19
Marge had sat with her head bowed, eyes shut as the past replayed in her mind like a TV documentary. Troy’s voice finally broke into her thoughts, a voice as soft and gentle as a caress.
“I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any more hurt,” he said. “It’s the last thing I wanted to do. After that shoe-tying thing, I just mentioned to Bryce that you’d been married to my brother. When he asked about you, I thought he should know what you’d been through, so it would be easier for him to understand where you were coming from.”
She opened her eyes and looked around. They felt moist from a hint of tears. “I know you meant well, Troy. But I’m not sure I’m ready for any new relationships. I don’t think people realize what an experience like mine can do to a person. You tend to lose faith in your ability to judge people’s character. What do I really know about Bryce Reynolds?”
Her initial impression of him had been favorable, though there had been two disturbing incidents. The first came during dinner at Shoney’s in Natchez. Bryce claimed he had missed Troy’s joke because he was concentrating on reading a sign across the restaurant. She sat facing him so she couldn’t be sure what he had seen, but when she had a chance to look around, she found nothing that could have produced such a strange change in mood. His face had switched instantly from carefree to tense. He had covered it with a laugh when Fred re-told the story, but he had remained oddly detached during the rest of the meal.
The other strange mood shift had come that morning as they were walking back to their rooms from breakfast. She had no idea what triggered it, but Bryce had abruptly sobered and quickened his pace to move ahead of Sarah Anne and Troy. And then he came back out of the room changed from shorts to blue jeans.
Troy’s reply broke into her thoughts. “Like Keith, he doesn’t talk much about himself. He said he had been a stockbroker and an investment counselor for some corporation. Fred told me his wife died of cancer. I think he had some children.”
Marge crossed one arm and rested a hand against her face. “He told Betty Lou he had outlived his family. But where did he come here from? Why Madison, if he has no family here?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask if you’d like.”
“Never mind. I was just trying to point out that aside from a few first impressions, we hardly know anything about the man. I also question whether he’s so interested in me as you all seem to think.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, he spoke to me at the first house we visited this morning. Since then I’ve hardly seen him around.” She didn’t mention that she had been left feeling a little disappointed. That made things a bit too confusing. “Anyway, I learned to my eternal regret that people aren’t always what we think they are.”
Troy raised a hand. “Okay. I got the message. I’ll not bug you anymore. Promise.”
Her features softened with a hint of a smile. “Don’t take it personally, Troy. You, of all people, I can’t fault. Remember, you were willing to be the father of the child I never had. And the way you’ve stood by Virginia through thick and thin, regardless of all the problems it’s caused, ranks you right at the top of my list. I feel badly that I haven’t been by to see her more often. I promise to do better after this trip.”
“There are nine old geezers with Madison addresses on this list,” Locasio said. He sat in the back seat of the Cadillac, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, as they cruised along in sight of the Nova Tours bus. “We’ve accounted for all of them except two that skinny old broad mentioned.”
Locasio checked the notes jotted beside each name, such as “too tall” or “too fat.” One, Will Chandler, was considered “possible,” meeting the general profile he had heard Boots describe–“in his seventies, average height, on the heavy side.” The others had not been identified.
“Which two?” asked Ziggy.
“Hamilton MacArthur and Bryce Reynolds. You guys try to pinpoint MacArthur next time they stop. I’ll look for Reynolds.”
Joe Blow glanced around. “Then what?”
“We gotta find out more about the possibles.”
“How do we do that?”
“Don’t push me, Joe. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.” Locasio glared at the list and cursed his luck. Why hadn’t he asked Boots the vital question–what name was Pat Pagano using now? That would have made things so much simpler. And why hadn’t Boots confided in him earlier about just who he was looking for? The answer to that one was obvious.
Over the years Locasio had learned to be wary of one troubling aspect about his mentor. Most of what Boots did, the threats, the head-knocking, even the executions, was accomplished without rancor. “Just business,” he would say. But once in a great while something occurred that caused him to shift into an entirely different mode. On those occasions, “business” became intensely personal. He would stretch his own resources to the limit before calling for help. When Boots got on one of his missions, Locasio had learned to stay out of his way until invited in.
Boots had sought his help in some of the early legwork during the search for Pat Pagano. They had checked every known location where Pagano might have spent any time with relatives, friends or acquaintances. Thanks to a corrupted source inside the Justice Department, Boots had even managed to track down Pagano’s move to Oregon under an assumed name, but the man they found there turned out to be an innocent guy who just happened to have the same name. End of trail. Pagano had covered his tracks well. Still, Boots never gave up. Whenever he came across a lead, he followed it with the tenacity of a bloodhound.
The new consigliere, Nick Caggiano, finally came up with the idea that led to the solution. He suggested looking into Pagano’s trademark financial dealings with the foreign currency gambit. Going back over old documents, Boots found the name of the Swiss bank involved. Locasio accompanied him to Switzerland on a trip that proved productive in the end, though at the time things did not seem so promising. Despite Boots’ efforts to put the fear of God in the old Swiss banker, he wouldn’t budge. He could provide no information on accounts because everything was on computers, he insisted. Without the proper passwords, which only the account holder would know, nothing was available.
Back home, Boots had an idea. He had heard a nerd nephew brag about computers the boy had broken into. Boots financed an operation in which the nephew got help from some fellow hackers in Switzerland and finally cracked the bank’s codes. They discovered funds had been moved from Pat Pagano’s account into one in a new name, a name which Boots did not choose to share with Locasio. He did confide, however, that the address for the account was a mail service on the Isle of Man in the English Channel.
Boots had displayed typical ruthlessness in that case, killing the owner of the mail service and ransacking his business until he had located an address in Madison, Tennessee for the owner of the Swiss bank account.
Monday morning, Boots had left early for Madison after instructing everyone to remain in the motel room near the Nashville airport and await his call. Now Locasio wished he had insisted on knowing the details of what Boots planned to do, though he had to acknowledge pursuing that path would have brought nothing but a string of curses and the admonition to keep his mouth shut and mind his own damned business.
“What if we don’t manage to figure out which guy is Pagano?” Ziggy Ferrante asked.
Locasio’s heavy brows nearly met as he frowned. “I’ve been thinking about that. Hopefully, we’ll manage. If not, we may need Joe to do his thing.”
The driver cocked his head. “I didn’t bring nothing with me.”
“Then you need to contact some of our friends in New Orleans when we get there.”
20
At the rear of the bus, Bryce busily fended off questions posed by Sarah Anne. First she wanted to know what had happened to his name badge. He told her the clasp was sprung. He’d have to work on the gadget. She didn’t hesitate to dig into his background or to explain, rather enthusiastically, why Mar
ge would be the ideal person with whom to share the rest of his life.
Bryce had become quite adept at glossing over things when people became too inquisitive. He described a middle class background during the depression that could have fit half the people his age, then said he left Oklahoma to get away from too many painful memories.
“I lost my wife to cancer and my sons were killed in an accident. I wanted to make a new start somewhere else,” he said. “I had attended a meeting at the Opryland Hotel and decided this would be a good place to call home.”
“That’s a nice area where you live,” Sarah Anne said. “Did I hear Troy say you’d been a stockbroker, or something like that?”
“Something like that.” He grinned and parried her question with one of his own. “What did Stan do for a living?”
She liked to talk and quickly seized the opportunity. “He was a home builder. It was quite a coincidence that Marge married a Realtor and I married a home builder. Stan worked the high end of the market where the profits were greater. It turned out nice for me. He built us a really fine home. Of course, I don’t need all that space now. But my older daughter has two girls. They often and stay with grandma. Did you hear why Marge has no kids? Was some kind of problem with Keith, as I understand it. Something that made him sterile.”
“Troy told me.”
“She was disappointed, but I never heard her complain. There was some talk once about going another route to have a child, but she decided against it. You won’t find a kinder, gentler, more understanding soul than Marge Hunter.”
He was glad she had gotten off him, but talking about Marge was a subject that left him equally uncomfortable. He felt attracted to her, yet he was hesitant to follow his instincts. Not with Locasio and his two muscle men trailing around like a trilogy of bad dreams. He had convinced himself that his blundering ways were responsible for taking the lives of too many people dear to him. Could he dare risk another?
21
“We’ll be stopping at a rest area shortly,” Tillie announced. “Let’s try to hold it to about twenty minutes. That’ll give you time to go to the restroom, get a Coke or whatever. We’ll stop for dinner on the outskirts of New Orleans, then go on to the hotel.” Apparently as an afterthought, she added, “By the way, Hamilton MacArthur has discovered another typo in our trip kit. His address is listed as Madison when it should be Hendersonville.”
Clara frowned as she digested that bit of news. Had she known earlier, she wouldn’t have mentioned MacArthur’s name to that man from New Jersey. He asked about those who lived in Madison. On the other hand, had she known the fellow might be some sort of confidence man, she wouldn’t ha`ve told him anything at all. What was this world coming to, she fretted? Things had gotten so bad you could hardly trust anybody anymore. What a far cry from the days when she had grown up as the daughter of a Nashville policeman.
Troy turned to Marge. “Since he is my roommate, would you have any objections if I invited Bryce to sit with us at dinner?”
She gave a slight shake of her head. “Of course not. I don’t dislike the man. I just don’t want you or your co-conspirators trying to push us onto each other.”
“No problem. That’s fine with me.” He was through playing Cupid. That wasn’t his game anyway. But they would make a handsome pair, he reflected. Both in obvious good health. They could enjoy the kind of active life he and Virginia had hoped for in retirement, until Parkinson’s Disease had reared its ugly head.
Then he thought of something that instantly troubled him on several counts. It was something that might give Marge a more favorable insight into Bryce, but a subject he knew he shouldn’t discuss. He tried rationalizing. In years past, Marge had served on the Administrative Board, the Trustees, just about every committee in the church. He wouldn’t be confiding in a total stranger or someone new to the membership.
He had committed worse breeches of ecclesiastical etiquette, he decided.
“I guess you know I’m chairman of the Finance Committee at church,” he said.
She looked at him curiously. “No. But it’s nice to know our funds are in reliable hands.”
He winced. If that were true, would he be doing this?
“Something real interesting happened a few Sundays ago,” he said. No use stopping now. “Dr. Trent cornered me after church and said we needed to talk. Seems he had received a cashier’s check for seven thousand dollars from a non-member. The donor wanted to remain anonymous. He had heard we needed theatrical lighting and a good sound system for the Fellowship Center stage. But he’d also heard we couldn’t afford to put it in the budget. Dr. Trent thought I should know the details.”
“Why would a non-member do that?”
“Said he appreciated what Lovely Lane was doing for the community. Things like making the track available to outsiders. Putting on musical shows and other programs in the Fellowship Center. He had attended the Dinner Theatre during the summer. Thought it was great.”
“I haven’t seen anything about this in the newsletter.”
“It won’t be announced until we get the equipment.”
Marge looked pleased. “It’s refreshing to hear that some people still want to do good things without seeking any glory.”
“Yeah, it is. And I’m not supposed to reveal the name, of course, but I thought maybe you should know.”
She frowned. “Why on earth should I?”
Troy lowered his voice. “Don’t repeat it. I haven’t told anybody else. It was Bryce Reynolds.”
Rather than make her feel more favorably inclined toward Bryce, the news of his unusual gift to the church caused Marge to view him with more uncertainty than ever. Why would someone with no obvious ties to Lovely Lane contribute such a large sum? Very few members gave that much over the course of a year. Marge was familiar with the street Bryce lived on. The neighborhood was nice but not luxurious. She speculated that either he had more money than he knew what to do with or he was seeking to absolve himself of some past sin.
After Chick let them off the bus at the rest area, Bryce caught a glimpse of the blue Cadillac parked nearby and knew his pursuers were heating up the trail. Before he had a chance to dwell too deeply on that prospect, however, he encountered Fred heading into the men’s room.
Bryce knew that at seventy-four, Fred was obviously well acquainted with all the problems of aging, but the man seemed to have an unquenchable thirst for finding the humorous in life’s many foibles. He attacked old age the way many people approached things over which they had no control–he made a joke of it.
“Looks like we’ll have to stand in line,” Fred said, checking the overflow crowd. “Reminds me of the woman who sent her little boy into the men’s room.”
Bryce twisted his mouth into a grin. “What happened?”
“He was gone for a while, then he came out with his pants all wet. When she asked him what went wrong, he said, ‘Two old men were in front of me. One couldn’t start, one couldn’t stop, and I couldn’t wait.’”
Bryce snickered. “I know the feeling. I’ve got a decongestant pill that slows you down until you’ve been there so long you get embarrassed.”
“My problem’s not a pill. It’s just plain old rusty plumbing.”
Out in the open lobby with the inevitable map of the state and racks of brochures on nearby motels and attractions, Marge stood talking with Betty Lou and Sarah Anne.
“Did you hear what Clara’s telling?” asked Betty Lou.
Her sister arched a well-drawn eyebrow. “What now?”
“Remember those three fancy-dressed men we saw on the tour and at the restaurant? She thinks they’re con men from New Jersey, down here to fleece a bunch of us gullible Southern seniors.”
Marge frowned. “I saw the young, good-looking one talking to Pauline Sanders at Gloucester House this morning.”
“Really?” Betty Lou’s eyes widened. “You don’t reckon, maybe...?”
Sarah Anne gave a skeptical shake of
her head. “I doubt it. But who knows? Pauline would surely give the appearance of a likely prospect.” She looked around. “You girls need to visit the ladies room?”
“I do,” said Betty Lou.
Marge said she would wait for them.
As she stood opposite the entrance, she saw Bryce and Fred stroll in and head for a display of brochures. They began to pick through them, apparently not looking for anything in particular. When she became aware that someone had walked up beside her, she looked around and was shocked to meet the dark, probing eyes of the neatly-attired young man she had seen talking with Pauline that morning.
“Hi!” he said, glancing at her badge. “Ms. Hunter, I’m looking for a guy in your group named Bryce Reynolds. If he’s around, I’d appreciate your pointing him out to me.”
Though he sounded friendly enough, there was something disturbing about his eyes, a quality that left her feeling cold. Could Clara Holly be right about these men, she worried? She decided to face the problem head-on. “What did you want with Mr. Reynolds?” she asked.
He looked taken aback by the question but recovered quickly. “I thought he might be a friend of my father’s.” He gazed about the room. “Is he in here?”
How would Bryce have known his father, she wondered? Still, she didn’t see how that could relate to any kind of scam. “He’s the shorter of the two men over there looking through the brochures.”
“Thank you, lady,” he said. Then he strode across toward where Bryce and Fred were standing.
“Can you believe they’ve got gambling casinos in Biloxi?” Fred asked as he looked through a brochure. “When I was in the Air National Guard, back in the dark ages, we used to have summer field training at Gulfport. Bunked at Keesler Field. Biloxi wasn’t much of a town back then.”
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