by John Grisham
It was 10 a.m. and the parking lot of Abanks Dive Lodge was half full. The two morning dive boats had left thirty minutes earlier. The McDeeres walked quickly to the bar, where Henry was already shuffling beer and cigarettes to the domino players.
Barry Abanks leaned on a post supporting the thatched roof of the bar and watched as his two dive boats disappeared around the corner of the island. Each would make two dives, at places like Bonnie’s Arch, Devil’s Grotto, Eden Rock and Roger’s Wreck Point, places he had dived and toured and guided through a thousand times. Some of the places he had discovered himself.
The McDeeres approached, and Mitch quietly introduced his wife to Mr. Abanks, who was not polite but not rude. They started for the small pier, where a deckhand was preparing a thirty-foot fishing boat. Abanks unloaded an indecipherable string of commands in the general direction of the young deckhand, who was either deaf or unafraid of his boss.
Mitch stood next to Abanks, the captain now, and pointed to the bar fifty yards away down the pier. “Do you know all those people at the bar?” he asked.
Abanks frowned at Mitch.
“They tried to follow me here. Just curious,” Mitch said.
“The usual gang,” Abanks said. “No strangers.”
“Have you noticed any strangers around this morning?”
“Look, this place attracts strange people. I keep no ledger of the strange ones and the normal ones.”
“Have you seen a fat American, red hair, at least three hundred pounds?”
Abanks shook his head. The deckhand eased the boat backward, away from the pier, then toward the horizon. Abby sat on a small padded bench and watched the dive lodge disappear. In a vinyl bag between her feet were two new sets of snorkeling fins and dive masks. It was ostensibly a snorkeling trip with maybe a little light fishing if they were biting. The great man himself had agreed to accompany them, but only after Mitch insisted and told him they needed to discuss personal matters. Private matters, regarding the death of his son.
From a screened balcony on the second floor of a Cayman Kai beach house, the Nordic watched the two snorkeled heads bob and disappear around the fishing boat. He handed the binoculars to Two-Ton Tony Verkler, who, quickly bored, handed them back. A striking blonde in a black one-piece with legs cut high, almost to the rib cage, stood behind the Nordic and took the binoculars. Of particular interest was the deckhand.
Tony spoke. “I don’t understand. If they were talking serious, why the boy? Why have another set of ears around?”
“Perhaps they’re talking about snorkeling and fishing,” said the Nordic.
“I don’t know,” said the blonde. “It’s unusual for Abanks to spend time on a fishing boat. He likes the divers. There must be a good reason for him to waste a day with two novice snorkelers. Something’s up.”
“Who’s the boy?” asked Tony.
“Just one of the gofers,” she said. “He’s got a dozen.”
“Can you talk to him later?” asked the Nordic.
“Yeah,” said Tony. “Show him some skin, snort some candy. He’ll talk.”
“I’ll try,” she said.
“What’s his name?” asked the Nordic.
“Keith Rook.”
Keith Rook maneuvered the boat alongside the pier at Rum Point. Mitch, Abby and Abanks climbed from the boat and headed for the beach. Keith was not invited to lunch. He stayed behind and lazily washed the deck.
The Shipwreck Bar sat inland a hundred yards under a heavy cover of rare shade trees. It was dark and damp with screened windows and squeaky ceiling fans. There was no reggae, dominoes, or dartboard. The noon crowd was quiet with each table engrossed in its own private talk.
The view from their table was out to sea, to the north. They ordered cheeseburgers and beer—island food.
“This bar is different,” Mitch observed quietly.
“Very much so,” said Abanks. “And with good reason. It’s a hangout for drug dealers who own many of the nice homes and condos around here. They fly in on their private jets, deposit their money in our many fine banks and spend a few days around here checking their real estate.”
“Nice neighborhood.”
“Very nice, really. They have millions and they keep to themselves.”
The waitress, a husky, well-mixed mulatto, dropped three bottles of Jamaican Red Stripe on the table without saying a word. Abanks leaned forward on his elbows with his head lowered, the customary manner of speaking in the Shipwreck Bar. “So you think you can walk away?” he said.
Mitch and Abby leaned forward in unison, and all three heads met low in the center of the table, just over the beer. “Not walk, but run. Run like hell, but I’ll get away. And I’ll need your help.”
He thought about this for a moment and raised his head. He shrugged. “But what am I to do?” He took the first sip of his Red Stripe.
Abby saw her first, and it would take a woman to spot another woman straining ever so elegantly to eavesdrop on their little conversation. Her back was to Abanks. She was a solid blonde partially hidden under cheap black rubber sunglasses that covered most of her face, and she had been watching the ocean and listening a bit too hard. When the three of them leaned over, she sat up straight and listened like hell. She was by herself at a table for two.
Abby dug her fingernails into her husband’s leg, and their table became quiet. The blonde in black listened, then turned to her table and her drink.
Wayne Tarrance had improved his wardrobe by Friday of Cayman Week. Gone were the straw sandals and tight shorts and teenybop sunglasses. Gone were the sickly-pale legs. Now they were bright pink, burned beyond recognition. After three days in the tropical outback known as Cayman Brac, he and Acklin, acting on behalf of the U.S. government, had pounced on a rather cheap room on Grand Cayman, miles from Seven Mile Beach and not within walking distance of any remote portion of the sea. Here they had established a command post to monitor the comings and goings of the McDeeres and other interested people. Here, at the Coconut Motel, they had shared a small room with two single beds and cold showers. Wednesday morning, they had contacted the subject, McDeere, and requested a meeting as soon as possible. He said no. Said he was too busy. Said he and his wife were honeymooning and had no time for such a meeting. Maybe later, was all he said.
Then late Thursday, while Mitch and Abby were enjoying grilled grouper at the Lighthouse on the road to Bodden Town, Laney, Agent Laney, dressed in appropriate island garb and looking very much like an island Negro, stopped at their table and laid down the law. Tarrance insisted on a meeting.
Chickens had to be imported into the Cayman Islands, and not the best ones. Only medium-grade chickens, to be consumed not by native islanders but by Americans away from home without this most basic staple. Colonel Sanders had the damnedest time teaching the island girls, though black or close to it, how to fry chicken. It was foreign to them.
And so it was that Special Agent Wayne Tarrance, of the Bronx, arranged a quick secret meeting at the Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise on the island of Grand Cayman. The only such franchise. He thought the place would be deserted. He was wrong.
A hundred hungry tourists from Georgia, Alabama, Texas and Mississippi packed the place and devoured extra-crispy with cole slaw and creamed potatoes. It tasted better in Tupelo, but it would do.
Tarrance and Acklin sat in a booth in the crowded restaurant and nervously watched the front door. It was not too late to abort. There were just too many people. Finally, Mitch entered, by himself, and stood in the long line. He brought his little red box to their table and sat down. He did not say hello or anything. He began eating the three-piece dinner for which he paid $4.89, Cayman dollars. Imported chicken.
“Where have you been?” Tarrance asked.
Mitch attacked a thigh. “On the island. It’s stupid to meet here, Tarrance. Too many people.”
“We know what we’re doing.”
“Yeah, like the Korean shoe store.”
; “Cute. Why wouldn’t you see us Wednesday?”
“I was busy Wednesday. I didn’t want to see you Wednesday. Am I clean?”
“Of course you’re clean. Laney would’ve tackled you at the front door if you weren’t clean.”
“This place makes me nervous, Tarrance.”
“Why did you go to Abanks?”
Mitch wiped his mouth and held the partially devoured thigh. A rather small thigh. “He’s got a boat. I wanted to fish and snorkel, so we cut a deal. Where were you, Tarrance? In a submarine trailing us around the island?”
“What did Abanks say?”
“Oh, he knows lots of words. Hello. Give me a beer. Who’s following us? Buncha words.”
“They followed you, you know?”
“They! Which they? Your they or their they? I’m being followed so much I’m causing traffic jams.”
“The bad guys, Mitch. Those from Memphis and Chicago and New York. The ones who’ll kill you tomorrow if you get real cute.”
“I’m touched. So they followed me. Where’d I take them? Snorkeling? Fishing? Come on, Tarrance. They follow me, you follow them, you follow me, they follow you. If I slam on brakes I get twenty noses up my ass. Why are we meeting here, Tarrance? This place is packed.”
Tarrance glanced around in frustration.
Mitch closed his chicken box. “Look, Tarrance, I’m nervous and I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Relax. You were clean coming from the condo.”
“I’m always clean, Tarrance. I suppose Hodge and Kozinski were clean every time they moved. Clean at Abanks. Clean on the dive boat. Clean at the funerals. This was not a good idea, Tarrance. I’m leaving.”
“Okay. When does your plane leave?”
“Why? You guys plan to follow? Will you follow me or them? What if they follow you? What if we all get real confused and I follow everybody?”
“Come on, Mitch.”
“Nine-forty in the morning. I’ll try to save you a seat. You can have the window next to Two-Ton Tony.”
“When do we get your files?”
Mitch stood with his chicken box. “In a week or so. Give me ten days, and, Tarrance, no more meetings in public. They kill lawyers, remember, not stupid FBI agents.”
26
At eight Monday morning, Oliver Lambert and Nathan Locke were cleared through the concrete wall on the fifth floor and walked through the maze of small rooms and offices. DeVasher was waiting. He closed the door behind them and pointed to the chairs. His walk was not as quick. The night had been a long losing battle with the vodka. The eyes were red and the brain expanded with each breath.
“I talked with Lazarov yesterday in Las Vegas. I explained as best I could why you boys were so reluctant to fire your four lawyers, Lynch, Sorrell, Buntin and Myers. I gave him all your good reasons. He said he’d think about it, but in the meantime, make damned sure those four work on nothing but clean files. Take no chances and watch them closely.”
“He’s really a nice guy, isn’t he?” Oliver Lambert said.
“Oh yes. A real charmer. He said Mr. Morolto has asked about the firm once a week for six weeks now. Said they’re all anxious.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Told him things are secure, for now. Leaks are plugged, for now. I don’t think he believes me.”
“What about McDeere?” asked Locke.
“He had a wonderful week with his wife. Have you ever seen her in a string bikini? She wore one all week. Outstanding! We got some pictures, just for fun.”
“I didn’t come here to look at pictures,” Locke snapped.
“You don’t say. They spent an entire day with our little pal Abanks, just the three of them and a deckhand. They played in the water, did some fishing. And they did a lot of talking. About what, we don’t know. Never could get close enough. But it makes me very suspicious, guys. Very suspicious.”
“I don’t see why,” said Oliver Lambert. “What can they talk about besides fishing and diving, and, of course, Hodge and Kozinski? And so they talk about Hodge and Kozinski, what’s the harm?”
“He never knew Hodge and Kozinski, Oliver,” said Locke. “Why would he be so interested in their deaths?”
“Keep in mind,” said DeVasher, “that Tarrance told him at their first meeting that the deaths were not accidental. So now he’s Sherlock Holmes looking for clues.”
“He won’t find any, will he, DeVasher?”
“Hell no. It was a perfect job. Oh sure, there are a few unanswered questions, but the Caymanian police damned sure can’t answer them. Neither can our boy McDeere.”
“Then why are you worried?” asked Lambert.
“Because they’re worried in Chicago, Ollie, and they pay me real good money to stay worried down here. And until the Fibbies leave us alone, everybody stays worried, okay?”
“What else did he do?”
“The usual Cayman vacation. Sex, sun, rum, a little shopping and sightseeing. We had three people on the island, and they lost him a couple of times, but nothing serious, I hope. Like I’ve always said, you can’t trail a man twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, without getting caught. So we have to play it cool sometimes.”
“You think McDeere’s talking?” asked Locke.
“I know he lies, Nat. He lied about the incident in the Korean shoe store a month ago. You guys didn’t want to believe it, but I’m convinced he went into that store voluntarily because he wanted to talk with Tarrance. One of our guys made a mistake, got too close, so the little meeting broke up. That ain’t McDeere’s version, but that’s what happened. Yeah, Nat, I think he’s talking. Maybe he meets with Tarrance and tells him to go to hell. Maybe they’re smoking dope together. I don’t know.”
“But you have nothing concrete, DeVasher,” Ollie said.
The brain expanded and pressed mightily against the skull. It hurt too much to get mad. “No, Ollie, nothing like Hodge and Kozinski, if that’s what you mean. We had those boys on tape and knew they were about to talk. McDeere’s a little different.”
“He’s also a rookie,” said Nat. “An eight-month lawyer who knows nothing. He’s spent a thousand hours on sweat files, and the only clients he’s handled have been legitimate. Avery’s been extremely careful about the files McDeere’s touched. We’ve talked about it.”
“He has nothing to say, because he knows nothing,” added Ollie. “Marty and Joe knew a helluva lot, but they’d been here for years. McDeere’s a new recruit.”
DeVasher gently massaged his temples. “So you’ve hired a real dumb-ass. Let’s just suppose the FBI has a hunch who our biggest client is. Okay. Think along with me. And let’s just suppose Hodge and Kozinski fed them enough to confirm the identity of this particular client. See where I’m going? And let’s suppose the Fibbies have told McDeere all they know, along with a certain amount of embellishment. Suddenly, your ignorant rookie recruit is a very smart man. And a very dangerous one.”
“How do you prove this?”
“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 sea
ts, 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.