall, Tarrance moved swiftly toward him.
Mitch saw him and slowed for a second.
"Hello, Mitch. Mind if I walk with you?"
"Yes, I mind, Tarrance. It's dangerous, don't you think?"
They walked briskly and did not look at each other. "Look at that store over there," Tarrance said, pointing to their right. "I need a pair of shoes." They ducked into Don Pang's House of Shoes. Tarrance walked to the rear of the narrow store and stopped between two rows of fake Reeboks at $4.99 for two pairs. Mitch followed him and picked up a pair of size tens. Don Pang or some other Korean eyed them suspiciously but said nothing. They watched the front door through the racks.
"The Director called me yesterday," Tarrance said without moving his lips. "He asked about you. Said it was time you made a decision."
"Tell him I'm still thinking."
"Have you told the boys at the office?"
"No. I'm still thinking."
"That's good. I don't think you should tell them." He handed Mitch a business card. "Keep this. There are two numbers on the back. Use either one from a pay phone. You'll get a recorder, so just leave a message and tell me exactly when and where to meet you."
Mitch put the card in his pocket.
Suddenly, Tarrance ducked lower.
"What is it!" Mitch demanded.
"I think we've been caught. I just saw a goon walk past the store and look in. Listen to me, Mitch, and listen carefully. Walk with me out of the store right now, and the instant we get out the door, yell at me to get lost and shove me away. I'll act like I want to fight, and you run in the direction of your office."
"You're gonna get me killed, Tarrance."
"Just do as I say. As soon as you get to the office, report this incident to the partners. Tell them I cornered you and you got away as soon as possible."
Outside, Mitch shoved harder than necessary and yelled, "Get the hell away from me! And leave me alone!" He ran two blocks to Union Avenue, then walked to the Bendini Building. He stopped in the men's room on the first floor to catch his breath. He stared at himself in the mirror and breathed deeply ten times.
Avery was on the phone, with two lights holding and blinking. A secretary sat on the sofa, ready with a steno pad for the onslaught of commands. Mitch looked at her and said, "Would you step outside, please. I need to speak with Avery in private." She stood and Mitch escorted her to the door. He closed it.
Avery watched him closely and hung up. "What's going on?" he asked.
Mitch stood by the sofa. "The FBI just grabbed me as I was returning from Tax Court."
"Damn! Who was it?"
"Same agent. Guy by the name of Tarrance."
Avery picked up the phone and kept talking. "Where did it happen?"
"On the mall. North of Union. I was just walking alone, minding my own business."
"Is this the first contact since that other thing?"
"Yes. I didn't recognize the guy at first."
Avery spoke into the receiver. "This is Avery Tolar. I need to speak to Oliver Lambert immediately. ... I don't care if he's on the phone. Interrupt him, and now."
"What's going on, Avery?" Mitch asked.
"Hello, Oliver. Avery here. Sorry for the interruption. Mitch McDeere is here in my office. A few minutes ago he was walking back from the Federal Building when an FBI agent approached him on the mall.... What? Yes, he just walked in my office and told me about it. ... All right, we'll be there in five minutes." He hung up. "Relax, Mitch. We've been through this before."
"I know, Avery, but this does not make sense. Why would they bother with me? I'm the newest man in."
"It's harassment, Mitch. Pure and simple. Nothing but harassment. Sit down."
Mitch walked to the window and looked at the river in the distance.
Avery was a cool liar. It was now time for the "they're just picking on us" routine. Relax, Mitch. Relax? With eight FBI agents assigned to and the Director, Mr. Denton Voyles himself, monitoring the case daily? Relax? He'd just been caught whispering to an FBI agent inside a dollar shoe store. And now he was forced to act like he was an ignorant pawn being preyed upon by the evil forces of the federal government. Harassment? Then why was the goon following him on a routine walk to the courthouse? Answer that, Avery.
"You're scared, aren't you?" Avery asked as he put his arm around him and gazed out the window.
"Not really. Locke explained it all last time. I just wish they would leave me alone."
"It's a serious matter, Mitch. Don't take it lightly. Let's walk over and see Lambert."
Mitch followed Avery around the corner and down the hall. A stranger in a black suit opened the door for them, then closed it. Lambert, Nathan Locke and Royce McKnight stood near the small conference table. Again, a tape recorder sat on the table. Mitch sat across from it. Black Eyes sat at the head of the table and glared at Mitch.
He spoke with a menacing frown. There were no smiles in the room. "Mitch, has Tarrance or anyone else from the FBI contacted you since the first meeting last August?"
"No."
"Are you certain?"
Mitch slapped the table. "Dammit! I said no! Why don't you put me under oath?"
Locke was startled. They were all startled. A heavy, tense silence followed for thirty seconds. Mitch glared at Black Eyes, who retreated ever so slightly with a casual movement of his head.
Lambert, ever the diplomat, the mediator, intervened. "Look, Mitch, we know this is frightening."
"Damn right it is. I don't like it at all. I'm minding my own business, working my ass off ninety hours a week, trying to be nothing but a good lawyer and member of this firm, and for some unknown reason I keep getting these little visits from the FBI. Now, sir, I would like some answers."
Locke pressed the red button on the recorder. "We'll talk about that in a minute. First, you tell us everything that happened."
"It's very simple, Mr. Locke. I walked to the Federal Building at ten for an appearance before Judge Kofer on the Malcolm Delaney case. I was there about an hour, and I finished my business. I left the Federal Building, and I was walking in the direction of our office - in a hurry, I might add. It's about twenty degrees out there. A block or two north of Union, this guy Tarrance came out of nowhere, grabbed my arm and pushed me into a small store. I started to knock the hell out of him, but, after all, he is an FBI agent. And I didn't want to make a scene. Inside, he tells me he wants to talk for a minute. I pulled away from him, and ran to the door. He followed me, tried to grab me, and I shoved him away. Then I ran here, went straight to Avery's office, and here we are. That's all that was said. Play by play, everything."
"What did he want to talk about?"
"I didn't give him a chance, Mr. Locke. I have no plans to talk to any FBI agent unless he has a subpoena."
"Are you sure it's the same agent?"
"I think so. I didn't recognize him at first. I haven't seen him since last August. Once inside the store, he pulled his badge and gave me his name again. At that point, I ran."
Locke pressed another button and sat back in the chair. Lambert sat behind him and smiled ever so warmly. "Listen, Mitch, we explained this last time. These guys are getting bolder and bolder. Just last month they approached Jack Aldrich while he was eating lunch in a little grill on Second Street. We're not sure what they're up to, but Tarrance is out of his mind. It's nothing but harassment."
Mitch watched his lips but heard little. As Lambert spoke, he thought of Kozinski and Hodge and their pretty widows and children at the funerals.
Black Eyes cleared his throat. "It's a serious matter, Mitch. But we have nothing to hide. They could better spend their time investigating our clients if they suspect wrongdoing. We're lawyers. We may represent people who flirt with the law, but we have done nothing wrong. This is very baffling to us."
Mitch smiled and opened his hands. "What do you want me to do?" he asked sincerely.
"There's nothing you can do, Mitch," said Lambert. "Just stay away from this guy, and run if you see him. If he so much as looks at you, report it immediately."
"That's what he did," Avery said defensively.
Mitch looked as pitiful as possible.
"You can go, Mitch," Lambert said. "And keep us posted."
He left the office by himself.
DeVasher paced behind his desk and ignored the partners. "He's lying, I tell you. He's lying. The sonofabitch is lying. I know he's lying."
"What did your man see?" asked Locke.
"My man saw something different. Slightly different. But very different. He says McDeere and Tarrance walked sort of nonchalantly into the shoe store. No physical intimidation by Tarrance. None at all. Tarrance walks up, they talk, and both sort of duck into the store. My man says they disappear into the back of the store, and they're back there for three, maybe four minutes. Then another one of our guys walks by the store, looks in and sees nothing. Evidently, they saw our man, because within seconds they come flying out of the store with McDeere shoving and yelling. Something ain't right, I tell you."
"Did Tarrance grab his arm and force him into the store?" Nathan Locke asked slowly, precisely.
"Hell no. And that's the problem. McDeere went voluntarily, and when he said the guy grabbed his arm, he's lying. My man says he thinks they would've stayed in there for a while if they hadn't seen us."
"But you're not sure of that," Nathan Locke said.
"I wasn't sure, dammit. They didn't invite me into the store."
DeVasher kept pacing while the lawyers stared at the floor. He unwrapped a Roi-Tan and crammed it into his fat mouth.
Finally, Oliver Lambert spoke. "Look, DeVasher, it's very possible McDeere is telling the truth and your man got the wrong signals. It's very possible. I think McDeere is entitled to the benefit of the doubt."
DeVasher grunted and ignored this.
"Do you know of any contact since last August?" asked Royce McKnight.
"We don't know of any, but that doesn't mean they ain't talked, does it now? We didn't know about those other two until it was almost too late. It's impossible to watch every move they make. Impossible."
He walked back and forth by his credenza, obviously deep in thought. "I gotta talk to him," he finally said.
"Who?"
"McDeere. It's time he and I had a little talk."
"About what?" Lambert asked nervously.
"You let me handle it, okay? Just stay out of my way."
"I think it's a bit premature," Locke said.
"And I don't give a damn what you think. If you clowns were in charge of security, you'd all be in prison."
Mitch sat in his office with the door closed and stared at the walls. A migraine was forming at the base of his skull, and he felt sick. There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," he said softly.
Avery peeked inside, then walked to the desk. "How about lunch?"
"No, thanks. I'm not hungry."
The partner slid his hands into his trouser pockets and smiled warmly. "Look, Mitch, I know you're worried. Let's take a break. I've got to run downtown for a meeting. Why don't you meet me at the Manhattan Club at one. We'll have a long lunch and talk things over. I've reserved the limo for you. It'll be waiting outside at a quarter till."
Mitch managed a weak smile, as if he was touched by this. "Sure, Avery. Why not?"
"Good. I'll see you at one."
At a quarter till, Mitch opened the front door and walked to the limo. The driver opened the door, and Mitch fell in. Company was waiting.
A thick, bald-headed man with a huge, bulging, hanging neck sat smugly in the corner of the rear seat. He stuck out a hand. "Name's DeVasher, Mitch. Nice to meet you."
"Am I in the right limo?" Mitch asked.
"Sure. Sure. Relax." The driver pulled away from the curb.
"What can I do for you?" Mitch asked.
"You can listen for a while. We need to have a little talk." The driver turned on Riverside Drive and headed for the Hernando De Soto Bridge.
"Where are we going?" Mitch asked.
"For a little ride. Just relax, son."
So I'm number six,thought Mitch. This is it. No, wait a minute. They were much more creative than this with their killing.
"Mitch, can I call you Mitch?"
"Sure."
"Fine. Mitch, I'm in charge of security for, and - "
"Why does The Firm need security?"
"Just listen to me, son, and I'll explain. The Firm has an extensive security program, thanks to old man Bendini. He was a nut about security and secrecy. My job is to protect, and quite frankly, we're very concerned about this FBI business."
"So am I."
"Yes. We believe the FBI is determined to infiltrate our firm in hopes of collecting information on certain clients."
"Which clients?"
"Some high rollers with questionable tax shelters."
Mitch nodded and looked at the river below. They were now in Arkansas, with the Memphis skyline fading behind them. DeVasher recessed the conversation. He sat like a frog with his hands folded across the gut. Mitch waited, until it became apparent that lapses in conversation and awkward silence did not bother DeVasher. Several miles across the river, the driver left the interstate and found a rough county road that circled and ran back to the east. Then he turned onto a gravel road that went for a mile through low-lying bean fields next to the river. Memphis was suddenly visible again, across the water.
"Where are we going?" Mitch asked, with some alarm.
"Relax. I want to show you something."
A gravesite,thought Mitch. The limo stopped on a cliff that fell ten feet to a sandbar next to the bank. The skyline stood impressively on the other side. The top of the Bendini Building was visible.
"Let's take a walk," DeVasher said.
"Where to?" Mitch asked.
"Come on. It's okay." DeVasher opened his door and walked to the rear bumper. Slowly, Mitch followed him.
"As I was saying, Mitch, we are very troubled by this contact with the FBI. If you talk to them, they will get bolder, then who knows what the fools will try. It's imperative that you not speak to them, ever again. Understand?"
"Yes. I've understood since the first visit in August."
Suddenly, DeVasher was in his face, nose to nose. He smiled wickedly. "I have something that will keep you honest." He reached in his sport coat and pulled out a manila envelope.
"Take a look at these," he said with a sneer, and walked away.
Mitch leaned on the limo and nervously opened the envelope. There were four photographs, black and white, eight by ten, very clear. On the beach. The girl.
"Oh my god! Who took these?" Mitch yelled at him.
"What difference does it make? It's you, ain't it?"
There was no doubt about who it was. He ripped the photographs into small pieces and threw them in DeVasher's direction.
"We got plenty at the office," DeVasher said calmly. "Bunch of them. We don't want to use them, but one more little conversation with Mr. Tarrance or any other Fibbie and we'll mail them to your wife. How would you like that, Mitch? Imagine your pretty little wife going to the mailbox to get her Redbook and catalogues and she sees this sftrange envelope addressed to her. Try to think of that, Mitch. The next time you and Tarrance decide to shop for plastic shoes, think about us, Mitch. Because we'll be watching."
"Who knows about these?" Mitch asked.
"Me and the photographer, and now you. Nobody in the firm knows, and I don't plan to tell them. But if you screw up again, I suspect they'll be passing them around at lunch. I play hardball, Mitch."
He sat on the trunk and rubbed his temples. DeVasher walked up next to him. "Listen, son. You're a very bright young man, and you're on your way to big bucks. Don't screw it up. Just work hard, play the game, buy new cars, build bigger homes, the works. Just like all the other guys. Don't try to be no hero. I don't want to use the pictures."
"Okay, okay."
