The Firm

"Mr. Lambert says that after thirty days they will cut off the alarms. Right now, they’re needed for people like you. He’s very serious about this. Says we’ve been losing thousands on unbilled copies."

"Right. And I suppose every copier in the building has been replaced."

She smiled with satisfaction. "Yes, all seventeen."

"Thanks." Mitch returned to his office in search of a file number.

* * *

At three that afternoon, the celebration on the fifth floor came to a joyous conclusion, and the partners, now much wealthier and slightly drunker, filed out of the dining room and descended to their offices below. Avery, Oliver Lambert and Nathan Locke walked the short hallway to the security wall and pushed the button. DeVasher was waiting.

He waved at the chairs in his office and told them to sit down. Lambert passed around hand-wrapped Hondurans, and everyone lit up.

"Well, I see we’re all in a festive mood," DeVasher said with a sneer. "How much was it? Three hundred and ninety thousand, average?"

"That’s correct, DeVasher," Lambert said. "It was a very good year." He puffed slowly and blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

"Did we all have a wonderful Christmas?" DeVasher asked.

"What’s on your mind?" Locke demanded.

"Merry Christmas to you too, Nat. Just a few things. I met with Lazarov two days ago in New Orleans. He does not celebrate the birth of Christ, you know. I brought him up to date on the situation down here, with emphasis on McDeere and the FBI. I assured him there had been no further contact since the initial meeting. He did not quite believe this and said he would check with his sources within the Bureau. I don’t know what that means, but who am I to ask questions? He instructed me to trail McDeere twenty-four hours a day for the next six months. I told him we were already doing so, sort of. He does not want another Hodge-Kozinski situation. He’s very distressed about that. McDeere is not to leave the city on firm business unless at least two of us go with him."

"He’s going to Washington in two weeks," Avery said.

"What for?"

"American Tax Institute. It’s a four-day seminar that we require of all new associates. It’s been promised to him, and he’ll be very suspicious if it’s canceled."

"We made his reservations in September," Ollie added.

"I’ll see if I can clear it with Lazarov," DeVasher said. "Give me the dates, flights and hotel reservations. He won’t like this."

"What happened Christmas?" Locke asked.

"Not much. His wife went to her home in Kentucky. She’s still there. McDeere took the dog and drove to Panama City Beach, Florida. We think he went to see his mom, but we’re not sure. Spent one night at a Holiday Inn on the beach. Just he and the dog. Pretty boring. Then he drove to Birmingham, stayed in another Holiday Inn, then early, yesterday morning he drove to Brushy Mountain to visit his brother. Harmless trip."

"What’s he said to his wife?" asked Avery.

"Nothing, as far as we can tell. It’s hard to hear everything."

"Who else are you watching?" asked Avery.

"We’re listening to all of them, sort of sporadically. We have no real suspects, other than McDeere, and that’s just because of Tarrance. Right now all’s quiet."

"He’s got to go to Washington, DeVasher," Avery insisted.

"Okay, okay. I’ll get it cleared with Lazarov. He’ll make us send five men for surveillance. What an idiot!"

* * *

Ernie’s Airport Lounge was indeed near the airport. Mitch found it after three attempts and parked between two four-wheel-drive swampmobiles with real mud caked on the tires and headlights. The parking lot was full of such vehicles. He looked around and instinctively removed his tie. It was almost eleven. The lounge was deep and long and dark with colorful beer signs flashing in the painted windows.

He looked at the note again, just to be sure.

Dear Mr. McDeere:

Please meet me at Ernie’s Lounge on Winchester tonight-late. It’s about Eddie Lomax. Very important.
Tammy Hemphill, his secretary

The note had been tacked on the door to the kitchen when he arrived home. He remembered her from the one visit to Eddie’s office, back in November. He remembered the tight leather skirt, huge breasts, bleached hair, red sticky lips and smoke billowing from her nose. And he remembered the story about her husband, Elvis.

The door opened without incident, and he slid inside. A row of pool tables covered the left half of the room. Through the darkness and black smoke, he could make out a small dance floor in the rear. To the right was a long saloon-type bar crowded with cowboys and cowgirls, all drinking Bud longnecks. No one seemed to notice him. He walked quickly to the end of the bar and slid onto the stool. "Bud longneck," he told the bartender.

Tammy arrived before the beer. She was sitting and waiting on a crowded bench by the pool tables. She wore tight washed jeans, faded denim shirt and kinky red high-heels. The hair had just received a fresh bleaching.

"Thanks for coming," she said into his face. "I’ve been waiting for four hours. I knew of no other way to find you."

Mitch nodded and smiled as if to say, "It’s okay. You did the right thing."

"What’s up?" he said.

She looked around. "We need to talk, but not here."

"Where do you suggest?"

"Could we maybe drive around?"

"Sure, but not in my car. It, uh, it may not be a good idea."

"I’ve got a car. It’s old, but it’ll do."

Mitch paid for the beer and followed her to the door. A cowpoke sitting near the door said, "Getta loada this. Guy shows up with a suit and picks her up in thirty seconds." Mitch smiled at him and hurried out the door. Dwarfed in a row of massive mud-eating machinery was a well-worn Volkswagen Rabbit. She unlocked it, and Mitch doubled over and squeezed into the cluttered seat. She pumped the accelerator five times and turned the key. Mitch held his breath until it started.

"Where would you like to go?" she asked.

Where we can’t be seen,Mitch thought. "You’re driving."

"You’re married, aren’t you?" she asked.

"Yes. You?"

"Yes, and my husband would not understand this situation right here. That’s why I chose that dump back there. We never go there."

She said this as if she and her husband were discriminating critics of dark redneck dives.

"I don’t think my wife would understand either. She’s out of town, though."

Tammy drove in the direction of the airport. "I’ve got an idea," she said. She clutched the steering wheel tightly and spoke nervously.

"What’s on your mind?" Mitch asked.

"Well, you heard about Eddie."

"Yes."

"When did you last see him?"

"We met ten days or so before Christmas. It was sort of a secret meeting."

"That’s what I thought. He kept no records of the work he was doing for you. Said you wanted it that way. He didn’t tell me much. But me and Eddie, well, we, uh, we were… close."

Mitch could think of no response.

"I mean, we were very close. Know what I mean?"

Mitch grunted and sipped the longneck.

"And he told me things I guess he wasn’t supposed to tell me. Said you had a real strange case, that some lawyers in your firm had died under suspicious circumstances. And that you always thought somebody was following and listening. That’s pretty weird for a law firm."

So much for the confidentiality,thought Mitch. "That it is."