The Firm

It was dark now, the cool early dark of spring in the South. He watched the mall entrance from inside a singles bar. He was certain he had not been followed through the mall. He walked casually to the cab. "Brentwood," he said to the driver, and disappeared into the back seat.

Brentwood was twenty minutes away. "Savannah Creek Apartments," he said. The cab searched through the sprawling complex and found number 480E. He threw a twenty over the seat and slammed the door. Behind an outside stairwell he found the door to 480E. It was locked.

"Who is it?" a nervous female voice asked from within. He heard the voice and felt weak.

"Barry Abanks," he said.

Abby pulled the door open and attacked. They kissed violently as he lifted her, walked inside and slammed the door with his foot. His hands were wild. In less than two seconds, he pulled her sweater over her head, unsnapped her bra and slid the rather loose-fitting skirt to her knees. They continued kissing. With one eye, he glanced apprehensively at the cheap, flimsy rented fold-a-bed that was waiting. Either that or the floor. He laid her gently on it and took off his clothes.

The bed was too short, and it squeaked. The mattress was two inches of foam rubber wrapped in a sheet. The metal braces underneath jutted upward and were dangerous.

But the McDeeres did not notice.

* * *

When it was good and dark, and the crowd of shoppers at the mall thinned for a moment, a shiny black Chevrolet Silverado pickup pulled behind the BMW and stopped. A small man with a neat haircut and sideburns jumped out, looked around and stuck a pointed screwdriver into the door lock of the BMW. Months later when he was sentenced, he would tell the judge that he had stolen over three hundred cars and pickups in eight states, and that he could break into a car and start the engine faster than the judge could with the keys. Said his average time was twenty-eight seconds. The judge was not impressed.

Occasionally, on a very lucky day, an idiot would leave the keys in the car, and the average time was reduced dramatically. A scout had found this car with the keys. He smiled and turned them. The Silverado raced away, followed by the BMW.

The Nordic jumped from the van and watched. It was too fast. He was too late. The pickup just pulled up, blocked his vision for an instant, then wham!, the BMW was gone. Stolen! Before his very eyes. He kicked the van. Now, how would he explain this?

He crawled back into the van and waited for McDeere.

After an hour on the couch, the pain of loneliness had been forgotten. They walked through the small apartment holding hands and kissing. In the bedroom, Mitch had his first viewing of what had become known among the three as the Bendini Papers. He had seen Tammy’s notes and summaries, but not the actual documents. The room was like a chessboard with rows of neat stacks of papers. On two of the walls, Tammy had tacked sheets of white poster board, then covered them with the notes and lists and flowcharts.

One day soon he would spend hours in the room, studying the papers and preparing his case. But not tonight. In a few minutes, he would leave her and return to the mall.

She led him back to the couch.

Chapter 32

The hall on the tenth floor, Madison Wing, of the Baptist Hospital was empty except for an orderly and a male nurse writing on his clipboard. Visiting hours had ended at nine, and it was ten-thirty. He eased down the hall, spoke to the orderly, was ignored by the nurse and knocked on the door.

"Come in," a strong voice said.

He pushed the heavy door open and stood by the bed.

"Hello, Mitch," Avery said. "Can you believe this?"

"What happened?"

"I woke up at six this morning with stomach cramps, I thought. I took a shower and felt a sharp pain right here, on my shoulder. My breathing got heavy, and I started sweating. I thought no, not me. Hell, I’m forty-four, in great shape, work out all the time, eat pretty good, drink a little too much, maybe, but not me. I called my doctor, and he said to meet him here at the hospital. He thinks it was a slight heart attack. Nothing serious, he hopes, but they’re running tests for the next few days."

"A heart attack."

"That’s what he said."

"I’m not surprised, Avery. It’s a wonder any lawyer in that firm lives past fifty."

"Capps did it to me, Mitch. Sonny Capps. This is his heart attack. He called Friday and said he’d found a new tax firm in Washington. Wants all his records. That’s my biggest client. I billed him almost four hundred thousand last year, about what he paid in taxes. He’s not mad about the attorney’s fees, but he’s furious about the taxes. It doesn’t make sense, Mitch."

"He’s not worth dying for." Mitch looked for an IV, but did not see one. There were no tubes or wires. He sat in the only chair and laid his feet on the bed.

"Jean filed for divorce, you know."

"I heard. That’s no surprise, is it?"

"Surprised she didn’t do it last year. I’ve offered her a small fortune as a settlement. I hope she takes it. I don’t need a nasty divorce."

Who does?thought Mitch. "What did Lambert say?"

"It was kind of fun, really. In nineteen years I’ve never seen him lose his cool, but he lost it. He told me I was drinking too much, chasing women and who knows what else. Said I had embarrassed. Suggested I see a psychiatrist."

Avery spoke slowly, deliberately, and at times with a raspy, weak voice. It seemed phony. A sentence later he would forget about it and return to his normal voice. He lay perfectly still like a corpse, with the sheets tucked neatly around him. His color was good.

"I think you need a psychiatrist. Maybe two."

"Thanks. I need a month in the sun. Doc said he would discharge me in three or four days, and that I couldn’t work for two months. Sixty days, Mitch. Said I cannot, under any circumstances, go near the office for sixty days."

"What a blessing. I think I’ll have a slight heart attack."

"At your pace, it’s guaranteed."

"What are you, a doctor now?"

"No. Just scared. You get a scare like this, and you start thinking about things. Today is the first time in my life I’ve ever thought about dying. And if you don’t think about death, you don’t appreciate life."

"This is getting pretty heavy."

"Yeah, I know. How’s Abby?"

"Okay. I guess. I haven’t seen her in a while."

"You’d better go see her and bring her home. And get her happy. Sixty hours a week is plenty, Mitch. You’ll ruin your marriage and kill yourself if you work more. She wants babies, then get them. I wish I had done things differently."

"Damn, Avery. When’s the funeral? You’re forty-four, and you had a slight heart attack. You’re not exactly a vegetable."

The male nurse glided in and glared at Mitch. "Visiting hours are over, sir. You need to leave."

Mitch jumped to his feet. "Yeah, sure." He slapped Avery’s feet and walked out. "See you in a couple of days."

"Thanks for coming. Tell Abby I said hello."

The elevator was empty. Mitch pushed the button to the sixteenth floor and seconds later got off. He ran two flights of stairs to the eighteenth, caught his breath and opened the door. Down the hall, away from the elevators, Rick Acklin watched and whispered into a dead telephone receiver. He nodded at Mitch, who walked toward him. Acklin pointed, and Mitch stepped into a small area used as a waiting room by worried relatives. It was dark and empty, with two rows of folding chairs and a television that did not work. A Coke machine provided the only light. Tarrance sat next to it and flipped through an old magazine. He wore a sweat suit, headband, navy socks and white canvas sneakers. Tarrance the jogger.