The Firm

"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 nonlawyer, 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.

Chapter 23

At 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 attache was in his left. The signal.