Three Classic Thrillers (32 page)

“Is that all you want?”

“No. You’ll have to testify against all of your buddies at their trials. Could take years.”

Mitch breathed deeply and closed his eyes. The bus slowed behind a caravan of mobile homes split in two. Dusk was approaching, and, one at a time, the cars in the westbound lane brightened with headlights. Testifying at trial! This, he had not thought of. With millions to spend for the best criminal lawyers, the trials could drag on forever.

Tarrance actually began reading the paperback, a Louis L’Amour. He adjusted the reading light above them, as if he was indeed a real passenger on a real journey. After thirty miles of no talk, no negotiation, Mitch removed his sunglasses and looked at Tarrance.

“What happens to me?”

“You’ll have a lot of money, for what that’s worth. If you have any sense of morality, you can face yourself each day. You can live anywhere in the country, with a new identity, of course. We’ll find you a job, fix your nose, do anything you want, really.”

Mitch tried to keep his eyes on the road, but it was impossible. He glared at Tarrance. “Morality? Don’t ever mention that word to me again, Tarrance. I’m an innocent victim, and you know it.”

Tarrance grunted with a smart-ass grin.

They rode in silence for a few miles.

“What about my wife?”

“Yeah, you can keep her.”

“Very funny.”

“Sorry. She’ll get everything she wants. How much does she know?”

“Everything.” He thought of the girl on the beach. “Well, almost everything.”

“We’ll get her a fat government job with the Social Security Administration anywhere you want. It won’t be that bad, Mitch.”

“It’ll be wonderful. Until an unknown point in the future when one of your people opens his or her mouth and lets something slip to the wrong person, and you’ll read about me or my wife in the paper. The Mob never forgets, Tarrance. They’re worse than elephants. And they keep secrets better than your side. You guys have lost people, so don’t deny it.”

“I won’t deny it. And I’ll admit to you that they can be ingenious when they decide to kill.”

“Thanks. So where do I go?”

“It’s up to you. Right now we have about two thousand witnesses living all over the country under
new names with new homes and new jobs. The odds are overwhelmingly in your favor.”

“So I play the odds?”

“Yes. You either take the money and run, or you play big-shot lawyer and bet that we never infiltrate.”

“That’s a hell of a choice, Tarrance.”

“It is. I’m glad it’s yours.”

The female companion of the ancient black man with the cane rose feebly from her seat and began shuffling toward them. She grabbed each aisle seat as she progressed. Tarrance leaned toward Mitch as she passed. He would not dare speak with this stranger in the vicinity. She was at least ninety, half crippled, probably illiterate, and could care less if Tarrance received his next breath of air. But Tarrance was instantly mute.

Fifteen minutes later, the rest-room door opened and released the sounds of the toilet gurgling downward into the pit of the Greyhound. She shuffled to the front and took her seat.

“Who is Jack Aldrich?” Mitch asked. He suspected a cover-up with this one, and he carefully watched the reaction from the corner of his eye. Tarrance looked up from the book and stared at the seat in front of him.

“Name’s familiar. I can’t place him.”

Mitch returned his gaze to the window. Tarrance knew. He had flinched, and his eyes had narrowed too quickly before he answered. Mitch watched the westbound traffic.

“So who is he?” Tarrance finally asked.

“You don’t know him?”

“If I knew him, I wouldn’t ask who he was.”

“He’s a member of our firm. You should’ve known that, Tarrance.”

“The city’s full of lawyers. I guess you know them all.”

“I know the ones at Bendini, Lambert & Locke, the quiet little firm you guys have been studying for seven years. Aldrich is a six-year man who allegedly was approached by the FBI a couple of months ago. True or false?”

“Absolutely false. Who told you this?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just a rumor around the office.”

“It’s a lie. We’ve talked to no one but you since August. You have my word. And we have no plans to talk to anyone else, unless, of course, you decline and we must find another prospect.”

“You’ve never talked to Aldrich?”

“That’s what I said.”

Mitch nodded and picked up a magazine. They rode in silence for thirty minutes. Tarrance gave up on his novel, and finally said, “Look, Mitch, we’ll be in Knoxville in an hour or so. We need to strike a deal, if we’re going to. Director Voyles will have a thousand questions in the morning.”

“How much money?”

“Half a million bucks.”

Any lawyer worth his salt knew the first offer had to be rejected. Always. He had seen Avery’s mouth drop open in shock and his head shake wildly in absolute disgust and disbelief with first offers, regardless of how reasonable. There would be counteroffers, and counter-counteroffers, and further negotiations, but always, the first offer was rejected.

So by shaking his head and smiling at the window as if this was what he expected, Mitch said no to half a million.

“Did I say something funny?” Tarrance, the non-lawyer, the nonnegotiator, asked.

“That’s ridiculous, Tarrance. You can’t expect me to walk away from a gold mine for half a million bucks. After taxes, I net three hundred thousand at best.”

“And if we close the gold mine and send all you Gucci-footed hotshots to jail?”

“If. If. If. If you knew so much, why haven’t you done something? Voyles said you boys have been watching and waiting for seven years. That’s real good, Tarrance. Do you always move so fast?”

“Do you wanna take that chance, McDeere? Let’s say it takes us another five years, okay? After five years we bust the joint and send your ass to jail. At that point it won’t make any difference how long it took us, will it? The result will be the same, Mitch.”

“I’m sorry. I thought we were negotiating, not threatening.”

“I’ve made you an offer.”

“Your offer is too low. You expect me to make a case that will hand you hundreds of indictments against a group of the sleaziest criminals in America, a case that could easily cost me my life. And you offer a pittance. Three million, at least.”

Tarrance did not flinch or frown. He received the counteroffer with a good, straight poker face, and Mitch, the negotiator, knew it was not out of the ballpark.

“That’s a lot of money,” Tarrance said, almost to himself. “I don’t think we’ve ever paid that much.”

“But you can, can’t you?”

“I doubt it. I’ll have to talk to the Director.”

“The Director! I thought you had complete authority on this case. Are we gonna run back and forth to the Director until we have a deal?”

“What else do you want?”

“I’ve got a few things in mind, but we won’t discuss them until the money gets right.”

The old man with the cane apparently had weak kidneys. He stood again and began the awkward wobble to the rear of the bus. Tarrance again started his book. Mitch flipped through an old copy of
Field & Stream
.

The Greyhound left the interstate in Knoxville two minutes before eight. Tarrance leaned closer and whispered, “Take the front door out of the terminal. You’ll see a young man wearing an orange University of Tennessee sweat suit standing beside a white Bronco. He’ll recognize you and call you Jeffrey. Shake hands like lost friends and get in the Bronco. He’ll take you to your car.”

“Where is it?” Mitch whispered.

“Behind a dorm on campus.”

“Have they checked it for bugs?”

“I think so. Ask the man in the Bronco. If they were tracking you when you left Memphis, they might be suspicious by now. You should drive to Cookeville. It’s about a hundred miles this side of Nashville. There’s a Holiday Inn there. Spend the night and go see your brother tomorrow. We’ll be watching also, and if things look fishy, I’ll find you Monday morning.”

“When’s the next bus ride?”

“Your wife’s birthday is Tuesday. Make reservations for eight at Grisanti’s, that Italian place on Airways. At precisely nine, go to the cigarette machine in the bar, insert six quarters and buy a pack of anything. In the tray where the cigarettes are released, you will find a cassette tape. Buy yourself one of those small tape players that joggers wear with earphones
and listen to the tape in your car, not at home, and sure as hell not at the office. Use the earphones. Let your wife listen to it. I’ll be on the cassette, and I’ll give you our top dollar. I’ll also explain a few things. After you’ve listened to it a few times, dispose of it.”

“This is rather elaborate, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but we don’t need to speak to each other for a couple of weeks. They’re watching and listening, Mitch. And they’re very good. Don’t forget that.”

“Don’t worry.”

“What was your football jersey number in high school?”

“Fourteen.”

“And college?”

“Fourteen.”

“Okay. Your code number is 1-4-1-4. Thursday night, from a touch-tone pay phone, call 757-6000. You’ll get a voice that will lead you through a little routine involving your code number. Once you’re cleared, you will hear my recorded voice, and I will ask you a series of questions. We’ll go from there.”

“Why can’t I just practice law?”

The bus pulled into the terminal and stopped. “I’m going on to Atlanta,” Tarrance said. “I will not see you for a couple of weeks. If there’s an emergency, call one of the two numbers I gave you before.”

Mitch stood in the aisle and looked down at the agent. “Three million, Tarrance. Not a penny less. If you guys can spend billions fighting organized crime, surely you can find three million for me. And, Tarrance, I have a third option. I can disappear in the middle of the night, vanish into the air. If that happens, you and the Moroltos can fight each other till hell freezes over, and I’ll be playing dominoes in the Caribbean.”

“Sure, Mitch. You might play a game or two, but they’d find you within a week. And we wouldn’t be there to protect you. So long, buddy.”

Mitch jumped from the bus and darted through the terminal.

A
t eight-thirty a.m. on Tuesday, Nina formed neat piles out of the rubble and debris on his desk. She enjoyed this early-morning ritual of straightening the desk and planning his day. The appointment book lay unobstructed on a corner of his desk. She read from it. “You have a very busy day today, Mr. McDeere.”

Mitch flipped through a file and tried to ignore her. “Every day is busy.”

“You have a meeting at ten o’clock in Mr. Mahan’s office on the Delta Shipping appeal.”

“I can’t wait,” Mitch mumbled.

“You have a meeting at eleven-thirty in Mr. Tolar’s office on the Greenbriar dissolution, and his secretary informed me it would last at least two hours.”

“Why two hours?”

“I’m not paid to ask those questions, Mr. McDeere. If I do I might get fired. At three-thirty, Victor Milligan wants to meet with you.”

“About what?”

“Again, Mr. McDeere, I’m not supposed to ask
questions. And you’re due in Frank Mulholland’s office downtown in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, I know. Where is it?”

“The Cotton Exchange Building. Four or five blocks up Front at Union. You’ve walked by it a hundred times.”

“Fine. What else?”

“Shall I bring you something back from lunch?”

“No, I’ll grab a sandwich downtown.”

“Wonderful. Do you have everything for Mulholland?”

He pointed to the heavy black briefcase and said nothing. She left, and seconds later Mitch walked down the hall, down the stairs and out the front door. He paused for a second under a streetlight, then turned and walked quickly toward downtown. The black briefcase was in his right hand, the burgundy eel-skin attaché was in his left. The signal.

In front of a green building with boarded windows, he stopped next to a fire hydrant. He waited a second, then crossed Front Street. Another signal.

On the ninth floor of the Cotton Exchange Building, Tammy Greenwood of Greenwood Services backed away from the window and put on her coat. She locked the door behind her and pushed the elevator button. She waited. She was about to encounter a man who could easily get her killed.

Mitch entered the lobby and went straight to the elevators. He noticed no one in particular. A half dozen businessmen were in the process of talking as they came and went. A woman was whispering into a pay phone. A security guard loitered near the Union Avenue entrance. He pushed the elevator button and waited, alone. As the door opened, a young clean-cut Merrill Lynch type in a black suit and sparkling wing
tips stepped into the elevator. Mitch had hoped for a solitary ride upward.

Mulholland’s office was on the seventh floor. Mitch pushed the seven button and ignored the kid in the black suit. As the elevator moved, both men dutifully stared at the blinking numbers above the door. Mitch eased to the rear of the small elevator and set the heavy briefcase on the floor, next to his right foot. The door opened on the fourth floor, and Tammy walked nervously in. The kid glanced at her. Her attire was remarkably conservative. A simple, short knit dress with no plunging necklines. No kinky shoes. Her hair was tinted to a soft shade of red. He glanced again and pushed the
CLOSE DOOR
button.

Tammy brought aboard a large black briefcase, identical to Mitch’s. She ignored his eyes, stood next to him, quietly setting it next to his. On the seventh floor, Mitch grabbed her briefcase and left the elevator. On the eighth floor, the cute young man in the black suit made his departure, and on the ninth floor Tammy picked up the heavy black briefcase full of files from Bendini, Lambert & Locke and took it to her office. She locked and bolted the door, quickly removed her coat and went to the small room where the copier was waiting and running. There were seven files, each at least an inch thick. She laid them neatly on the folding table next to the copier and took the one marked “Koker-Hanks to East Texas Pipe.” She unhooked the aluminum clasp, removed the contents from the file and carefully placed the stack of documents and letters and notes into the automatic feed. She pushed the
PRINT
button and watched as the machine made two perfect copies of everything.