by Bob Morris
“How much?”
J.J. shakes his head.
“Taken care of,” he says.
“What you mean taken care of?”
“Mrs. Ambister, she’s taking care of it.”
“I’d rather handle it myself,” I say.
J.J. cuts his eyes my way.
“Then you tell her that,” he says.
J.J. and I are obviously on the same page regarding dear old Titi.
He turns onto the road to Hamilton.
“First time to Bermuda?”
“It is,” I say.
“You want me to give the tour talk, or you want to ride in quiet?”
“The tour talk cost more?”
“Oh, I might add on a dollar or two.”
“Which you will no doubt charge to Mrs. Ambister?”
J.J. nods.
“Talk away,” I say.
On the twenty-minute drive to Hamilton, I get a crash course in all things Bermudian. How Bermuda is not just one island, as many think, but 120-some-odd islands, with the main dozen or so connected by bridges and causeways. How there were no indigenous people living here when the first settlers arrived, quite involuntarily, aboard the British ship Sea Venture, which crashed on the reefs in 1609 on its way to Jamestown, Virginia. And how there are thought to be at least another three hundred shipwrecks on the reefs encircling Bermuda, maybe even more.
We pull off near the Gibbs Hill Lighthouse and get out so J.J. can show me a roadside marker.
It reads:
On this spot her majesty Queen Elizabeth II paused for a while to admire the view. Wednesday the 24th of November 1953.
It’s a nice view—a hillside filled with pretty houses sloping to Hamilton Harbour. If I had a Post-it Note I’d stick it on the marker with the message: “His Ownself Zack Chasteen admired it, too.”
We get back in the car and I tune J.J. in and out, absorbed by the scenery. Sherbet-colored houses topped off by whitewashed, terraced roofs. Hand-laid stone walls, pocket-size vegetable plots, manicured boxwood hedges, gardens wildly abloom. And a beguiling assortment of street names, each of which seems to suggest its own story: Controversy Lane, Buggy Whip Hill, Ducks Puddle Drive, Featherbed Alley, and, my favorite, Pie Crust Place.
It’s as if Bermuda is populated by a happy tribe of really well-to-do Hobbits, cozy and content and given only to the pursuit of pleasurable things. It is all just so goddamn charming.
And then, as we squeeze into a roundabout and merge with the traffic of downtown Hamilton, J.J. yanks me out of that happy reverie.
“So you saw the body, huh?”
I look at him.
He says, “I heard it was you found it and called the police.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“That true about the eyes, how they’d been pulled out?”
“Where did you hear that? It wasn’t in the paper.”
“Small place. Everyone’s heard by now,” he says. “It true?”
“Yeah, the guy’s eyes were gone.”
J.J. lets out air, shakes his head.
“Man, oh man,” he says. “Just like before.”
“What do you mean like before?”
J.J. looks at me, then back at the road. He adjusts his hands on the wheel.
“Must have been six or seven years ago,” he says. “They found two bodies, a couple of scuba divers, washed up like that one you found. Eyes in them were missing, too.”
“Who were they?”
J.J. thinks about it.
“The way I remember, one of them was an Englishman. The other, I think he was American.”
“And no one ever figured out who did it or what it was all about?”
J.J. shakes his head.
“Nah, I mean, there was all kinds of theories, some of them pretty wild, most of them having to do with how the two of them had stumbled across a shipwreck that no one seemed to know was out there. There was talk about treasure and all that sort of foolishness. But after a while nothing came of it and people stopped talking about it,” he says. “But this what happened yesterday? It has got them talking again.”
“What are people saying about it?”
J.J. shrugs.
“Same thing they’ve always said. Those dead men saw something they wasn’t supposed to see. And that’s what happened to them.”
We drive the rest of the way in silence. We head down King Street to Front Street, pass the Cabinet Building to our right, the cruise ship docks on our left. There are two ships in port. They loom over Front Street, blocking our view of the harbor.
J.J. hangs a right on Parliament Street then a quick left on Reid Street. He pulls to a stop, points out the window to Richfield Bank, and says: “That’s your place right there.”
10
Ten minutes later, I am sitting across the desk from a young banker named Mr. Highsmith who has succeeded in turning my world upside down.
“There must be some mistake,” I say.
“I assure you, Mr. Chasteen, Richfield Bank does not make such mistakes,” says Mr. Highsmith. “Here, have a look for yourself.”
He swivels his computer monitor so I can see the screen. It is full of columns and figures, but I am only interested in the bottom line.
I stare at the numbers, not wanting to believe what I see.
Then I look at Mr. Highsmith. That’s how he introduced himself. Not Charles Highsmith or Robert Highsmith or Joe Highsmith, but Mr. Highsmith. Even though he is just a kid, barely out of his twenties.
He wears banker clothes—dark suit, white shirt, unremarkable tie.
I look back at the computer screen. Nothing has changed from the first time I looked at it. It is all there plain enough. A two, followed by three zeroes, then a decimal point and two more zeroes.
Two thousand dollars.
Mr. Highsmith says, “That’s the minimum amount required to maintain an account such as yours.”
“That’s bullshit is what that is,” I say. “Total bullshit.”
I am not a quiet guy. My voice carries across the bank lobby. People sitting at nearby desks turn to look at us. Mr. Highsmith leans toward me and speaks low.
“Mr. Chasteen, please,” he says. “Perhaps you’d like to discuss this with our manager.”
“You bet your ass I would.”
Mr. Highsmith steps away. I watch him walk across the lobby and disappear down a hallway.
I study the computer screen some more. The top of the page lists the name of my account and the account number. A few lines down is the date, seven months earlier, when the account was created. Alongside that a column shows my money was transferred to it. Two million dollars.
I click down the page. There are only a few lines of transactions against the account. Interest accrued, applied quarterly. Maintenance fees charged by Richfield Bank for all the hard work it has done letting my money sit around and collect interest.
My eyes land on the last transaction in the column. It is a withdrawal of two million dollars and change, dated two months earlier.
I keep staring, trying to make sense out of it. It is like staring at a plate of scrambled eggs and trying to find a Shakespeare sonnet in it. No sense at all.
“Mr. Chasteen.”
I look up. Mr. Highsmith has returned.
“Mr. Bunson can see you,” he says.
I follow him across the lobby and down a hallway and into a paneled office. Another man in a dark suit stands when we enter the room. He is closer to my age, with that air of assumed gravitas shared by bankers, funeral directors, and TV anchormen.
“I’m Mr. Bunson,” he says.
“Mmm,” I say.
Mr. Bunson motions me to a chair. I sit down. Mr. Highsmith stands behind me, near the door. All the better for calling in security should my outrage extend beyond another bullshit-shouting episode.
Mr. Bunson says, “Would you mind so very much if I were to look at your credentials, Mr. Chasteen?”
I han
d him my passport and the papers that Richfield Bank had mailed to me in Florida after I’d opened the account. I had presented the same papers to Mr. Highsmith just a few minutes earlier, but Mr. Bunson gives them greater scrutiny.
He compares my passport photo to the studly individual sitting across the desk from him. The photo is a couple of years old. I’ve only gotten better looking.
He examines the signature on the bank papers. He holds it alongside the signature on the passport. My penmanship is lousy. Still, it is consistent.
Satisfied that I am indeed the one and only Zachary Taylor Chasteen, he slides the credentials back to me. I tuck them away.
Now it is Mr. Bunson’s turn to study the computer screen on his desk. Which he does for the next several minutes.
Finally, he looks at me, smiling.
“Guamikeni Enterprises … am I pronouncing that correctly?”
“Close enough,” I say.
“Interesting name.”
“Mmmm,” I say.
He probably wants me to explain it, but I’m not up for that. I just want to know about my money.
“What about my money?” I say.
Mr. Bunson shuffles in his chair. He clears his throat.
“After the most recent withdrawal, month before last, you are left with a balance of exactly two thousand dollars,” says Mr. Bunson.
“That’s what I tried to explain to young Mr. Highsmith,” I say. “I didn’t make a withdrawal month before last or any other month. I haven’t made any withdrawals. I haven’t touched that money. There’s been a mistake.”
There is more edge to my voice than I’d intended. Mr. Bunson pulls back, his eyes widening. It might also have something to do with the fact that I am pounding a fist on his desk.
I stop pounding. I sit back in my chair. I breathe deep breaths.
Mr. Bunson says, “There are four chartered banks in Bermuda, Mr. Chasteen. Between us we handle the accounts of nearly twenty thousand international corporations and countless thousands of IBCs like your own. One reason so many people choose to do offshore business here—we don’t make mistakes.”
“Then where’s my money?”
“A simple explanation,” says Mr. Bunson. “It most likely was withdrawn by the other signatory on your account.”
“What other signatory?”
Mr. Bunson gives Mr. Highsmith a look. It is a look best described as “significant.” I don’t like the way this is going.
Mr. Highsmith punches at the computer keyboard, studies the screen. Then he looks at the papers on his desk.
“According to our records, the account for Guamikeni Enterprises lists two signatories—you and …” He flips through the papers, runs his finger down a page. “You and Mr. Trimmingham.”
“I don’t know anyone named Trimmingham.”
Another look from Mr. Bunson to Mr. Highsmith, this one even more significant, as if Mr. Bunson has detected a noxious odor that my nostrils are not privy to.
“Mr. Brewster Trimmingham,” says Mr. Bunson. “Of Trimmingham & Artemus International Management. They are the nominee for your account.”
The name Trimmingham & Artemus rings a bell. It’s the Bermudabased firm I hired, upon Freddie Arzghanian’s recommendation, to do the paperwork for my IBC. They charged me ten thousand dollars. It seemed pretty steep, but Freddie Arzghanian assured me it was money well spent.
Still, I have no specific recollection of a Brewster Trimmingham. And I certainly have no recollection of making anyone by that name a signatory on my account.
“So what you’re saying is that Brewster Trimmingham withdrew the two million dollars?”
“No, Mr. Chasteen, what I’m saying is that a signatory of your account made the withdrawal. Our records show that there are two signatories, you and Mr. Trimmingham. Therefore one or the other of you made the withdrawal. We have no way of telling.”
“What do you mean you have no way of telling?”
Mr. Bunson heaves a sigh and continues, as if he is explaining all this to a three-year-old.
“Because, Mr. Chasteen, it was an electronic transfer of funds, made with a log-on, a password, and a PIN number. Either of the two signatories could have done it.”
“But it wasn’t me. I never created a log-on, a password, or a PIN number.”
Mr. Bunson simultaneously shrugs and turns up his hands, the universal gesture for So-what-do-you-expect-me-to-do?
“Then I suggest you take that up with Mr. Trimmingham,” he says.
11
Before ushering me out, Mr. Bunson is kind enough to provide me with an address for Trimmingham & Artemus. It is a few blocks away, on St. Anselm’s Place.
When J.J. dropped me off at Richfield Bank I told him that I wouldn’t need him for a couple of hours, until it was time for him to drive me to the Mid Ocean Club. So I start walking.
Downtown Hamilton is a nice place—nice shops, nice restaurants, nice people. But nice is not the featured attraction on my personal marquee, not right now. I trudge my way to St. Anselm’s Place wholly oblivious to everything I pass.
I try to remember each and every contact I had with Trimmingham & Artemus. There were only two occasions: Once at Freddie Arzghanian’s office in Montego Bay when I’d signed some papers that were then sent back to Bermuda for Trimmingham & Artemus to countersign. And again when I returned home to LaDonna and found some more papers waiting for me, along with an invoice in the amount of ten thousand dollars for the work Trimmingham & Artemus had done on my behalf.
Hindsight exists so we can see our own asses and give them a proper kick. And yeah, I probably should have had my attorney look over the papers. But I don’t like the idea of too many people knowing my affairs. So I signed the papers and sent them off.
I’m not saying I went over everything line by line that Trimmingham & Artemus sent me, scrupulously parsing all meaning and nuance. But I read most of it. And I do not remember anything that gave Brewster Freaking Trimmingham the authority to withdraw money from my account.
Trimmingham & Artemus is in Suite 406 of a gray block building that houses lots of outfits with ampersands in their names. I get tired of waiting on the elevator and take the stairs.
By the time I get to the fourth floor I am breathing hard, more from boiling blood than exertion. The hall ahead of me is long, narrow, and deserted. A couple of dozen doors open onto it, all with small brass plaques bearing the names of businesses that sound much grander than their surroundings.
The plaque on Suite 406 reads TRIMMINGHAM & ARTEMUS INTERNATIONAL MANAGEMENT, LTD. I try the door. It is locked. I knock. No answer. I knock again, louder. Nothing. I beat hell out of the door. And then, just because it feels right, I kick it.
I hear something creak behind me. I turn around. A man peeks out from behind a door directly across the hall from 406.
“May I help you?” he says.
“I’m looking for Brewster Trimmingham.”
The door inches open a bit. The man is middle-aged and wears one of those telephone headsets favored by people who are just so damn busy they can’t be bothered.
He says, “You aren’t likely to find him here.”
“This is his office, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, it’s his office. But he’s already come and gone. He picks up the mail about eleven each morning and then he’s off.”
“What about the rest of the staff?”
The man gets a big kick out of that.
“Good one,” he says.
The door is open just enough for me to see inside the man’s office. It is small and sparse. One desk, nothing on the walls.
“You know where I would find Trimmingham?”
The man eyes me.
“Are you an acquaintance of his?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We go way back. I’m in Bermuda for a few days and thought I’d look him up, see how he’s been doing.”
The man thinks it over. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t believe me. If I were
him I wouldn’t believe me. He looks at his watch.
“It’s almost three o’clock,” he says. “I’d try Benny’s Lounge. It’s up on Queen Street.”
The man starts to close the door.
“Just one more thing,” I say, nodding at the plaque on Suite 406. “Is there really an Artemus?”
The man grins a sly grin.
“That’s another good one,” he says.
12
Benny’s Lounge is as elegant as its name implies—a faded sign on an unadorned door and nary a window opening onto Queen Street, all the better for avoiding prying eyes and anything that resembles the tourist trade.
Inside, the place is bigger than it appears from the street—a couple dozen stools around a horseshoe-shaped bar, seven or eight wooden tables, and a row of highbacked booths along the far wall. A hallway leads to the bathrooms and, at the end of it, a box sits wedged in the back door, a token nod to ventilation that isn’t doing much good.
Benny’s is crowded, the clientele mostly male. I find a seat at the bar. There is Tennants on tap. When the bartender comes around I order a pint.
“I’m looking for Brewster Trimmingham,” I say.
The bartender is a fat-faced man with droopy lids that conceal most of his eyes. He nods to a corner booth by the hall. I turn in my stool, sip the Tennants, and study the man in the booth.
He does not fit my image of what a Brewster Trimmingham should look like. I am expecting someone like Bunson or Highsmith, the twerpy bankers. But Trimmingham is big—massive is more like it—his ample girth creating a snugness in the booth that borders on the uncomfortable.
He has the look of John Madden portraying a yachtie gone to seed: faded blue polo with the tail out, worn khakis, deck shoes without any socks. His hair is thick and gray, and his face blotched red, a testament more to drinking, it appears, than to time spent in the sun.
I sip the Tennants and watch Trimmingham some more.
He drinks from a glass that looks tiny in his big hand. He holds a cell phone to one ear. He finishes his call and promptly makes another.