The Trust

by Norb Vonnegut

  “Got it.”

  “I’m not finished, Grove. I can call you Grove, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re Father Ricardo’s new best friend. You ask questions. You learn his habits, his contacts, everything. Even if it means putting the toilet seat down for him. And then you report back to me.”

  “Okay, okay.” I was rubbing my temple, but it didn’t help.

  “Names are good. Places are better. Travel itinerary is best. We clear?”

  “Yes.” My goal was to buy time, maybe a little information, until I found a lawyer. “Did you talk to my firm?”

  “Another question. And you were doing so well.”

  I was sick of Agent Fang rubbing my nose in the dirt. “Maybe we need to speak through my lawyer after all.”

  “That’s fine, Grove. But just remember, I’m a freight train. One call to my boss Walker, and we’ll send a dozen agents to SKC.”

  “Make my day.”

  “Or maybe we’ll toss your condo.”

  “You need a warrant.”

  Torres smirked. “Your girlfriend’s name is Annie, right?”

  “Kiss my ass.” I knew where this conversation was headed.

  “We go into the classroom, twelve agents wearing FBI Windbreakers, and Annie will be the toast of Columbia’s campus.”

  “You wouldn’t.” All of a sudden, my nerves were shot. The threat to me was one thing. But Agent Torres was dragging my girlfriend through the muck.

  “We clear?”

  “Yes.” That one-word response was about the closest I’ve ever come to saying, “I’m your bitch.”

  “Good,” she said. “First things first. I want everything you have on the Catholic Fund: account paperwork, history of wire transfers, the files. I want it all.”

  “I don’t know where half the stuff is. I’ve been a trustee at the Palmetto Foundation for a week.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “What’s your phone number?”

  “Now you’re asking the right kind of question.” Torres scribbled her number and handed the paper to me.

  “Should we wire sixty-five million tomorrow?”

  I was fishing, hoping to learn why the FBI was so interested in the Palmetto Foundation. And deep down, I wanted her to say, “Yes.” If the FBI instructed me to wire money, it seemed I would be off the hook. Even for the $25 million we sent last Tuesday.

  “Kind of stupid, if you ask me.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “If you wire sixty-five million, that takes you up to ninety million total. You really want to wire more money than you received from the Catholic Fund?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Class is over, boys and girls.”

  Agent Torres left Palmer’s office. And I decided that the South hadn’t seen so much scorched earth since Sherman sacked Atlanta.

  * * *

  Torres was tough. I’ve seen tougher. Most days, I know how to handle difficult people. Stockbrokers work with powerful men and women. Our clients get what they want, when they want it, and where they want it in all aspects of their lives.

  Life in the Armani Lane.

  There’s this client in London who’s a big-time liquor distributor. His date, on a dare, crawled under the table during one of those insufferable dinners on the rubber chicken circuit. Black tie, black gown, and Black Label scotch. With everybody laughing and clinking glasses up top, she gave him a Lewinsky down under.

  The two married shortly thereafter. During the ceremony she toasted him in front of all their guests: “Honey, I’d go under the table for you anywhere, anytime.” Lots of laughter. But if you ask me, saying yes gets you more control than saying no. That and two or three carats.

  I have a dozen more stories with similar themes. It’s the nature of our business. Stockbrokers learn how to handle demanding individuals, people who expect to get their way. Only, “frozen bank accounts” or “twenty years” behind bars have never been at stake for me.

  Thank you, Ira, for your reassuring counsel.

  I wanted to help the FBI. I wanted to do the right thing. But I didn’t trust Torres. She hadn’t explained the purpose of her investigation, and I feared that one slip, one false move, something I might say, would land me back in Ossining. This time I’d have one of those kick-ass river views from inside Sing Sing.

  It was the fight of my career. And I was about to pursue a strategy every stockbroker knows, the one that Muhammad Ali turned into an art form:

  Rope-a-dope.

  * * *

  After Torres left, I phoned Biscuit first thing. “You’re still coming to our board meeting tomorrow, right?”

  The FBI agent and my fellow trustees might object. But I didn’t care. The big man would work the HIP angle. And I’d follow with questions driven by Maryknoll, more aggressive this time, about why the Catholic order had no record of Father Ricardo.

  “On my way,” he replied.

  “Great. But there’s one other thing.”

  “Always is.”

  “You ever hear of an FBI agent named Torres?” I was still smarting from her visit.

  “She’d boil water just to scald dogs,” said Biscuit, using the Southern vernacular for a nasty person.

  “Torres showed up today, unannounced.”

  “And busted your chops,” the big man observed.

  “You got the same treatment?”

  “She had me sweating like a whore in church.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Everybody’s got an Achilles’ heel.” Biscuit sounded rueful.

  “You know hers?”

  “If I did, I couldn’t do anything about it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She knows mine.”

  “Let’s grab breakfast,” I suggested. “Maybe we can figure something out.”

  “How about Denny’s?”

  “Oof.”

  “A couple of Grand Slams.” Biscuit heard my hesitation, but extended his words like a doughnut.

  “Eat all you can—I’d fall asleep during the board meeting.”

  I hadn’t been on my bike for two weeks and didn’t need the massive breakfast. Even worse, Annie had taken to rubbing my stomach over the weekend and calling me “fat boy.”

  “You ever been to the Philippines?” Biscuit asked.

  “As a kid.” His question surprised me. “How’d you know?”

  “That expression.”

  “What expression?”

  “‘Eat all you can.’”

  “They say that in the Philippines?”

  “According to my dad.”

  “You don’t miss a thing, big fellow. When was your dad there?”

  “Shore leave during Vietnam. How about you?”

  “We were stationed at Clark Air Base. But I was too young to remember anything.”

  “It’s a funny expression,” Biscuit remarked.

  “That’s what I told JoJo Kincaid. She said ‘Eat all you can’ during lunch today.” My watch read 3:17. I was growing restless. Long ago, I had succumbed to the ADHD attention span that plagues Wall Street. I didn’t have time to dwell on colloquialisms.

  “Is she from the Philippines?” Biscuit missed the cues in my voice. Either that, or he chose to ignore them.

  “San Diego.”

  “But her family. Is she a Filipina?”

  “Hispanic.” I was keeping my answers terse, hoping Biscuit would get the message. It was time to address more pressing matters. Time to move on.

  “You sure?”

  “I guess so.”

  “There’s a big naval base in San Diego.” Biscuit was thinking aloud, trying to explain the coincidence to himself.

  From my perspective the conversation was growing old, like waiting for Noah’s flood to dry. “I need to hop.”

  Biscuit got the message. “See you tomorrow.”

  Next, I dialed Claire. She answered her cell phone on the first ring and came out swinging.
“You’re getting on my last nerve.”

  Anger was the last thing I expected. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why did you visit Maryknoll’s headquarters?”

  “Who told you?”

  “Father Ricardo,” she explained.

  “How’d he find out?”

  “From one of their priests.”

  “Father Ford? He lied.” The words burst from my lips before I could stop them.

  “Who’s he?”

  “The priest from Maryknoll.”

  “What were you thinking?” Claire’s voice was growing hard.

  “We have a problem.”

  “You,” she agreed.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “You went behind Father Ricardo’s back.”

  “I can explain.”

  “All this,” Claire continued, “after he said Maryknoll would disavow his existence. Now I doubt the Catholic Fund will ever do business with us again. A big donor relationship gone because you have nose trouble.”

  She had a point. I assumed Father Ford was the one who told Father Ricardo about my visit to Maryknoll. In which case—he was legit, Maryknoll was operating a clandestine operation, and the FBI was harassing me for reasons other than a $25 million transfer to some rogue charity.

  “Donors are one thing. But I’d rather know why the FBI came knocking on my door today.”

  “What are you talking about?” Claire’s fury vanished. She said nothing while I described the visit from Torres. Not one word as I told her about Highly Intimate Pleasures and the Catholic Fund websites that generated so little traffic.

  When I finished, Claire said, “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “And you still think Father Ricardo is on the up and up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you so confident?”

  “Dad trusted him. So do I. And it’s time you gave us the benefit of the doubt. Especially Father Ricardo.”

  There was the Claire Kincaid I remembered from high school. Rushing to the underdog’s defense. Operating above the fray. I admired her ambassadorial instincts, always had. Always will. But this time something was wrong, and I doubted diplomacy was the answer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  STATION 23

  Sullivan’s Island is a beach community located about twenty minutes northeast of Charleston. It’s a place where the air hints of salt and mollusk shells, where the dunes are a rolling tangle of sea oats, horseweed, and saltmeadow cordgrass. The sandy beaches are wide and beckoning, the Gulf Stream waters just the right temperature.

  During summer months, Charlestonians gather at the shore to flee the downtown heat. Picking crabs, boiling shrimp, shucking oysters—there’s always an excuse to chase tequila shots with longnecks. The best parties take place during the fall, however, when great bonfires leap high into the night. There’s something about the chill ocean air that sates the senses and makes people drop their guard.

  Bong parked near the corner of Atlantic Avenue and Station 23. He had rolled down all four windows in his car, light drizzle misting the seats. Most days, he savored the ocean’s scent. Its briny smell was reassuring, consistent the world over, whether here or back home in the Philippines. But that Monday night, Bong was distracted. He had work to do.

  Where is she?

  Bong looked at his watch. It was 9:47 P.M., black outside, fog cloaking the stars, surf crashing the shore. He wondered when JoJo Kincaid would get home. He was growing cross, annoyed that she wasn’t here.

  For the thirtieth time, maybe it was the fortieth, Bong checked his roll of duct tape. It was sitting on the passenger seat. Primed and ready for action. He had already folded back the edge, sticky side facing sticky side. Advance preparation reduced the number of screwups.

  That morning, Bong had spent fifteen minutes with the clerk at Home Depot. The two men compared one roll of tape with another. Bong opted for a cheap, nonpremium brand. It unraveled so much easier than the high-end Gorilla product. The last thing he needed was to get stuck while wrapping JoJo. Speed and surprise were the essence of a good show.

  Even better, the cheap roll came in royal blue. The institutional gray, standard across all lines of duct tape, did zero for JoJo’s skin tones. And while black would make her gold mocha hues pop, really zing, Bong feared the contrast would be far too stark. It was important that she look good on camera.

  Bong prided himself on watching the details. He was obsessive, his precision born from martial arts and the stage. As a kid, school plays helped Bong forget the barrio. With the exception of rats, there had never been enough to eat. The theater, however, required him to mimic, pretend, and disappear into another world—thereby offering a short reprieve from the squalor.

  For all the prep work now, this job had been one fiasco after another. Moreno was riding his ass every bungle of the way, and one thing was clear: Bong did not have the luxury of making another mistake. Not if he wanted to celebrate his forty-third birthday.

  He waited. He watched the clock. Perspiration poured from his brow.

  Around 10:13 P.M., Bong heard a car. It was JoJo’s Mercedes. There was no mistaking the custom paint job, the cream top and navy blue body. He grabbed the blue tape and slouched low. He popped the trunk and started his car, waiting for her to get out.

  JoJo opened her door, and Holly leaped into the night. The dachshund scurried around the front lawn, scratching and sniffing for the right place to pee. When JoJo walked around the back of her car, Bong turned on his brights and hit the gas.

  He hurtled toward the Mercedes. Hit the brakes just before crushing JoJo’s legs against its fender. She raised her arms in surprise. The oncoming brights blinded her eyes in the cold, drizzly night. The pounding surf drowned her screams.

  Bong shot out of his seat, tape in hand. He lunged at JoJo, squeezing between the two cars, and tackled her hard. Drove her face into the oyster-shell driveway. Pinned her fast, his knee pushing against the flat of her back, his hands controlling her arms, dominating her. Endorphins surged through his body with the most glorious tingle of skin.

  JoJo tried to scream. Bong was too fast, too powerful, awash in a sea of adrenaline. The veins under his spider-sun tattoo bulged as he wrapped the blue duct tape around and around JoJo’s head, gagging her mouth, muffling her cries for help.

  Bong coiled her wrists in blue. JoJo kicked and writhed. She lost her flats in the commotion, the Manolo Blahnik snakeskins skidding into the bush. The Atlantic Ocean roared, drowning their noise.

  Holly charged to JoJo’s defense. Fifteen pounds soaking wet, the tiny dachshund was all grit and gristle—the life-support system of bared teeth. She barked and circled, then darted forward. Bong swung his anvil fist. Holly ducked and fanged his wrist. Blood spurted everywhere.

  “Pakshet!” he screamed in Tagalog, his native language from the Philippines. The word almost means “fucking shit,” but not quite.

  Bong loosed his grip on JoJo. In a flash of blind anger, oblivious to the bite, he snatched the dog’s throat and squeezed hard. She yelped. Bong squeezed harder. The yelps turned to dog whimpers, Holly’s stubby legs twisting, her hot-dog body wriggling.

  With his free arm, Bong grabbed JoJo’s waist and picked her off the ground like a rag doll. He threw her over his shoulder, Holly still whimpering in the other hand. He marched, all powerful, to the trunk and dumped JoJo inside with a thud. Holly too. He slammed down the trunk and jumped into his car.

  Bong flicked off the brights, backed up, and headed west away from the beach. Total time elapsed: thirty seconds. He caught his breath. And as he drove away, considering the delicious surprises awaiting the very rich Mrs. Palmer Kincaid, Bong realized the most curious thing:

  He felt great.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  BOARD MEETING

  TUESDAY

  “Where is she?”

  The four of us were sitting in the conference room. Claire wore a light gray sweater, the sof
t cashmere at odds with her angry words. She drummed her fingers on the ancient table, knotty and gnarled. She checked her watch at 10:04 A.M., 10:05 A.M., and so on.

  Father Ricardo wore his black suit and white clerical collar, heavy on the starch. He was commanding in a priestly way, confident that his chain of command trumped all others. But his eyes were hostile. And I could tell he was annoyed.

  Biscuit loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. His clothes were a mass of wrinkles, not that he avoided the cleaners. His girth tugged and tested the fibers, stretching them this way and that.

  We had tried small talk, which didn’t work. And I kept the requisite introduction vague on purpose. “Biscuit’s here to discuss my findings.”

  Now our eyes darted back and forth, all of us uncomfortable. Claire tried JoJo on her cell phone but reached voice mail as we waited. Whereupon Father Ricardo placed his own mobile on the table. Biscuit said nothing.

  At 10:17 A.M., Claire said, “Let’s get started.”

  “I’ve never known JoJo to be late.” Father Ricardo was sitting at the head of the table again.

  “Let’s get started anyway,” said Claire, taking control, assuming Palmer’s role.

  “Is there a problem?” Father Ricardo leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. He was reserved. No smile, the air toxic—he sensed what was coming. His innate priest senses had kicked into gear.

  “Frankly, Grove’s findings are a surprise.” Claire spoke in her CNN anchor voice, the inflection weighty and ominous.

  I glanced in her direction, grateful for the support. Disappointment flashed across Father Ricardo’s face. But no more than a hint. He waited and said nothing.

  “Grove, tell Father Ricardo what you learned.”

  All eyes focused on me.

  As a kid, Henry Kissinger wanted to be a weatherman. I wanted to be him. I know how to broker peace. But for all my diplomatic prowess—the occasional “Fuck you” notwithstanding—I had never interrogated a priest. And my words proved a struggle.

  “Father, I know you had an understanding with Palmer. And it probably feels like we’re reinventing the wheel. When we parted last week, I fully expected to wire funds today. But I have questions now. Serious questions about activities that don’t fit our mission.”