The Firm

"Who’s the boy?" asked Tony.

"Just one of the gofers," she said. "He’s got a dozen."

"Can you talk to him later?" asked the Nordic.

"Yeah," said Tony. "Show him some skin, snort some candy. He’ll talk."

"I’ll try," she said.

"What’s his name?" asked the Nordic.

"Keith Rook."

* * *

Keith Rook maneuvered the boat alongside the pier at Rum Point. Mitch, Abby and Abanks climbed from the boat and headed for the beach. Keith was not invited to lunch. He stayed behind and lazily washed the deck.

The Shipwreck Bar sat inland a hundred yards under a heavy cover of rare shade trees. It was dark and damp with screened windows and squeaky ceiling fans. There was no reggae, dominoes, or dartboard. The noon crowd was quiet with each table engrossed in its own private talk.

The view from their table was out to sea, to the north. They ordered cheeseburgers and beer-island food.

"This bar is different," Mitch observed quietly.

"Very much so," said Abanks. "And with good reason. It’s a hangout for drug dealers who own many of the nice homes and condos around here. They fly in on their private jets, deposit their money in our many fine banks and spend a few days around here checking their real estate."

"Nice neighborhood."

"Very nice, really. They have millions and they keep to themselves."

The waitress, a husky, well-mixed mulatto, dropped three bottles of Jamaican Red Stripe on the table without saying a word. Abanks leaned forward on his elbows with his head lowered, the customary manner of speaking in the Shipwreck Bar. "So you think you can walk away?" he said.

Mitch and Abby leaned forward in unison, and all three heads met low in the center of the table, just over the beer. "Not walk, but run. Run like hell, but I’ll get away. And I’ll need your help."

He thought about this for a moment and raised his head. He shrugged. "But what am I to do?" He took the first sip of his Red Stripe.

Abby saw her first, and it would take a woman to spot another woman straining ever so elegantly to eavesdrop on their little conversation. Her back was to Abanks. She was a solid blonde partially hidden under cheap black rubber sunglasses that covered most of her face, and she had been watching the ocean and listening a bit too hard. When the three of them leaned over, she sat up straight and listened like hell. She was by herself at a table for two.

Abby dug her fingernails into her husband’s leg, and their table became quiet. The blonde in black listened, then turned to her table and her drink.

* * *

Wayne Tarrance had improved his wardrobe by Friday of Cayman Week. Gone were the straw sandals and tight shorts and teenybop sunglasses. Gone were the sickly-pale legs. Now they were bright pink, burned beyond recognition. After three days in the tropical outback known as Cayman Brae, he and Acklin, acting on behalf of the U.S. government, had pounced on a rather cheap room on Grand Cayman, miles from Seven Mile Beach and not within walking distance of any remote portion of the sea. Here they had established a command post to monitor the comings and goings of the McDeeres and other interested people. Here, at the Coconut Motel, they had shared a small room with two single beds and cold showers. Wednesday morning, they had contacted the subject, McDeere, and requested a meeting as soon as possible. He said no. Said he was too busy. Said he and his wife were honeymooning and had no time for such a meeting. Maybe later, was all he said.

Then late Thursday, while Mitch and Abby were enjoying grilled grouper at the Lighthouse on the road to Bodden Town, Laney, Agent Laney, dressed in appropriate island garb and looking very much like an island Negro, stopped at their table and laid down the law. Tarrance insisted on a meeting.

Chickens had to be imported into the Cayman Islands, and not the best ones. Only medium-grade chickens, to be consumed not by native islanders but by Americans away from home without this most basic staple. Colonel Sanders had the damnedest time teaching the island girls, though black or close to it, how to fry chicken. It was foreign to them.

And so it was that Special Agent Wayne Tarrance, of the Bronx, arranged a quick secret meeting at the Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise on the island of Grand Cayman. The only such franchise. He thought the place would be deserted. He was wrong.

A hundred hungry tourists from Georgia, Alabama, Texas and Mississippi packed the place and devoured extra-crispy with cole slaw and creamed potatoes. It tasted better in Tupelo, but it would do.

Tarrance and Acklin sat in a booth in the crowded restaurant and nervously watched the front door. It was not too late to abort. There were just too many people. Finally, Mitch entered, by himself, and stood in the long line. He brought his little red box to their table and sat down. He did not say hello or anything. He began eating the three-piece dinner for which he paid $4.89, Cayman dollars. Imported chicken.

"Where have you been?" Tarrance asked.

Mitch attacked a thigh. "On the island. It’s stupid to meet here, Tarrance. Too many people."

"We know what we’re doing."

"Yeah, like the Korean shoe store."

"Cute. Why wouldn’t you see us Wednesday?"

"I was busy Wednesday. I didn’t want to see you Wednesday. Am I clean?"

"Of course you’re clean. Laney would’ve tackled you at the front door if you weren’t clean."

"This place makes me nervous, Tarrance."

"Why did you go to Abanks?"

Mitch wiped his mouth and held the partially devoured thigh. A rather small thigh. "He’s got a boat. I wanted to fish and snorkel, so we cut a deal. Where were you, Tarrance? In a submarine trailing us around the island?"

"What did Abanks say?"

"Oh, he knows lots of words. Hello. Give me a beer. Who’s following us? Buncha words."

"They followed you, you know?"

"They! Which they? Your they or their they? I’m being followed so much I’m causing traffic jams."

"The bad guys, Mitch. Those from Memphis and Chicago and New York. The ones who’ll kill you tomorrow if you get real cute."

"I’m touched. So they followed me. Where’d I take them? Snorkeling? Fishing? Come on, Tarrance. They follow me, you follow them, you follow me, they follow you. If I slam on brakes I get twenty noses up my ass. Why are we meeting here, Tarrance? This place is packed."

Tarrance glanced around in frustration.

Mitch closed his chicken box. "Look, Tarrance, I’m nervous and I’ve lost my appetite."

"Relax. You were clean coming from the condo."

"I’m always clean, Tarrance. I suppose Hodge and Kozinski were clean every time they moved. Clean at Abanks. Clean on the dive boat. Clean at the funerals. This was not a good idea, Tarrance. I’m leaving."

"Okay. When does your plane leave?"

"Why? You guys plan to follow? Will you follow me or them? What if they follow you? What if we all get real confused and I follow everybody?"

"Come on, Mitch."

"Nine-forty in the morning. I’ll try to save you a seat. You can have the window next to Two-Ton Tony."

"When do we get your files?"

Mitch stood with his chicken box. "In a week or so. Give me ten days, and, Tarrance, no more meetings in public. They kill lawyers, remember, not stupid FBI agents."

Chapter 26

At eight monday morning, Oliver Lambert and Nathan Locke were cleared through the concrete wall on the fifth floor and walked through the maze of small rooms and offices. DeVasher was waiting. He closed the door behind them and pointed to the chairs. His walk was not as quick. The night had been a long losing battle with the vodka. The eyes were red and the brain expanded with each breath.