The Firm (37 page)

“We step up surveillance, for starters. Put his wife under twenty-four-hour watch. I’ve already called Lazarov and requested more men. Told him we needed some fresh faces. I’m going to Chicago tomorrow to brief Lazarov, and maybe Mr. Morolto. Lazarov thinks Morolto has a lead on a mole within the Bureau, some guy who’s close to Voyles and will sell information. But it’s expensive, supposedly. They wanna assess things and decide where to go.”

“And you’ll tell them McDeere’s talking?” asked Locke.

“I’ll tell them what I know and what I suspect. I’m afraid that if we sit back and wait for concrete, it might be too late. I’m sure Lazarov will wanna discuss plans to eliminate him.”

“Preliminary plans?” Ollie asked, with a touch of hope.

“We’ve passed the preliminary stage, Ollie.”

_____________

The Hourglass Tavern in New York City faces Forty-sixth Street, near its corner with Ninth Avenue. A small, dark hole-in-the-wall with twenty-two seats, it grew to fame with its expensive menu and fifty-nine-minute time limit on each meal. On the walls not far above the tables, hourglasses with white sand silently collect the seconds and minutes until the tavern’s timekeeper—the waitress—finally makes her calculations and calls time. Frequented by the Broadway crowd, it is usually packed, with loyal fans waiting on the sidewalk.

Lou Lazarov liked the Hourglass because it was dark and private conversations were possible. Short conversations, under fifty-nine minutes. He liked it because it was not in Little Italy, and he was not Italian, and although he was owned by Sicilians, he did not have to eat their food. He liked it because he was born and spent the first forty years of his life in the theater district. Then corporate headquarters was moved to Chicago, and he was transferred. But business required his presence in New York at least twice a week, and when the business included meeting a member of equal stature from another family, Lazarov always suggested the Hourglass. Tubertini had equal stature, and a little extra. Reluctantly, he agreed on the Hourglass.

Lazarov arrived first and did not wait for a table. He knew from experience the crowd thinned around 4 P.M., especially on Thursdays. He ordered a glass of red wine. The waitress tipped the hourglass above his head, and the race was on. He sat at a front table, facing the street, his back to the other tables. He was a heavy man of fifty-eight, with a thick chest and ponderous belly. He leaned hard on the red-checkered tablecloth and watched the traffic on Forty-sixth.

Thankfully, Tubertini was prompt. Less than a fourth of the white sand was wasted on him. They shook hands politely, while Tubertini scornfully surveyed the tiny sliver of a restaurant. He flashed a plastic smile at Lazarov and glared at his seat in the window. His back would face the street, and this was extremely irritating. And dangerous. But his car was just outside with two of his men. He decided to be polite. He deftly maneuvered around the tiny table and sat down.

Tubertini was polished. He was thirty-seven, the son-in-law of old man Palumbo himself. Family. Married his only daughter. He was beautifully thin and tanned with his short black hair oiled to perfection and slicked back. He ordered red wine.

“How’s my pal Joey Morolto?” he asked with a perfect brilliant smile.

“Fine. And Mr. Palumbo?”

“Very ill, and very ill-tempered. As usual.”

“Please give him my regards.”

“Certainly.”

The waitress approached and looked menacingly at the timepiece. “Just wine,” said Tubertini. “I won’t be eating.”

Lazarov looked at the menu and handed it to her. “Sautéed blackfish, with another glass of wine.”

Tubertini glanced at his men in the car. They appeared to be napping. “So, what’s wrong in Chicago?”

“Nothing’s wrong. We just need a little information, that’s all. We’ve heard, unconfirmed of course, that you have a very reliable man somewhere deep in the Bureau, somewhere close to Voyles.”

“And if we do?”

“We need some information from this man. We
have a small unit in Memphis, and the Fibbies are trying like hell to infiltrate. We suspect one of our employees may be working with them, but we can’t seem to catch him.”

“And if you caught him?”

“We’d slice out his liver and feed it to the rats.”

“Serious, huh?”

“Extremely serious. Something tells me the feds have targeted our little unit down there, and we’ve grown quite nervous.”

“Let’s say his name is Alfred, and let’s say he’s very close to Voyles.”

“Okay. We need a very simple answer from Alfred. We need to know, yes or no, if our employee is working with the Fibbies.”

Tubertini watched Lazarov and sipped his wine. “Alfred specializes in simple answers. He prefers the yes and no variety. We’ve used him twice, only when it’s critical, and both times it was a question of ‘Are the feds coming here or there?’ He’s extremely cautious. I don’t think he would provide too many details.”

“Is he accurate?”

“Deadly accurate.”

“Then he should be able to help us. If the answer is yes, we move accordingly. If no, the employee is off the hook and it’s business as usual.”

“Alfred’s very expensive.”

“I was afraid so. How much?”

“Well, he has sixteen years with the Bureau and is a career man. That’s why he’s so cautious. He has much to lose.”

“How much?”

“Half a million.”

“Damn!”

“Of course, we have to make a small profit on the transaction. After all, Alfred is ours.”

“A small profit?”

“Quite small, really. Most of it goes to Alfred. He talks to Voyles daily, you know. His office is two doors down.”

“All right. We’ll pay.”

Tubertini flashed a conquering smile and tasted his wine. “I think you lied, Mr. Lazarov. You said it was a small unit in Memphis. That’s not true, is it?”

“No.”

“What’s the name of this unit?”

“The Bendini firm.”

“Old man Morolto’s daughter married a Bendini.”

“That’s it.”

“What’s the employee’s name?”

“Mitchell McDeere.”

“It might take two or three weeks. Meeting with Alfred is a major production.”

“Yes. Just be quick about it.”

    27    

It was highly unusual for wives to appear at the quiet little fortress on Front Street. They were certainly welcome, they were told, but seldom invited. So Abby McDeere arrived through the front door, into the reception area uninvited and unannounced. It was imperative that she see her husband, she insisted. The receptionist phoned Nina on the second floor, and within seconds she appeared in a rush and warmly greeted her boss’s wife. Mitch was in a meeting, she explained. He’s always in a damned meeting, Abby replied. Get him out! They rushed to his office, where Abby closed the door and waited.

Mitch was observing another one of Avery’s chaotic departures. Secretaries bumped into each other and packed briefcases while Avery yelled into the phone. Mitch sat on the sofa with a legal pad and watched. His partner was scheduled for two days on Grand Cayman. April 15 loomed on the calendar like a date with a firing squad, and the banks down there had certain records that had become critical. It was all work, Avery insisted. He talked about the trip for five
days, dreading it, cursing it, but finding it completely unavoidable. He would take the Lear, and it was now waiting, said a secretary.

Probably waiting with a load of cash, thought Mitch.

Avery slammed the phone down and grabbed his coat. Nina walked through the door and glared at Mitch. “Mr. McDeere, your wife is here. She says it’s an emergency.”

The chaos became silent. He looked blankly at Avery. The secretaries froze. “What is it?” he asked, standing.

“She’s in your office,” Nina said.

“Mitch, I’ve gotta go,” Avery said. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I hope things are okay.”

“Sure.” He followed Nina down the hall, saying nothing, to his office. Abby sat on his desk. He closed and locked the door. He watched her carefully.

“Mitch, I have to go home.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“My father just called at school. They found a tumor in one of Mother’s lungs. They’re operating tomorrow.”

He breathed deeply. “I’m so sorry.” He did not touch her. She was not crying.

“I must go. I’ve taken a leave of absence at school.”

“For how long?” It was a nervous question.

She looked past him, to the Ego Wall. “I don’t know, Mitch. We need some time apart. I’m tired of a lot of things right now, and I need time. I think it will be good for both of us.”

“Let’s talk about it.”

“You’re too busy to talk, Mitch. I’ve been trying to talk for six months, but you can’t hear me.”

“How long will you be gone, Abby?”

“I don’t know. I guess it depends on Mother. No, it depends on a lot of things.”

“You’re scaring me, Abby.”

“I’ll be back, I promise. I don’t know when. Maybe a week. Maybe a month. I need to sort out some things.”

“A month?”

“I don’t know, Mitch. I just need some time. And I need to be with Mother.”

“I hope she’s okay. I mean that.”

“I know. I’m going home to pack a few things, and I’ll leave in an hour or so.”

“All right. Be careful.”

“I love you, Mitch.”

He nodded and watched as she opened the door. There was no embrace.

On the fifth floor, a technician rewound the tape and pushed the emergency button direct to DeVasher’s office. He appeared instantly and slapped the headphones over his extra-large cranium. He listened for a moment. “Rewind,” he demanded. He was quiet for another moment.

“When did this happen?” he asked.

The technician looked at a panel of digital numbers. “Two minutes fourteen seconds ago. In his office, second floor.”

“Damn, damn. She’s leaving him, ain’t she? No talk of separation or divorce before this?”

“No. You would’ve known about it. They’ve argued about his workaholic routine, and he hates her parents. But nothing like this.”

“Yeah, yeah. Check with Marcus and see if he’s
heard anything before. Check the tapes, in case we’ve missed something. Damn, damn, damn!”

Abby started for Kentucky, but did not make it. An hour west of Nashville, she left Interstate 40, and turned north on Highway 13. She had noticed nothing behind her. She drove eighty at times, then fifty. Nothing. At the small town of Clarksville, near the Kentucky line, she abruptly turned east on Highway 12. An hour later she entered Nashville through a county highway, and the red Peugeot was lost in city traffic.

She parked it in the long-term section at Nashville Airport and caught a shuttle to the terminal. In a rest room on the first floor she changed into khaki walking shorts, Bass loafers and a navy knit pullover. It was a cool outfit, a little out of season, but she was headed for warmer weather. She pulled her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail and forced it under her collar. She changed sunglasses and stuffed the dress, heels and panty hose into a canvas gym bag.

Almost five hours after she left Memphis, she walked to the Delta boarding gate and presented her ticket. She asked for a window seat.

No Delta flight in the free world can bypass Atlanta, but fortunately she was not forced to change planes. She waited by her window and watched darkness fall on the busy airport. She was nervous, but tried not to think about it. She drank a glass of wine and read a
Newsweek
.

Two hours later she landed in Miami and left the plane. She walked rapidly through the airport, catching stares but ignoring them. They’re just the usual
everyday stares of admiration and lust, she told herself. Nothing more.

At the one and only Cayman Airways boarding gate, she produced her round-trip ticket and the required birth certificate and driver’s license. Wonderful people, these Caymanians, but they won’t allow you in their country unless you’ve already purchased a ticket to get out. Please come and spend your money, then leave. Please.

She sat in a corner of the crowded room and tried to read. A young father with a pretty wife and two babies kept staring at her legs, but no one else noticed her. The flight to Grand Cayman would leave in thirty minutes.

After a rough start, Avery gained momentum and spent seven hours at the Royal Bank of Montreal, Georgetown, Grand Cayman branch. When he left at 5 P.M., the complimentary conference room was filled with computer printouts and account summaries. He would finish tomorrow. He needed McDeere, but circumstances had worked to seriously curtail his travel plans. Avery was now exhausted and thirsty. And things were hot on the beach.

At Rumheads, he picked up a beer at the bar and worked his well-tanned body through the crowd to the patio, where he looked for a table. As he strode confidently past the domino game, Tammy Greenwood Hemphill, of Greenwood Services, nervously but nonchalantly entered the crowd and sat on a stool at the bar. She watched him. Her tan was store-bought, machine-inflicted, with some areas browner than others. But on the whole, it was an enviable tan
for late March. The hair was now colored, not bleached, to a soft sandy blond, and the makeup likewise had been tempered. The bikini was state of the art, bright fluorescent orange that demanded attention. The large breasts hung wonderfully and stretched the strings and patches to their limit. The small patch across the rear was woefully incapable of covering anything. She was forty, but twenty sets of hungry eyes followed her to the bar, where she ordered a club soda and fired up a cigarette. She smoked it, and watched him.

He was a wolf. He looked good, and he knew it. He sipped his beer and slowly examined every female within fifty yards. He locked into one, a young blonde, and seemed ready to pounce when her man arrived and she sat in his lap. He sipped his beer and continued to survey.

Tammy ordered another club soda, with a twist of lime, and started for the patio. The wolf locked into the big breasts immediately and watched them bounce his way.

“Mind if I sit down?” she asked.

He half stood and reached for the chair. “Please do.” It was a great moment for him. Of all the hungry wolves lusting around the bar and patio at Rumheads, she picked him. He’d had younger babes, but at this moment at this place, she was the hottest.