The Brethren

Only one letter asked for money Ricky wanted a loan of $1,000 from a correspondent named Peter in Spokane, Washington. He said the money was needed to cover some expenses his uncle was refusing to pay.

Teddy had read the letters more than once. The request for money was important because it began to shed light on the Brethren’s little game. Perhaps it was just a two-bit enterprise someone taught them, some other con who’d finished his time at Trumble and was now roaming at large stealing anew.

But the size of the stakes was not the issue. It was a flesh game–thinner waists and bronze skin and firm biceps-and their candidate was in the middle of it.

There were still questions, but Teddy was patient. They would watch the mail. The pieces would fall into place.

With Spicer guarding the door to the conference room, and daring anyone to use the law library, Beech and Yarber labored away with their mail. To Al Konyers, Beech wrote:

Dear Al:

Thanks for your last letter. It means so much to me to hear from you. I feel like I’ve been living in a cage for months, and I’m slowly seeing daylight. Your letters help to open the door. Please don’t stop writing. I’m sorry if I’ve bored you with too much personal stuff: I respect your privacy and hope I haven’t asked too many questions.You seem like a very sensitive man who enjoys solitude and the finer things of life. I thought about you last night when I watched Key Largo, the old Bogart and Bacall film. I could almost taste the Chinese carryout. The food here is pretty good, I guess, but they simply can’t do Chinese.

I have a great idea. In two months when I get out of here, let’s rent Casablanca and African Queen, get the carry-out, get a bottle of nonalcoholic wine, and spend a quiet evening on the sofa. God, I get excited just thinking about life on the outside and doing real things again.

Forgive me if I’m going too fast, Al. It’s just that I’ve done without a lot of things here, and not just booze and good food. Know what I mean?

The halfway house in Baltimore is willing to take me if I can find a part-time job of some type. You said you had some interests there. I know I’m asking a lot because you don’t know me, but can you arrange this? I will be forever grateful.

Please write me soon, Al. Your letters, and the hopes and dreams of leaving here in two months with a job on the outside, sustain me in my darkest hours.

Thanks, friend.

Love, Ricky

The one to Quince Garbe had a very different tone. Beech and Yarber had kicked it around for several days. The final draft read:

Dear Quince:

Your father owns a bank, yet you say you can only raise another $10,000. I think you’re lying, Quince, and it really ticks me off. I’m tempted to send the file to your father and wife anyway.

I’ll settle for $25,000, immediately, same wiring instructions.And don’t threaten suicide. I really don’t care what you do. We’ll never meet, and I think you’re a sicko anyway.

Wire the damned money, Quince, and now!

Love, Ricky

Klockner worried that Trevor might visit Trumble one day before noon, then drop off the mail at some point along the way before returning to his office or his home. There was no way to intercept it while en route. It was imperative that he haul it back, and leave it overnight so they could get their hands on it.

He worried, but at the same time Trevor was proving to be- a late starter. He showed few signs of life until after his two o’clock nap.

So when he informed his secretary that he was about to leave for Trumble at 11 a.m., the rental across the street sprang into action. A call was immediately placed to Trevor’s office by a middle-aged woman claiming to be a Mrs. Beltrone, who explained to Jan that she and her rich husband were in dire need of a quick divorce. The secretary put her on hold, and yelled down the hallway for Trevor to wait a second. Trevor was gathering papers from his desk and placing them in his briefcase. The camera in the ceiling above him caught his look of displeasure at having been interrupted by a new client.

"She says she’s rich!" Jan yelled, and Trevor’s frown disappeared. He sat down and waited.

Mrs. Beltrone-unloaded on the secretary. She was wife number three, the husband was much older, they had a home in Jacksonville but spent most of their time at their home in Bermuda. Also had a home in Vail. They’d been planning the divorce for some time, everything had been agreed upon, no fighting at all, very amicable, just needed a good lawyer to handle the paperwork. Mr. Carson had come highly recommended, but they had to act fast for some undisclosed reason.

Trevor took over and listened to the same story. Mrs. Beltrone was sitting across the street in the rental, working from a script the team had put together just for this occasion.

"I really need to see you," she said after fifteen minutes of baring her soul.

"Well, I’m awfully busy;" Trevor said, as if he were flipping pages in half a dozen daily appointment books. Mrs. Beltrone was watching him on the monitor. His feet were on the desk, his eyes closed, his bow tie crooked. The life of an awfully busy lawyer.

"Please;" she begged. "We need to get this over with. I must see you today"

"Where’s your husband?"

"He’s in France, but he’ll be here tomorrow"

"Well, uh, let’s see," Trevor mumbled, playing with his bow tie.

"What’s your fee?" she asked, and his eyes flew open.

"Well, this is obviously more complicated than your simple no-fault. I’d have to charge a fee of ten thousand dollars." He grimaced when he said it, holding his breath for the response.

"I’ll bring it today," she said. "Can I see you at one?"

He was on his feet, hovering over the phone. "How about one-thirty?" he managed to say.

"I’ll be there."

"Do you know where my office is?"

"My driver can find it. Thanks, Mr. Carson."

Just call me Trevor, he almost said. But she was gone.

They watched as he wrung his hands together, then pumped his fists, gritted his teeth, said, "Yes!" He’d hooked a big one.

Jan appeared from the hall and said, "Well?"

"She’ll be here at one-thirty. Get this place cleaned up a little."

"I’m not a maid. Can you get some money up front? I need to pay bills."

"I’ll get the damned money."

Trevor attacked his bookshelves, straightening volumes he hadn’t touched in years, dusting the planks with a paper towel, stung files in drawers. When he charged his desk, Jan finally felt a twinge of guilt and began vacuuming the reception area.

They labored through lunch, their bitching and straining making for great amusement across the street.

No sign of Mrs. Beltrone at one-thirty.

"Where the hell is she?" Trevor barked down the hall just after two.

"Maybe she checked around, got some more references" Jansaid.

What did you say?" he yelled.

"Nothing, boss "

"Call her;" he demanded at two-thirty-

"She didn’t leave a number."

"You didn’t get a number?"

"That’s not what I said. I said she didn’t leave a number."

At three-thirty Trevor stormed out of his office, still trying desperately to uphold his end of a raging argument with a woman he’d fired at least ten times in the past eight years.

They followed him straight to Trumble. He was in the prison for fifty-three minutes, and when he left it was after five, too late to drop off mail in either Neptune Beach or Atlantic Beach. He returned to his office and left his briefcase on his desk. Then, predictably, he went to Pete’s for drinks and dinner.

Chapter Eighteen