The Trust

by Norb Vonnegut

  “Hey!” screamed the waitress.

  Ricardo flung the woman onto the table behind him. The gardeners, already doused by the suds, looked up to see a human bowling ball of jeans and elbows and long black dreadlocks blasting into the middle of their booth.

  My hand shot forward.

  Lucky strike or intentional, I’ll never know. My thumb gouged into Ricardo’s eye socket. I squeezed with all my might. I gripped and grasped, as though reaching for viscera through his eye socket. Every slide from the Palmetto Foundation, all those kids, exploded through my head in a lightning flash of bloodlust.

  Something popped inside Ricardo. Something I was holding. My thumb felt sticky, but I yanked forward, pulling him by the skull.

  “Oh my fucking eyeball.” Though hurt, he never went down.

  Ricardo backhanded the side of my face. I saw stars. He lunged toward me, blood streaming from his gore. The ooze was thick, too thick for me to tell the extent of his injury. I was lost, not thinking, just reacting, breaking away.

  The patrons emptied from their tables. They were thick men with thick hands, who worked like mules. Some scrambled out the front door, eager to avoid the ruckus. Others gawked, angry from getting doused with beer.

  It was chaos.

  The diners were unsure what was happening. Or who had started the brawl. Most watched, their jaws hanging slack. One threw a punch and caught me in the gut, good but not good enough. I stayed on my feet.

  Somebody grabbed me, pulled me around. I saw a blur of motion and slipped right.

  “What the fuck.” A gangly kid with gangly arms threw a long punch. I ducked and pushed past the hostess and out of the restaurant. An angry horde chased me into the street, liquored-up guys furious over a lunch gone bad.

  Not one cop on the scene.

  Jake lurched through the front door of the diner, Ricardo right behind him. He was holding the sleeve of his shirt against the bad eye.

  Somebody pointed at me. “Get him!” another yelled. The crowd lunged forward, united in beer and anger.

  No time to explain. No time to turn the crowd against Ricardo and Jake. I spun around, kicked off my loaner sandals, and hit the gas.

  Running, running, running. I sprinted past a bank of stucco buildings, bolting between cars on the street. I knocked over a businessman, who landed on his butt. His eyes flared wide from surprise as the wind grunted from my lungs.

  I glanced over my shoulder, a classic cycling technique when you’re leading the pack. The crowd, mostly men, a few women, stormed after me. Somebody threw a mug that bounced off my shoulder and kicked from my heel.

  Damn, it hurt. My head was spinning. Still no police in sight. Pedestrians were parting in the streets, turning their heads to watch all the commotion. They gave me a wide berth. They stepped aside for the people chasing a few lengths back.

  Double glass doors, the same ones I had seen before.

  I raced forward—focusing, trying to find a cop, no longer daring to look back—and pushed inside the lobby of the Bahamas Banking Company.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHARLESTON MARINA

  “Where can we find Bounder?”

  The cop with salt-and-pepper hair had twenty years on his partner. He wore starched blues and shiny black shoes with rubber soles. He walked with a slight crook in his back, the legacy of a long-ago run-in with a cheap punk on upper King Street.

  “Berthed out back.” The dockmaster pointed toward the outer docks. “Make a right, walk to the end, then a left and another left.”

  “Thanks,” replied the younger cop, a surprising blend of testosterone and detail orientation. He hated “drive-by directions,” the hazy and inexact information that made it easy to miss destinations.

  “Can’t miss Bounder.” The dockmaster spoke in the warm, reverent tones that boat people reserve for vessels. “She’s got the prettiest lines in the harbor. Just like her owner.”

  “You know Mrs. Kincaid?” Salt-and-pepper made a mental note to question him later.

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Have you seen her today?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” the dockmaster replied. “I haven’t been looking.”

  “Call me if you see her.” Salt-and-pepper handed the dockmaster his card. “We’re checking Bounder now.”

  “Not in those shoes?”

  “Why not?” asked the younger cop.

  “You’ll leave marks all over the deck.”

  “Somehow,” said salt-and-pepper, “I don’t think Mrs. Kincaid will care.”

  Five minutes later, the two officers found the boat. The door to the cabin was open, Roy Orbison wailing “You Got It” from the inside. The unmistakable scent of cigarettes wafted into the windless afternoon.

  “Charleston police,” called the younger cop through the cabin doors.

  “Coming aboard,” added salt-and-pepper.

  Holly barked furiously as the two men poked their heads inside. The rich wood interior was varnished teak. The patterned inlays alternated between chocolate brown and the golden color of country biscuits.

  The younger man’s eyes hurried from ornate woodwork to brass fittings to galley stove. It’s all so tidy, he thought.

  A woman sprawled on a deck chair, teak with royal blue canvas. She wore large dark sunglasses inside the cabin. Purplish bruises peeked from behind the frames and surrounded her crow’s-feet.

  Salt-and-pepper had seen it all during his twenty-plus years on the force. Battered women always raised lumps in his throat. His eyes traced JoJo’s bruises, her bandaged hand. “You okay?”

  “How’d you find me?” JoJo reined back her tears. Holly stopped barking and hopped on her lap. The dachshund licked her face and trembled defiantly at the two men in dark uniforms.

  He nodded at her bandages. “You’ve seen a doctor?”

  “I’m fine. Is Grove O’Rourke okay?”

  “Ma’am, we don’t know, ma’am,” replied the younger cop, serving the ma’am sandwich of Southern respect.

  “We need you to come with us,” said salt-and-pepper.

  “And Holly?”

  “Bring her too.”

  JoJo put down her glass and dabbed out a cigarette on her coffee saucer. She took one last look at the teak interior. “Let me get my things.”

  Outside on the gangplank, the older cop dialed his captain. The chief listened intently and said, “Bring her in.”

  Then the captain dialed Agent Torres, who answered on the first ring. “Yes?”

  “We got her.”

  Torres said, “Call the hospital and tell them we have Mrs. Kincaid’s finger. I’ll meet your guys there.”

  That’s when Claire interrupted the phone conversation. “I just heard from my bank.”

  “And?” The agent’s pupils turned into black BBs.

  “The money arrived in Turks and Caicos.”

  “Any word on Grove?” Biscuit stood, walked to the window, and stared across Broad Street, steeling himself for her answer.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  BAHAMAS BANKING COMPANY

  The bank’s lobby looked like any other. The ferns were fussy, the stainless-steel fixtures, too. The faux marble floors glistened with a high, slippery sheen. And customers stood in line, waiting to deposit money into an institution that might not lend it back. There were few hints of the Caribbean paradise outside. The room’s air was heavy with the torpid inertia of retail banking, nobody moving and nobody giving the day a second thought.

  “Everybody freeze!”

  My two words changed everything. Customers and staff snapped to attention. Hands over their mouths and faces ridged with fear, they combed the room for a bandit. They waited for the staccato report of automatic weapons—the here and now of a heist going down.

  “You’re being robbed,” I yelled at the top of my lungs as the posse of diners pushed into the lobby behind me.

  Somebody gasped. A woman shrieked. I stretched both hands way over my head to discourage
trigger-happy cops hiding in the shadows. Several depositors darted out the door. They were petrified even as I was surrendering.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” One of the bankers marched in my direction. He was bald, save for close-cropped hair on the sides and cactus fuzz on top.

  The banker saw no gun. He showed no fear. He was prickly, all attitude and bad mood. He snapped his fingers at a diminutive, bespectacled member of the staff and mouthed the word “Police.”

  Mission accomplished.

  “You’re about to lose two hundred million dollars,” I hollered, making sure everyone in the building could hear. “Unless you stop all outgoing wires. Now.”

  Some customers joined the exodus from the building while more diners pushed their way inside. A carousel of angry faces circled me. Ricardo and Jake were nowhere to be seen in the mix.

  One man, who had been standing near the restaurant’s cash register, pointed in my direction. “That’s the guy.”

  The bald, thorny banker pushed to the front of the ring and winced at my face. He probably thought me daft from a beating. He spoke in slow, elongated tones, soothing and condescending at the same time. “Come sit down on the couch.”

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “I’m the manager,” he said as the crowd stared at me.

  “So you take the hit?”

  Now all eyes turned to him.

  “What are you talking about?” Elbows bent, he threw both arms into the air. Even his pose reminded me of a cactus.

  “First things first,” I demanded. “Think you could clear the lobby before somebody throws a punch?”

  “A little space here.” The banker glared at the crowd.

  The shoving stopped. The gawkers backed off, slowly, surely. Some left, but most stayed. Curiosity replaced their fear and anger.

  My turn to take control. “What’s your name?”

  “Smitz. I’m the president.”

  “Of the Bahamas Banking Company?”

  “No. Of the bank’s branch in TCI,” he clarified, using the abbreviation for Turks and Caicos Islands. “Who are you?”

  “Grove O’Rourke. I’m a trustee of the Palmetto Foundation, which is a not-for-profit institution based in Charleston, South Carolina. According to your records, my organization maintains a sweep account with your bank. But we never set one up. It’s not ours.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “A money launderer controls the account. And he’s bribing your employees. I know him as Frederick Ricardo, though he may be using a different alias.” I avoided references to Ricardo’s cover, Maryknoll priest, and to his nickname. One mention of “Bong,” a common enough name in the Philippines, would have marked me as a nutcase in the Caribbean.

  There were at least thirty people in the crowd. They fixed on me, jaws slack, eyes wide. They were no longer disappointed by the lack of punches. Bank robberies were so much better.

  Still no sign of Ricardo or Jake.

  “You either freeze all outgoing wires from the fake account,” I continued, “or tell the authorities why your bank lost two hundred million dollars.”

  Smitz didn’t move. Not until several rubberneckers headed toward the teller stations. I questioned whether my charges would incite a small run on the bank. Apparently, he was wondering the same thing. The banker barked at one of his subordinates, “You heard him.”

  A diminutive man with rimless glasses began punching instructions into his computer.

  “Are the police coming?” Smitz asked him.

  “Yes.” The man nodded.

  “Today, U.S. authorities requested a freeze on that account.” I spoke evenly, methodically, hoping Torres had implemented her plan. “In addition, you received two hundred million dollars from my organization. Probably in the last few minutes. But someone in your AML department backdated the arrival time to Monday. So unless you fix this problem now, our money will be swept to ten banks around the world. And we’ll hold you liable.”

  “Our computers don’t allow it.” Whatever Smitz had thought before, he no longer considered me a raving lunatic. He surveyed the crowd, knowing they could all be depositors.

  “I hate to break the news, pal, but you’re wrong.”

  “Our suspicious activity reports pick up anything unusual.”

  “Yeah, when they’re legit. But your head of SAR is dirty.”

  Smitz turned around. “Get Olivia,” he ordered.

  “She’s at lunch,” the other banker replied.

  “I don’t care.”

  A tall, thin man pushed through the crowd. He was wearing a policeman’s uniform, and at long last, I felt safe. “I’m Digby. Financial Crimes Unit of the Royal Turks and Caicos Islands Police.”

  “Thank goodness,” sighed Smitz. “Would you arrest this man?”

  “Are you Grove O’Rourke?” the policeman asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “This man is working with the FBI,” he told the banker. Then, addressing the crowd, he said, “Show’s over, folks. Let’s break it up.”

  A few shuffled away. Most stayed.

  “Now,” he echoed. And the crowd made for the exits.

  “Am I glad to see you!” I extended my hand to the officer.

  “Who handles the account for the Palmetto Foundation?” Digby asked Smitz, not really responding to me.

  “I don’t know without checking.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Okay, okay,” Smitz acquiesced, no longer combative.

  “Has the money been transferred?”

  “I just learned about the problem.”

  “Let’s find out.” Digby gestured to the back office. And all three of us disappeared into the bowels of bank operations.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHARLESTON POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  “You okay?” asked Torres.

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m sorry the doctors couldn’t do more.”

  JoJo gazed at the swathe of bandages. Her hand had been mummified. It was the focus of everyone in the room.

  They were sitting inside police headquarters on Lockwood Boulevard. Two detectives had joined Agent Torres to watch the interrogation. A thin manila folder sat on the table in front of her. The label on the tab read “FBI.”

  “Any news from Grove?” JoJo’s face was throbbing, her heart racing. With her good hand, she rubbed her blouse collar between thumb and forefinger.

  “Not yet.” In fact, Torres knew he was safe.

  “I can’t believe he traded himself for me.”

  “Yes you can.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Cut the crap.”

  JoJo stopped fiddling. Her eyes were knife blades. Her lips were a garrote. She thought back to her cigarettes aboard Bounder and would have killed for one now. “What’s this about?”

  “Bong Batista.”

  “That psycho?” JoJo raised her mummy hand.

  Torres shook her head, feigning dismay. “Is that any way to talk about family?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “And pigs fly,” the agent scoffed.

  “You can’t talk to me like that.”

  “Really.” Head cocked, brow growing dark, Torres grabbed her chin and feigned concern.

  “Chief Mullins is my friend.” JoJo shooed the officers, waving her good hand. “You boys get Arthur for me.”

  “And bring back some tea and crumpets,” said Torres, turning sarcastic.

  Nobody left.

  JoJo sulked, the picture of confusion.

  “You don’t know Bong Batista?” pressed Torres.

  “No.”

  “Never seen him before?”

  “Never.”

  “You’re sure?”

  JoJo hesitated but only for a second. “I thought you wanted to find Grove.”

  “Both Grove and Bong,” confirmed Torres.

  “Then why treat me like a criminal?” JoJo ran her words together without infle
ction. She wasn’t speaking English. She was shooting syllables, rapid-fire, the same way she spoke Spanish.

  “Because you’re lying.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “You know what John Gotti said?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “‘You lie when you’re afraid.’” Torres reached into the manila folder and pulled out a color photo. Decent quality for an inkjet printer. She pushed it across the table. “And I think you’re petrified.”

  JoJo glanced at the picture. Her face registered nothing.

  “That’s you, right?” the agent pressed.

  “What about it?”

  “Yes or no, Mrs. Kincaid.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that Bong Batista standing next to you?”

  “How would I know?”

  “We have a witness who confirmed his identity.”

  JoJo said nothing.

  Torres smiled and opened the folder again. This time the agent passed over a marriage certificate. It belonged to James and Joanna Berenson.

  “Where’d you find Jim?” JoJo shifted in her chair.

  “The Navy. Same place you left him.” Torres liked this part best. The perp was down, squirming, taking the ten count. Sweet. Sweet. Sweet. It was time to pile on. “But it’s Master Chief Berenson now.”

  “Jim doctored the photo. He hates me.”

  “Give me a break.” Torres looked at the two detectives. “Can you believe she’s playing the ex card after fifteen years?”

  “How’d you discover my previous marriage?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Who did?”

  “I’m asking the questions.” Torres sat back in her chair, a kitten toying with her trophy. “But let’s just say we had help from a guy named Biscuit.”

  “I want my lawyer.”

  Torres ignored her. “It’s always the little things, JoJo. You don’t mind me calling you JoJo, right?”

  “I prefer Mrs. Kincaid.”

  “Who in the world says, ‘Eat all you can’?”

  “I asked for a lawyer.”

  “Here in the States,” Torres pressed, “we say, ‘All you can eat.’ But in the Philippines, they say, ‘Eat all you can.’”

  JoJo glared, seething through her bruises. “Can someone get me a cigarette?”