John Grisham

Probably. "I live in the apartment," I say. "A private residence with a locked door. You go in again, I’ll call the police."

It hits me that I keep a copy of Miss Birdie’s will in a file under my bed. Surely they didn’t find it there. I suddenly feel ill with the thought that I, not Miss Birdie, breached such a private matter.

No wonder she’s ignoring me.

I have no idea what she put in her previous wills, so there’s no way to know whether Delbert and Vera are thrilled to know they might be millionaires, or whether they’re angry because they’re not getting more. And there’s no way in the world I can tell them the truth. I really don’t want to, to be honest.

Delbert snorts at my threat to call the cops. "I’ll ask you again," he says, a bad imitation of Brando in The Godfather. "Have you prepared a new will for my mother?"

"She’s your mother. Why don’t you ask her?"

"She won’t say a word," Vera chimes in.

"Good. Then neither will I. It’s strictly confidential."

Delbert does not fully comprehend this, and he’s not bright enough to attack from different angles. For all he knows, he might be violating the law.

"I hope you’re not meddling, boy," he says as fiercely as possible.

I’m ready to leave. "Miss Birdie!" I call out. She does not move for a second, then slowly raises the remote control and increases the volume.

Fine with me. I point at Delbert and Vera. "If you get near my apartment again, I’ll call the police. You understand?"

Delbert forces a laugh first, and Vera quickly giggles too. I slam the door.

I can’t tell if the files under my bed have been tampered with. Miss Birdie’s will is here, just the way I left it, I think. It’s been several weeks since I last looked at it. Everything appears in order.

I lock the door, and wedge a chair under the doorknob.

I’M IN THE HABIT of getting to the office early, around seven-thirty, not because I’m overworked and not because my days are filled with court appearances and office appointments, but because I enjoy a quiet cup of coffee and the solitude. I spend at least an hour each day organizing and working on the Black case. Deck and I try to avoid each other around the office, but at times it’s difficult. The phone is slowly beginning to ring more.

I like the stillness of this place before the day starts.

On Monday, Deck arrives late, almost ten. We chat for a few minutes. He wants to have an early lunch, says it’s important.

We leave at eleven and walk two blocks to a vegetarian food co-op with a small diner in the rear. We order meatless pizza and orange tea. Deck is very nervous, his face twitching more than usual, his head jerking at the slightest sound.

"Gotta tell you something," he says, barely above a

whisper. We’re in a booth. There are no customers at the other six tables.

"We’re safe, Deck," I say, trying to assure him. "What is it?"

"I left town Saturday, just after the deposition. Flew to Dallas, then to Las Vegas, checked into the Pacific Hotel."

Oh, great. He’s been on a binge, gambling and drinking again. He’s broke.

"Got up yesterday morning, talked to Bruiser on the phone, and he told me to leave. Said the feds had followed me from Memphis, and that I should leave. Said someone had been watching me all the way, and that it was time to get back to Memphis. Said to tell you the feds are watching every move because you’re the only lawyer who worked for both Bruiser and Prince."

I take a gulp of tea to wet my parched mouth. "You know where . . . Bruiser is?" I say this louder than I planned to, but no one’s listening.

"No. I don’t," he says, eyes oscillating around the room.

"Well, is he in Vegas?"

"I doubt it. I think he sent me to Vegas because he wanted the feds to think that’s where he is. Seems a likely spot for Bruiser, so he wouldn’t go there."

My eyes won’t focus and my brain won’t slow down. I think of a dozen questions at once, but I can’t ask them all. There are many things I’d like to know, but many things I shouldn’t. We watch each other for a moment.

I honestly thought Bruiser and Prince were in Singapore or Australia, never to be heard from again.

"Why did he contact you?" I ask, very carefully.

He bites ruVlip as if he’s about to cry. The tips of the four beaver teeth are visible. He scratches his head as minutes pass. Time, though, is frozen. "Well," he says, even lower, "seems as if they left some money behind. Now they want it."

"They?"

"Sounds like they’re still together, doesn’t it?"

"It does. And they want you to do what?"

"Well, we never got around to the details. But it sounds like they wanted MS to help them get the money."

"Us?"

"Yeah."

"Me and you?"

"Yep."

"How much money?"

"Never got around to that, but you gotta figure it’s a pile or they wouldn’t be worried about it."

"And where is it?"

"He didn’t give specifics, just said it was in cash, locked up somewhere."

"And he wants us to get it?"

"Right. What I figure is this: the money’s hidden somewhere in town, probably close to us right now. The feds haven’t found it by now, so they probably won’t find it. Bruiser and Prince trust me and you, plus we’re semi-legit now, you know, a real firm, not just a couple of street thugs who’d steal the money soon as we saw it. They figure the two of us can load the money in a truck, drive it to them and everybody’s happy."

It’s impossible to tell how much of this is Deck’s speculation and how much was actually presented to him by Bruiser. I don’t want to know.

But I’m curious. "And what do we get for our troubles?"

"We never got that far. But it would be plenty. We could take our cut up front."

Deck’s already figured it out.

"No way, Deck. Forget it."

"Yeah, I know," he says sadly, surrendering after the first shot.

"It’s too risky."

"Yeah."

"Sounds great now, but we could spend time in jail."

"Sure, sure, just had to tell you, you know," he says, waving me off as if he wouldn’t dare consider it. A plate of blue corn chips and hummus is placed before us. We both watch the waiter until he’s gone.

I have thought about the fact that I’m surely the only person who worked for both fugitives, but I honestly never dreamed the feds would be watching me. My appetite has vanished. My mouth remains dry. Every slight sound causes me to jump.

We both withdraw into our thoughts, and stare at various items on the table. We don’t speak again until the pizza arrives, and we eat in complete silence. I’d like to know the details: How did Bruiser contact Deck? Who paid for his trip to Vegas? Is this the first time they’ve talked since the fugitives disappeared? Will it be the last? Why is Bruiser still concerned about me?

Two thoughts emerge from the fog. One, if Bruiser had enough help tracking Deck’s movements to Vegas to know that he was followed the entire way, then he would certainly be able to hire people to fetch the money from Memphis. Why worry about us? Because he doesn’t care if we get caught, that’s why. Second, the feds haven’t bothered to interview me because they didn’t want to alert me. It’s been much easier to watch me because I haven’t been worried about them.

And another thought. There’s no doubt my little buddy across the table wanted to open the door to a serious discussion about the money. Deck knows more than he’s told me, and he started this conference with a plan.