The Knowland Retribution (36 page)

New York

Tom Maloney walked in
the back door. It was an entrance he'd been shown months ago, when the idea of retaining Walter Sherman first came to mind. At the time he considered it no more than another skill available on the open market. True, the market he spoke of wasn't quite that open, and this particular skill was available only for a handsome price. Nevertheless, Maloney believed that if it existed, it was for sale. “If I want it—it's mine.” Anything that was for sale could be his. Price was never a factor. How many kings had he ransomed in his day? What he'd acquired was indeed exceptional. “Crack and hack,” it was called. Get in. Get the code. That's it. Simple? Sure, but close to impossible. Once you beat it, however, it's over. No one and no place was immune, not even the Caymans. Besides, he'd used it before. He thought it was strange that he'd been inside twice already, once just to read it, and a second time he actually put something in. He'd not taken anything out. Now he was about to use this technology, this mechanism, this mumbo-jumbo magic for the purpose it had been invented. When the message appeared on his computer screen, he didn't believe it. The chill that ran the full length of his body could have frozen hell. He'd gone to cash his lottery ticket and it was nowhere to be found. He lost it. He looked at the keystroke instructions. Letter by letter he read them half out loud. He canceled out his connection and started all over again from the very beginning. He was not far from turning the computer off and restarting it. He was like a man searching his sock drawer, frantically tearing apart the pockets of a coat he hadn't worn in years, desperately looking for his missing car keys. He knew they weren't there, but he couldn't help himself. The correct home page appeared. He typed his code in the special box, watching the letters and numbers as he pushed them down. They showed up as asterisks on his screen, and so, for no reason at all, he deleted them and did it again. One by one he pushed down on the computer keys until each one could go no farther. Of course the code had been correct the first time. He knew that, but he was no longer in control. Things were speeding up. His heart rate and respiration soared. He struggled to keep his thoughts straight. He began to sweat. He felt sick, lightheaded, about to throw up. The message popped up again: Account Closed.

St. John

February is high season.
The Caribbean sun blazes from early morning until early evening. For those on the beaches, a sunblock with a number at least as high as thirty is recommended. Lean and pretty young girls in skimpy bikinis, and not a few middle-aged, fat guys in Speedos, seem to be everywhere. Even the rain, which comes down in short, sudden outbursts in the late afternoon, makes the tourists glad they're not in New England or the Midwest. “We're not in Kansas anymore,” has been heard more than once on the streets of Cruz Bay. The island is as packed as it ever gets. In addition to the bushwhackers, day-trippers from St. Thomas crowd the shops and bars near the dock in Cruz Bay. St. John's taxis, pickup trucks with rigged canopies and benches for their riders, drive load after load from the dock to the beaches. The ragged, narrow streets are jammed, and every so often someone from Ohio or Iowa or someplace like that drives the wrong way on a one-way street. Traffic gets snarled, tempers frayed. New Yorkers in new shorts and pastel shirts show their true colors. All the island's restaurants are full, and for many, getting a table at lunchtime is almost impossible. Later in the evening, when the last ferry has taken the final load back to the rock, things get a little quieter. The best places still manage to turn their tables twice for dinner. A reservation is a necessity. February is a tough time for the locals. Even at Billy's, some days go by without Ike or Walter making an appearance.

“There's two kind of locals,” Ike once said. “February and March.” He wasn't talking about himself, about the
real
locals—those who've been on St. John for generations, the blacks born and raised there. He meant the newcomers. He was talking about people like Walter and Billy, and whatshisname, the pop singer living on his boat out in the harbor, and all the others who left their roots on the mainland to take up the island life. There were those who came for the lifestyle, flat broke or loaded with all the money they needed, and there were those on the run looking for a place to stop. These were the February people, according to Ike. They could be found eating lunch or dinner at Billy's alongside the tourists and visitors. Or they might be the ones waiting tables, crewing the charter boats, hanging out on the beach, living on the cheap. Walter was not a February person. “Never was,” said Ike. He was a March person. He tolerated high season, taking comfort in the certainty that it would end, the crowds would lessen, if not leave altogether, and life would return to normal.

Walter came back from Atlanta and stayed home. It took Clara no time at all to see what happened. She wouldn't be seeing that girl Isobel around here anymore. She did what she could to care for him, but Clara had no medicine for Walter's blues. He moped. He sulked. He sat alone on the patio until all hours of the night. He didn't talk much. Clara told her sister. Her sister told her friends. They told theirs. Before long everyone knew. It's a small island, and they do know everything. To make matters worse, Walter had that CD Clara had heard a million times,
The Best of the Cadillacs.
It was a rare day she enjoyed listening to that one. He played that one song, “Gloria,” too many times to Clara's way of thinking. It was hopeless, she concluded. How could he miss both of them? At the same time? Poor man. His sadness was not a pretty sight. She figured he had to hit the bottom of lonely before he could pick himself up. She prayed it wouldn't take him long. Ten days into his depression, Clara said she needed to see a sick friend. “I'll be gone all day,” she said. She gave Walter a list of groceries and household items and asked him to pick them up in Cruz Bay. “I can't be making you lunch either,” she said. “I won't be here. You should stop at Billy's, get something to eat, and see your friends.” She said she'd be back by eight o'clock to make him a late dinner.

Billy's was so crowded Walter almost decided to turn around and go someplace else. When Billy saw him he hurried to the end of the bar, moved the last two patrons out, and signaled to Walter his regular place was available. Both seats.

“Thanks Billy,” he said.

“Anytime. Anytime, Walter. You doing alright?”

“Great. Fine.”

“Hungry? You want something?”

Walter shrugged. Billy didn't budge. “A sandwich,” Walter said. “Anything at all will do.”

Billy said, “Coming up.” He opened a bottle of Diet Coke, placed it on a coaster in front of Walter, and walked back into the kitchen.

Walter heard the familiar footsteps even in the noisy bar. It was a skill he developed early on. Perhaps it was a talent, something you had or you didn't. He was never sure. When you're following someone you can't always count on being able to see them or look directly at them. Learning to recognize someone by the sound of their footsteps had helped him many times and saved him on more than one occasion. He knew a blind man who said he could hear a friend coming a block away. He wished he were that good. Without looking up, he said, “Sit down, Tom.” Maloney sat on the same barstool he used when they first met, the one next to the fan at the very end of the bar, near the kitchen. Walter looked at him. This time Maloney was comfortably dressed. He wore white pants, a cream-colored, loose-fitting golf shirt, and sandals on his bare feet. His cheeks and forehead were red. “He's been here at least a few days,” thought Walter. Probably looked for him in Billy's everyday. Walter's elbows rested on the bar. He opened both hands and moved his arms out as wide as his elbows would allow. Without saying it, the look on his face asked, “Why? Why are you here? What do you want?”

Maloney's rigid shoulders made him appear as if he had no neck at all. His tight-jawed anger allowed him to speak only through clenched teeth. He said, “Where is it?” Walter said nothing. “It's gone, isn't it?” Maloney asked. “Where'd you put it? Where is it! It's mine, goddamnit!”

“Easy, big guy. Remember where you are. Show respect if you want to get some.”

Tom Maloney may have dressed more comfortably than the last time he was on St. John, but he was definitely agitated. He tapped his feet and licked his lips. Walter sized up his loose-fitting outfit, looking to see if it was possible he might be carrying a weapon. A man with a big gut has a hard time concealing a gun in his waistband. Maloney was unarmed. He was just angry.

“What's the problem, Tom? What are you doing here?”

“The money. The account's closed.”

“My account?” He looked at Tom Maloney with contempt. “You're surprised? What kind of a fool do you take me for? You gave me my exact balance the day we met, remember? When Pitts gave me the briefcase, I realized you didn't want my money, so I wasn't worried. Then you deposited quite a lot of money in my account, again getting access without me knowing about it. That's twice.” Walter looked at him like a stern uncle might a recalcitrant nephew. Billy brought Walter's sandwich. He recognized Maloney too and spoke right up.

“Anything else you want, Walter? You need anything, I'm right here.” Billy glared directly at Tom Maloney, then walked away.

“Lots of people do something once,” Walter said. “Something they shouldn't. Once is not nice, but understandable. However, anybody who does something twice is telling you something. I can be fooled, but I'm not a fool. There'll be no third time.”

He took a big bite of his sandwich. Obviously he couldn't keep talking with his mouth full. Maloney had already said everything he had to say: “Where's the money!” Walter swallowed and tried to remove a piece of ham stuck between his teeth with his tongue. “You shouldn't have hired Wilkes,” he said.

Maloney had either forgotten Wilkes or had no interest in him. He was single-minded. “Where is my money!” he demanded.

“I thought by now most of it would already be earning interest for The Center for Consumer Concerns. Yours and Nathan's. You sent it, didn't you?”

“Look, you sonofabitch! Where's my fucking money? Not the money I had to turn over to that thieving murderer. Do you know what's happened to me?” A nervous, perhaps even dangerous, laugh overcame Tom Maloney. He was shaking. “I owe money. Me! I owe money!” He struggled to gain control. He stopped laughing. “Where's my money! Thirty million dollars. Thirty million no one could touch. Not yours! Mine!”

Walter was not a man to be called a sonofabitch, especially on his home turf. A warning was written all over his face. Maloney could not have missed it.

“Remember what I told you about Leonard Martin, Tom? Remember I said I was certain I would never see or hear from him again?” Maloney gave him an angry nod. “You won't see him either, Tom. Everything has a price, right? Even life—your life. Pay up and live. Stiff him and you're dead. You talk about
your
thirty million. A little extra stashed away. You don't
have
thirty million. You
had
thirty million.”

“You took that money. I want my money's worth. You find him again and you kill him. Get my money back from those sonsofbitches in Atlanta. Then it's your thirty million. Until he's dead you have my money. Do you understand me?”

Walter laughed. “Doesn't sound like my kind of work,” he said. Maloney was beside himself. He raised his right hand, trembling, fist tightly clenched. Walter didn't budge.

“You threatening me, Tom? You just found a way to stay alive—complements of Leonard Martin. Don't push your luck. You don't need me to kill anyone. Not anymore. No one wants to kill you. The rules have changed. I want you to listen to me, Tom, carefully.” Now Walter spoke to him softly, just as he had done once before. This time the message was different. “Fuck with me,
I'll
kill you. What I told you about Isobel Gitlin, that goes double for me. I even
smell
one of your goons, you'll wish you were dead already. Remember Na Trang? I'm no Leonard Martin. You'll never get off my hook. I'll cut your throat and watch you die slowly. The last thing you'll see is me cleaning my knife.” Walter calmly picked up his sandwich and took another bite, followed by a long drink of his Diet Coke.

If Maloney was searching for any sign of nerves, he had the wrong guy. Walter Sherman was the last person Tom Maloney could intimidate. Maloney was crazed, but not crazy. He feared Walter Sherman more than any other man—Leonard Martin included. He knew he was right to do so. Walter could see him cooling down. He looked like a boiling kettle turned to a lower heat, its whistle reduced to a whimper. He was still hot, but no longer running out of control. And he had the look of a man definitely thirty million dollars poorer.

Walter said, “Now get the fuck off my island.” Tom Maloney got up and walked out. In the mirror behind the bar, Walter watched him walk all the way out. Billy, a look of fierce determination and readiness on his face, pointed to Walter, his index finger definitely meant to be a gun—a sign of absolute support. Walter smiled at the bartender, thinking, “I wouldn't want to have William Mantkowski as my enemy.”

The thirty million dollars Tom Maloney had sent to Walter's account in the Caymans was now sitting in another bank in Cyprus, in transit, on its way to its final destination.