Chapter 4

   “Yeah. She and Abby spent next year’s salary.”
   “That’s nice. Nice house. We’re glad you’re here, Mitch. I’m just sorry about the circumstances. You’ll like it here.”
   “You don’t have to apologize.”
   “I still don’t believe it. I’m numb, paralyzed. I shudder at the thought of seeing Marty’s wife and the kids. I’d rather be lashed with a bullwhip than go over there.”
   The women appeared, walked across the wooden patio deck and down the steps to the pool. Kay found the faucet and the sprinkler was silenced.
   They left Chickasaw Gardens and drove west with the traffic toward downtown, into the fading sun. They held hands, but said little. Mitch opened the sunroof and rolled down the windows. Abby picked through a box of old cassettes and found Springsteen. The stereo worked fine. “Hungry Heart” blew from the windows as the little shiny roadster made its way toward the river. The warm, sticky, humid Memphis summer air settled in with the dark. Softball fields came to life as teams of fat men with tight polyester pants and lime-green and fluorescent-yellow shirts laid chalk lines and prepared to do battle. Cars full of teenagers crowded into fast-food joints to drink beer and gossip and check out the opposite sex. Mitch began to smile. He tried to forget about Lamar, and Kozinski and Hodge. Why should he be sad? They were not his friends. He was sorry for their families, but he did not really know these people. And he, Mitchell Y. McDeere, a poor kid with no family, had much to be happy about. Beautiful wife, new house, new car, new job, new Harvard degree. A brilliant mind and a solid body that did not gain weight and needed little sleep. Eighty thousand a year, for now. In two years he could be in six figures, and all he had to do was work ninety hours a week. Piece of cake.
   He pulled into a self-serve and pumped fifteen gallons. He paid inside and bought a six-pack of Michelob. Abby opened two, and they darted back into the traffic. He was smiling now.
   “Let’s eat,” he said.
   “We’re not exactly dressed,” she said.
   He stared at her long, brown legs. She wore a white cotton skirt, above the knees, with a white cotton button-down. He had shorts, deck shoes and a faded black polo. “With legs like that, you could get us into any restaurant in New York.”
   “How about the Rendezvous? The dress seemed casual.”
   “Great idea.”
   They paid to park in a lot downtown and walked two blocks to a narrow alley. The smell of barbecue mixed with the summer air and hung like a fog close to the pavement. The aroma filtered gently through the nose, mouth and eyes and caused a rippling sensation deep in the stomach. Smoke poured into the alley from vents running underground into the massive ovens where the best pork ribs were barbecued in the best barbecue restaurant in a city known for world-class barbecue. The Rendezvous was downstairs, beneath the alley, beneath an ancient red-brick building that would have been demolished decades earlier had it not been for the famous tenant in the basement.
   There was always a crowd and a waiting list, but Thursdays were slow, it seemed. They were led through the cavernous, sprawling, noisy restaurant and shown a small table with a red-checked tablecloth. There were stares along the way. Always stares. Men stopped eating, froze with ribs hanging from their teeth, as Abby McDeere glided by like a model on a runway. She had stopped traffic from a sidewalk in Boston. Whistles and catcalls were a way of life. And her husband was used to it. He took great pride in his beautiful wife.
   An angry black man with a red apron stood before them. “Okay, sir,” he demanded.
   The menus were mats on the tables, and completely unnecessary. Ribs, ribs and ribs.
   “Two whole orders, cheese plate, pitcher of beer,” Mitch shot back at him. The waiter wrote nothing, but turned and screamed in the direction of the entrance: “Gimme two whole, cheese, pitcher!”
   When he left, Mitch grabbed her leg under the table. She slapped his hand.
   “You’re beautiful,” he said. “When was the last time I told you that you are beautiful?”
   “About two hours ago.”
   “Two hours! How thoughtless of me!”
   “Don’t let it happen again.”
   He grabbed her leg again and rubbed the knee. She allowed it. She smiled seductively at him, dimples forming perfectly, teeth shining in the dim light, soft pale brown eyes glowing. Her dark brunet hair was straight and fell perfectly a few inches below her shoulders.
   The beer arrived and the waiter filled two mugs without saying a word. Abby took a small drink and stopped smiling.
   “Do you think Lamar’s okay?” she asked.
   “I don’t know. I thought at first he was drunk. I felt like an idiot sitting there watching him get soaked.”
   “Poor guy. Kay said the funerals will probably be Monday, if they can get the bodies back in time.”
   “Let’s talk about something else. I don’t like funerals, any funeral, even when I’m there out of respect and don’t know the deceased. I’ve had some bad experiences with funerals.”
   The ribs arrived. They were served on paper plates with aluminum foil to catch the grease. A small dish of slaw and one of baked beans sat around a foot-long slab of dry ribs sprinkled heavily with the secret sauce. They dug in with fingers.
   “What would you like to talk about?” she asked.
   “Getting pregnant.”
   “I thought we were going to wait a few years.”
   “We are. But I think we should practice diligently until then.”
   “We’ve practiced in every roadside motel between here and Boston.”
   “I know, but not in our new home.” Mitch ripped two ribs apart, slinging sauce into his eyebrows.
   “We just moved in this morning.”
   “I know. What’re we waiting for?”
   “Mitch, you act as though you’ve been neglected.”
   “I have, since this morning. I suggest we do it tonight, as soon as we get home, to sort of christen our new house.”
   “We’ll see.”
   “Is it a date? Look, did you see that guy over there? He’s about to break his neck trying to see some leg. I oughta go over and whip his ass.”
   “Yes. It’s a date. Don’t worry about those guys. They’re staring at you. They think you’re cute.”
   “Very funny.”
   Mitch stripped his ribs clean and ate half of hers. When the beer was gone, he paid the check and they climbed into the alley. He drove carefully across town and found the name of a street he recognized from one of his many road trips of the day. After two wrong turns, he found Meadow-brook, and then the home of Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell Y. McDeere.
   The mattress and box springs were stacked on the floor of the master bedroom, surrounded by boxes. Hearsay hid under a lamp on the floor and watched as they practiced.


* * *

   Four days later, on what should have been his first day behind his new desk, Mitch and his lovely wife joined the remaining thirty-nine members of The Firm, and their lovely wives, as they paid their last respects to Martin S. Kozinski. The cathedral was full. Oliver Lambert offered a eulogy so eloquent and touching not even Mitchell McDeere, who had buried a father and a brother, could resist chill bumps. Abby’s eyes watered at the sight of the widow and the children. That afternoon, they met again in the Presbyterian church in East Memphis to say farewell to Joseph M. Hodge.

Chapter 5

   The small lobby outside Royce McKnight’s office was empty when Mitch arrived precisely at eight-thirty, on schedule. He hummed and coughed and began to wait anxiously. From behind two file cabinets an ancient blue-haired secretary appeared and scowled in his general direction. When it was apparent he was not welcome, he introduced himself and explained he was to meet Mr. McKnight at this appointed hour. She smiled and introduced herself as Louise, Mr. McKnight’s personal secretary, for thirty-one years now. Coffee? Yes, he said, black. She disappeared and returned with a cup and saucer. She notified her boss through the intercom and instructed Mitch to have a seat. She recognized him now. One of the other secretaries had pointed him out during the funerals yesterday.
   She apologized for the somber atmosphere around the place. No one felt like working, she explained, and it would be days before things were normal. They were such nice young men. The phone rang and she explained that Mr. McKnight was in an important meeting and could not be disturbed. It rang again, she listened, and escorted him into the managing partner’s office.
   Oliver Lambert and Royce McKnight greeted Mitch and introduced him to two other partners, Victor Milligan and Avery Tolar. They sat around a small conference table. Louise was sent for more coffee. Milligan was head of tax, and Tolar, at forty-one, was one of the younger partners.
   “Mitch, we apologize for such a depressing beginning,” McKnight said. “We appreciate your presence at the funerals yesterday, and we’re sorry your first day as a member of our firm was one of such sadness.”
   “I felt I belonged at the funerals,” Mitch said.
   “We’re very proud of you, and we have great plans for you. We’ve just lost two of our finest lawyers, both of whom did nothing but tax, so we’ll be asking more of you. All of us will have to work a little harder.”
   Louise arrived with a tray of coffee. Silver coffee server, fine china.
   “We are quite saddened,” said Oliver Lambert. “So please bear with us.”
   They all nodded and frowned at the table. Royce McKnight looked at some notes on a legal pad.
   “Mitch, I think we’ve covered this before. At this firm, we assign each associate to a partner, who acts as a supervisor and mentor. These relationships are very important. We try to match you with a partner with whom you will be compatible and able to work closely, and we’re usually right. We have made mistakes. Wrong chemistry, or whatever, but when that happens we simply reassign the associate. Avery Tolar will be your partner.”
   Mitch smiled awkwardly at his new partner.
   “You will be under his direction, and the cases and files you work on will be his. Virtually all of it will be tax work.”
   “That’s fine.”
   “Before I forget it, I’d like to have lunch today,” Tolar said.
   “Certainly,” Mitch said.
   “Take my limo,” Mr. Lambert said.
   “I had planned to,” said Tolar.
   “When do I get a limo?” Mitch asked.
   They smiled, and seemed to appreciate the relief. “In about twenty years,” said Mr. Lambert.
   “I can wait.”
   “How’s the BMW?” asked Victor Milligan.
   “Great. It’s ready for the five-thousand-mile service.”
   “Did you get moved in okay?”
   “Yes, everything’s fine. I appreciate The Firm’s assistance in everything. You’ve made us feel very welcome, and Abby and I are extremely grateful.”
   McKnight quit smiling and returned to the legal pad. “As I’ve told you, Mitch, the bar exam has priority. You’ve got six weeks to study for it and we assist in every way possible. We have our own review courses directed by our members. All areas of the exam will be covered and your progress will be closely watched by all of us, especially Avery. At least half of each day will be spent on bar review, and most of your spare time as well. No associate in this firm has ever failed the exam.”
   “I won’t be the first.”
   “If you flunk it, we take away the BMW,” Tolar said with a slight grin.
   “Your secretary will be a lady named Nina Huff. She’s been with more than eight years. Sort of temperamental, not much to look at, but very capable. She knows a lot of law and has a tendency to give advice, especially to the newer attorneys. It’ll be up to you to keep her in place. If you can’t get along with her, we’ll move her.”
   “Where’s my office?”
   “Second floor, down the hall from Avery. The interior woman will be here this afternoon to pick out the desk and furnishings. As much as possible, follow her advice.”
   Lamar was also on the second floor, and at the moment that thought was comforting. He thought of him sitting by the pool, soaking wet, crying and mumbling incoherently.
   McKnight spoke. “Mitch, I’m afraid I neglected to cover something that should’ve been discussed during the first visit here.”
   He waited, and finally said, “Okay, what is it?”
   The partners watched McKnight intently. “We’ve never allowed an associate to begin his career burdened with student loans. We prefer that you find other things to worry about, and other ways to spend your money. How much do you owe?”
   Mitch sipped his coffee and thought rapidly. “Almost twenty-three thousand.”
   “Have the documents on Louise’s desk first thing in the morning.”
   “You, uh, mean satisfies the loans?”
   “That’s our policy. Unless you object.”
   “No objection. I don’t quite know what to say.”
   “You don’t have to say anything. We’ve done it for every associate for the past fifteen years. Just get the paperwork to Louise.”
   “That’s very generous, Mr. McKnight.”
   “Yes, it is.”
   Avery Tolar talked incessantly as the limo moved slowly through the noontime traffic. Mitch reminded him of himself, he said. A poor kid from a broken home, raised by foster families throughout southwest Texas, then put on the streets after high school. He worked the night shift in a shoe factory to finance junior college. An academic scholarship to UTEP opened the door. He graduated with honors, applied to eleven law schools and chose Stanford. He finished number two in his class and turned down offers from every big firm on the West Coast. He wanted to do tax work, nothing but tax work. Oliver Lambert had recruited him sixteen years ago, back when had fewer than thirty lawyers.
   He had a wife and two kids, but said little about the family. He talked about money. His passion, he called it. The first million was in the bank. The second was two years away. At four hundred thousand a year gross, it wouldn’t take long. His specialty was forming partnerships to purchase supertankers. He was the premier specialist in his field and worked at three hundred an hour, sixty, sometimes seventy hours a week.
   Mitch would start at a hundred bucks an hour, at least five hours a day until he passed the bar and got his license. Then eight hours a day would be expected, at one-fifty an hour. Billing was the lifeblood of The Firm. Everything revolved around it. Promotions, raises, bonuses, survival, success, everything revolved around how well one was billing. Especially the new guys. The quickest route to a reprimand was to neglect the daily billing records. Avery could not remember such a reprimand. It was simply unheard of for a member of to ignore his billing.
   The average for associates was one-seventy-five per hour. For partners, three hundred. Milligan got four hundred an hour from a couple of his clients, and Nathan Locke once got five hundred an hour for some tax work that involved swapping assets in several foreign countries. Five hundred bucks an hour! Avery relished the thought, and computed five hundred per hour by fifty hours per week at fifty weeks per year. One million two hundred fifty thousand a year! That’s how you make money in this business. You get a bunch of lawyers working by the hour and you build a dynasty. The more lawyers you get, the more money the partners make.
   Don’t ignore the billing, he warned. That’s the first rule of survival. If there were no files to bill on, immediately report to his office. He had plenty. On the tenth day of each month the partners review the prior month’s billing during one of their exclusive luncheons. It’s a big ceremony. Royce McKnight reads out each lawyer’s name, then the total of his monthly billing. The competition among the partners is intense, but good-spirited. They’re all getting rich, right? It’s very motivational. As for the associates, nothing is said to the low man unless it’s his second straight month. Oliver Lambert will say something in passing. No one has ever finished low for three straight months. Bonuses can be earned by associates for exorbitant billing. Partnerships are based on one’s track record for generating fees. So don’t ignore it, he warned again. It must always have priority– after the bar exam, of course.
   The bar exam was a nuisance, an ordeal that must be endured, a rite of passage, and nothing any Harvard man should fear. Just concentrate on the review courses, he said, and try to remember everything he had just learned in law school.
   The limo wheeled into a side street between two tall buildings and stopped in front of a small canopy that extended from the curb to a black metal door. Avery looked at his watch and said to the driver, “Be back at two.”
   Two hours for lunch, thought Mitch. That’s over six hundred dollars in billable time. What a waste.
   The Manhattan Club occupied the top floor of a ten-story office building which had last been fully occupied in the early fifties. Avery referred to the structure as a dump, but was quick to point out that the club was the most exclusive lunch and dinner refuge in the city. It offered excellent food in an all-white, rich-male, plush environment. Powerful lunches for powerful people. Bankers, lawyers, executives, entrepreneurs, a few politicians and a few aristocrats. A gold-plated elevator ran nonstop past the deserted offices and stopped on the elegant tenth floor. The maitre d’ called Mr. Tolar by name and asked about his good friends Oliver Lambert and Nathan Locke. He expressed sympathies for the loss of Mr. Kozinski and Mr. Hodge. Avery thanked him and introduced the newest member of. The favorite table was waiting in the corner. A courtly black man named Ellis delivered the menus.
   “It does not allow drinking at lunch,” Avery said as he opened his menu.
   “I don’t drink during lunch.”
   “That’s good. What’ll you have?”
   “Tea, with ice.”
   “Iced tea, for him,” Avery said to the waiter. “Bring me a Bombay martini on the rocks with three olives.”
   Mitch bit his tongue and grinned behind the menu.
   “We have too many rules,” Avery mumbled.
   The first martini led to a second, but he quit after two. He ordered for both of them. Broiled fish of some sort. The special of the day. He watched his weight carefully, he said. He also worked out daily at a health club, his own health club. He invited Mitch to come sweat with him. Maybe after the bar exam. There were the usual questions about football in college and the standard denials of any greatness.
   Mitch asked about the children. He said they lived with their mother.
   The fish was raw and the baked potato was hard. Mitch picked at his plate, ate his salad slowly and listened as his partner talked about most of the other people present for lunch. The mayor was seated at a large table with some Japanese. One of The Firm’s bankers was at the next table. There were some other big-shot lawyers and corporate types, all eating furiously and importantly, powerfully. The atmosphere was stuffy. According to Avery, every member of the club was a compelling figure, a potent force both in his field and in the city. Avery was at home.
   They both declined dessert and ordered coffee. He would be expected to be in the office by nine each morning, Avery explained as he lit a Montesino. The secretaries would be there at eight-thirty. Nine to five, but no one worked eight hours a day. Personally, he was in the office by eight, and seldom left before six. “He could bill twelve hours each day, every day, regardless of how many hours he actually worked. Twelve a day, five days a week, at three hundred an hour, for fifty weeks. Nine hundred thousand dollars! In billable time! That was his goal. Last year he had billed seven hundred thousand, but there had been some personal problems. The Firm didn’t care if Mitch came in at 6 A.M. or 9 A.M., as long as the work was done.
   “What time are the doors unlocked?” Mitch asked.
   Everyone has a key, he explained, so he could come and go as he pleased. Security was tight, but the guards were accustomed to workaholics. Some of the work habits were legendary. Victor Milligan, in his younger days, worked sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, until he made partner. Then he quit working on Sundays. He had a heart attack and gave up Saturdays. His doctor put him on ten-hour days, five days a week, and he hasn’t been happy since. Marty Kozinski knew all the janitors by first name. He was a 9 A.M. man who wanted to have breakfast with the kids. He would come in at nine and leave at midnight. Nathan Locke claims he can’t work well after the secretaries arrive, so he comes in at six. It would be a disgrace to start later. Here’s a man sixty-one years old, worth ten million, and works from six in the morning until eight at night five days a week and then a half day on Saturday. If he retired, he’d die.
   Nobody punched a clock, the partner explained. Come and go as you please. Just get the work done.
   Mitch said he got the message. Sixteen hours a day would be nothing new.
   Avery complimented him on the new suit. There was an unwritten dress code, and it was apparent Mitch had caught on. He had a tailor, an old Korean in South Memphis, he would recommend when Mitch could afford it. Fifteen hundred a suit. Mitch said he would wait a year or two.
   An attorney from one of the bigger firms interrupted and spoke to Avery. He offered his sympathies and asked about the families. He and Joe Hodge had worked together on a case last year, and he couldn’t believe it. Avery introduced him to Mitch. He was at the funeral, he said. They waited for him to leave, but he rambled on and on about how sorry he was. It was obvious he wanted details. Avery offered none, and he finally left.
   By two, the power lunches were losing steam, and the crowd thinned. Avery signed the check, and the maitre d’ led them to the door. The chauffeur stood patiently by the rear of the limo. Mitch crawled into the back and sank into the heavy leather seat. He watched the buildings and the traffic. He looked at the pedestrians scurrying along the hot sidewalks and wondered how many of them had seen the inside of a limo or the inside of the Manhattan Club. How many of them would be rich in ten years? He smiled, and felt good. Harvard was a million miles away. Harvard with no student loans. Kentucky was in another world. His past was forgotten. He had arrived.
   The decorator was waiting in his office. Avery excused himself and asked Mitch to be in his office in an hour to begin work. She had books full of office furniture and samples of everything. He asked for suggestions, listened with as much interest as he could muster, then told her he trusted her judgment and she could pick out whatever she felt was appropriate. She liked the solid-cherry work desk, no drawers, burgundy leather wing chairs and a very expensive oriental rug. Mitch said it was marvelous.
   She left and he sat behind the old desk, one that looked fine and would have suited him except that it was considered used and therefore not good enough for a new lawyer at Bendini, Lambert & Locke. The office was fifteen by fifteen, with two six-foot windows facing north and staring directly into the second floor of the old building next door. Not much of a view. With a strain, he could see a glimpse of the river to the northwest. The walls were Sheetrock and bare. She had picked out some artwork. He determined that the Ego Wall would face the desk, behind the wing chairs. The diplomas, etc., would have to be mounted and framed. The office was big, for an associate. Much larger than the cubbyholes where the rookies were placed in New York and Chicago. It would do for a couple of years. Then on to one with a better view. Then a corner office, one of those power ones.
   Miss Nina Huff knocked on the door and introduced herself as the secretary. She was a heavyset woman of forty-five, and with one glance it was not difficult to understand why she was still single. With no family to support, it was evident she spent her money on clothes and makeup—all to no avail. Mitch wondered why she did not invest in a fitness counselor. She informed him forthrightly that she had been with eight and a half years now and knew all there was to know about office procedure. If he had a question, just ask her. He thanked her for that. She had been in the typing pool and was grateful for the return to general secretarial duties. He nodded as though he understood completely. She asked if he knew how to operate the dictating equipment. Yes, he said. In fact, the year before he had worked for a three-hundred-man firm on Wall Street and that firm owned the very latest in office technology. But if he had a problem he would ask her, he promised.
   “What’s your wife’s name?” she asked.
   “Why is that important?” he asked.
   “Because when she calls, I would like to know her name so that I can be real sweet and friendly to her on the phone.”
   “Abby.”
   “How do you like your coffee?”
   “Black, but I’ll fix it myself.”
   “I don’t mind fixing your coffee for you. It’s part of the job.”
   “I’ll fix it myself.”
   “All the secretaries do it.”
   “If you ever touch my coffee, I’ll see to it that you’re sent to the mail room to lick stamps.”
   “We have an automated licker. Do they lick stamps on Wall Street?”
   “It was a figure of speech.”
   “Well, I’ve memorized your wife’s name and we’ve settled the issue of coffee, so I guess I’m ready to start.”
   “In the morning. Be here at eight-thirty.”
   “Yes, boss.” She left and Mitch smiled to himself. She was a real smart-ass, but she would be fun.
   Lamar was next. He was late for a meeting with Nathan Locke, but he wanted to stop by and check on his friend. He was pleased their offices were close. He apologized again for last Thursday’s dinner. Yes, he and Kay and the kids would be there at seven to inspect the new house and the furniture.


* * *

   Hunter Quin was five. His sister Holly was seven. They both ate the spaghetti with perfect manners from the brand-new dining table and dutifully ignored the grown-up talk circulating around them. Abby watched the two and dreamed of babies. Mitch thought they were cute, but was not inspired. He was busy recalling the events of the day.
   The women ate quickly, then left to look at the furniture and talk about the remodeling. The children took Hearsay to the backyard.
   “I’m a little surprised they put you with Tolar,” Lamar said, wiping his mouth.
   “Why is that?”
   “I don’t think he’s ever supervised an associate.”
   “Any particular reason?”
   “Not really. He’s a great guy, but not much of a team player. Sort of a loner. Prefers to work by himself. He and his wife are having some problems, and there’s talk that they’ve separated. But he keeps it to himself.”
   Mitch pushed his plate away and sipped the iced tea. “Is he a good lawyer?”
   “Yes, very good. They’re all good if they make partner. A lot of his clients are rich people with millions to put in tax shelters. He sets up limited partnerships. Many of his shelters are risky, and he’s known for his willingness to take chances and fight with the IRS later. Most of his clients are big-time risk takers. You’ll do a lot of research looking for ways to bend the tax laws. It’ll be fun.”
   “He spent half of lunch lecturing on billing.”
   “It’s vital. There’s always the pressure to bill more and more. All we have to sell is our time. Once you pass the bar your billing will be monitored weekly by Tolar and Royce McKnight. It’s all computerized and they can tell down to the dime how productive you are. You’ll be expected to bill thirty to forty hours a week for the first six months. Then fifty for a couple of years. Before they’ll consider you for partner, you’ve got to hit sixty hours a week consistently over a period of years. No active partner bills less than sixty a week—most of it at the maximum rate.”
   “That’s a lot of hours.”
   “Sounds that way, but it’s deceptive. Most good lawyers can work eight or nine hours a day and bill twelve. It’s called padding. It’s not exactly fair to the client, but it’s something everybody does. The great firms have been built by padding files. It’s the name of the game.”
   “Sounds unethical.”
   “So is ambulance chasing by plaintiff’s lawyers. It’s unethical for a dope lawyer to take his fee in cash if he has a reason, to believe the money is dirty. A lot of things are unethical. What about the doctor who sees a hundred Medicare patients a day? Or the one who performs unnecessary surgery? Some of the most unethical people I’ve met have been my own clients. It’s easy to pad a file when your client is a multimillionaire who wants to screw the government and wants you to do it legally. We all do it.”
   “Do they teach it?”
   “No. You just sort of learn it. You’ll start off working long, crazy hours, but you can’t do it forever. So you start taking shortcuts. Believe me, Mitch, after you’ve been with us a year you’ll know how to work ten hours and bill twice that much. It’s sort of a sixth sense lawyers acquire.”
   “What else will I acquire?”
   Lamar rattled his ice cubes and thought for a moment. “A certain amount of cynicism. This business works on you. When you were in law school you had some noble idea of what a lawyer should be. A champion of individual rights; a defender of the Constitution; a guardian of the oppressed; an advocate for your client’s principles. Then after you practice for six months you realize we’re nothing but hired guns. Mouthpieces for sale to the highest bidder, available to anybody, any crook, any sleazebag with enough money to pay our outrageous fees. Nothing shocks you. It’s supposed to be an honorable profession, but you’ll meet so many crooked lawyers you’ll want to quit and find an honest job. Yeah, Mitch, you’ll get cynical. And it’s sad, really.”
   “You shouldn’t be telling me this at this stage of my career.”
   “The money makes up for it. It’s amazing how much drudgery you can endure at two hundred thousand a year.”
   “Drudgery? You make it sound terrible.”
   “I’m sorry. It’s not that bad. My perspective on life changed radically last Thursday.”
   “You want to look at the house? It’s marvelous.”
   “Maybe some other time. Let’s just talk.”

Chapter 6

   At five A.M. the alarm clock exploded on the new bed table under the new lamp, and was immediately silenced. Mitch staggered through the dark house and found Hearsay waiting at the back door. He released him into the backyard and headed for the shower. Twenty minutes later he found his wife under the covers and kissed her goodbye. She did not respond.
   With no traffic to fight, the office was ten minutes away. He had decided his day would start at five-thirty, unless someone could top that; then he would be there at five, or four-thirty, or whenever it took to be first. Sleep was a nuisance. He would be the first lawyer to arrive at the Bendini Building on this day, and every day until he became a partner. If it took the others ten years, he could do it in seven. He would become the youngest partner in the history of The Firm, he had decided.
   The vacant lot next to the Bendini Building had a ten-foot chain-link fence around it and a guard by the gate. There was a parking place inside with his name spray-painted between the yellow lines. He stopped by the gate and waited. The uniformed guard emerged from the darkness and approached the driver’s door. Mitch pushed a button, lowered the window and produced a plastic card with his picture on it.
   “You must be the new man,” the guard said as he held the card.
   “Yes. Mitch McDeere.”
   “I can read. I should’ve known by the car.”
   “What’s your name?” Mitch asked.
   “Dutch Hendrix. Worked for the Memphis Police Department for thirty-three years.”
   “Nice to meet you, Dutch.”
   “Yeah. Same to you. You start early, don’t you?”
   Mitch smiled and took the ID card. “No, I thought everyone would be here.”
   Dutch managed a smile. “You’re the first. Mr. Locke will be along shortly.”
   The gate opened and Dutch ordered him through. He found his name in white on the asphalt and parked the spotless BMW all by itself on the third row from the building. He grabbed his empty burgundy eel-skin attache case from the rear seat and gently closed the door. Another guard waited by the rear entrance. Mitch introduced himself and watched as the door was unlocked. He checked his watch. Exactly five-thirty. He was relieved that this hour was early enough. The rest of The Firm was still asleep.
   He nipped on the light switch in his office and laid the attache case on the temporary desk. He headed for the coffee room down the hall, turning on lights as he went. The coffeepot was one of those industrial sizes with multi-levels, multi-burners, multi-pots and no apparent instructions on how to operate any of it. He studied this machine for a moment as he emptied a pack of coffee into the filter. He poured water through one of the holes in the top and smiled when it began dripping in the right place.
   In one corner of his office were three cardboard boxes full of books, files, legal pads and class notes he had accumulated in the previous three years. He sat the first one on his desk and began removing its contents. The materials were categorized and placed in neat little piles around the desk.
   After two cups of coffee, he found the bar review materials in box number three. He walked to the window and opened the blinds. It was still dark. He did not notice the figure suddenly appear in the doorway.
   “Good morning!”
   Mitch spun from the window and gawked at the man. “You scared me,” he said, and breathed deeply.
   “I’m sorry. I’m Nathan Locke. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
   “I’m Mitch McDeere. The new man.” They shook hands.
   “Yes, I know. I apologize for not meeting you earlier. I was busy during your earlier visits. I think I saw you at the funerals Monday.”
   Mitch nodded and knew for certain he had never been within a hundred yards of Nathan Locke. He would have remembered. It was the eyes, the cold black eyes with layers of black wrinkles around them. Great eyes. Unforgettable eyes. His hair was white and thin on top with thickets around the ears, and the whiteness contrasted sharply with the rest of his face. When he spoke, the eyes narrowed and the black pupils glowed fiercely. Sinister eyes. Knowing eyes.
   “Maybe so,” Mitch said, captivated by the most evil face he had ever encountered. “Maybe so.”
   “I see you’re an early riser.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Well, good to have you.”
   Nathan Locke withdrew from the doorway and disappeared. Mitch checked the hall, then closed the door. No wonder they keep him on the fourth floor away from everyone, he thought. Now he understood why he didn’t meet Nathan Locke before he signed on. He might have had second thoughts. Probably hid him from all the prospective recruits. He had, without a doubt, the most ominous, evil presence Mitch had ever felt. It was the eyes, he said to himself again, as he propped his feet on the desk and sipped coffee. The eyes.
   As Mitch expected, Nina brought food when she reported at eight-thirty. She offered Mitch a doughnut, and he took two. She inquired as to whether she should bring enough food every morning, and Mitch said he thought it would be nice of her.
   “What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the stacks of files and notes on the desk.
   “That’s our project for the day. We need to get this stuff organized.”
   “No dictating?”
   “Not yet. I meet with Avery in a few minutes. I need this mess filed away in some order.”
   “How exciting,” she said as she headed for the coffee room.
   Avery Tolar was waiting with a thick, expandable file, which he handed to Mitch. “This is the Capps file. Part of it. Our client’s name is Sonny Capps. He lives in Houston now, but grew up in Arkansas. Worth about thirty million and keeps his thumb on every penny of it. His father gave him an old barge line just before he died, and he turned it into the largest towing service on the Mississippi River. Now he has ships, or boats, as he calls them, all over the world. We do eighty percent of his legal work, everything but the litigation. He wants to set up another limited partnership to purchase another fleet of tankers, this one from the family of some dead Chink in Hong Kong. Capps is usually the general partner, and he’ll bring in as many as twenty-five limited partners to spread the risk and pool their resources.
   This deal is worth about sixty-five million. I’ve done several limited partnerships for him and they’re all different, all complicated. And he is extremely difficult to deal with. He’s a perfectionist and thinks he knows more than I do. You will not be talking to him. In fact, no one here talks to him but me. That file is a portion of the last partnership I did for him. It contains, among other things, a prospectus, an agreement to form a partnership, letters of intent, disclosure statements and the limited partnership agreement itself. Read every word of it. Then I want you to prepare a rough draft of the partnership agreement for this venture.”
   The file suddenly grew heavier. Perhaps five-thirty was not early enough.
   The partner continued. “We have about forty days, according to Capps, so we’re already behind. Marty Kozinski was helping with this one, and as soon as I review his file I’ll give it to you. Any questions?”
   “What about the research?”
   “Most of it is current, but you’ll need to update it. Capps earned over nine million last year and paid a pittance in taxes. He doesn’t believe in paying taxes, and holds me personally responsible for every dime that’s sent in. It’s all legal, of course, but my point is that this is high-pressure work. Millions of dollars in investment and tax savings are at stake. The venture will be scrutinized by the governments of at least three countries. So be careful.”
   Mitch flipped through the documents. “How many hours a day do I work on this?”
   “As many as possible. I know the bar exam is important, but so is Sonny Capps. He paid us almost a half a million last year in legal fees.”
   “I’ll get it done.”
   “I know you will. As I told you, your rate is one hundred an hour. Nina will go over the time records with you today. Remember, don’t ignore the billing.”
   “How could I forget?”


* * *

   Oliver Lambert and Nathan Locke stood before the metal door on the fifth floor and stared at the camera above. Something clicked loudly and the door opened. A guard nodded. DeVasher waited in his office.
   “Good morning, Ollie,” he said quietly while ignoring the other partner.
   “What’s the latest?” Locke snapped in DeVasher’s direction without looking at him.
   “From where?” DeVasher asked calmly.
   “Chicago.”
   “They’re very anxious up there, Nat. Regardless of what you believe, they don’t like to get their hands dirty. And, frankly, they just don’t understand why they have to.”
   “What do you mean?”
   “They’re asking some tough questions, like why can’t we keep our people in line?”
   “And what’re you telling them?”
   “That everything’s okay. Wonderful. The great Bendini firm is solid. The leaks have been plugged. Business as usual. No problems.”
   “How much damage did they do?” asked Oliver Lambert.
   “We’re not sure. We’ll never be sure, but I don’t think they ever talked. They had decided to, no doubt about that, but I don’t think they did. We’ve got it from a pretty good source there were FBI agents en route to the island the day of the accident, so we think they planned to rendezvous to spill their guts.”
   “How do you know this?” asked Locke.
   “Come on, Nat. We’ve got our sources. Plus, we had people all over the island. We do good work, you know.”
   “Evidently.”
   “Was it messy?”
   “No, no. Very professional.”
   “How’d the native get in the way?”
   “We had to make it look good, Ollie.”
   “What about the authorities down there?”
   “What authorities? It’s a tiny, peaceful island, Ollie. Last year they had one murder and four diving accidents. As far as they’re concerned, it’s just another accident. Three accidental drownings.”
   “What about the FBI?” asked Locke.
   “Don’t know.”
   “I thought you had a source.”
   “We do. But we can’t find him. We’ve heard nothing as of yesterday. Our people are still on the island and they’ve noticed nothing unusual.”
   “How long will you stay there?”
   “Couple of weeks.”
   “What happens if the FBI shows up?” asked Locke.
   “We watch them real close. We’ll see them when they get off the plane. We’ll follow them to their hotel rooms. We may even bug their phones. We’ll know what they eat for breakfast and what they talk about. We’ll assign three of our guys for every one of theirs, and when they go to the toilet we’ll know it. There ain’t nothing for them to find, Nat. I told you it was a clean job, very professional. No evidence. Relax.”
   “This makes me sick, DeVasher,” Lambert said.
   “You think I like it, Ollie? What do you want us to do? Sit back and let them talk? Come on, Ollie, we’re all human. I didn’t want to do it, but Lazarov said do it. You wanna argue with Lazarov, go ahead. They’ll find you floating somewhere. Those boys were up to no good. They should’ve kept quiet, driven their little fancy cars and played big-shot lawyers. No, they gotta get sanctimonious.”
   Nathan Locke lit a cigarette and blew a heavy cloud of smoke in the general direction of DeVasher. The three sat in silence for a moment as the smoke settled across his desk. He glared at Black Eyes but said nothing.
   Oliver Lambert stood and stared at the blank wall next to the door. “Why did you want to see us?” he asked.
   DeVasher took a deep breath. “Chicago wants to bug the home phones of all nonpartners.”
   “I told you,” Lambert said to Locke.
   “It wasn’t my idea, but they insist on it. They’re very nervous up there, and they wanna take some extra precautions. You can’t blame them.”
   “Don’t you think it’s going a bit too far?” asked Lambert.
   “Yeah, it’s totally unnecessary. But Chicago doesn’t think so.”
   “When?” asked Locke.
   “Next week or so. It’ll take a few days.”
   “All of them?”
   “Yes. That’s what they said.”
   “Even McDeere?”
   “Yes. Even McDeere. I think Tarrance will try again, and he might start at the bottom this time.”
   “I met him this morning,” said Locke. “He was here before me.”
   “Five thirty-two,” answered DeVasher.


* * *

   The law school memorabilia were removed to the floor and the Capps file spread across the desk. Nina brought a chicken salad sandwich back from lunch, and he ate it as he read and as she filed away the junk on the floor. Shortly after one, Wally Hudson, or J. Walter Hudson as letterhead declared him, arrived to begin the study for the bar exam. Contracts were his specialty. He was a five-year member of The Firm and the only Virginia man, which he found odd because Virginia had the best law school in the country, in his opinion. He had spent the last two years developing a new review course for the contracts section of the exam. He was quite anxious to try it on someone, and McDeere happened to be the man. He handed Mitch a heavy three-ring notebook that was at least four inches thick and weighed as much as the Capps file.
   The exam would last for four days and consist of three parts, Wally explained. The first day would be a four-hour multiple-choice exam on ethics. Gill Vaughn, one of the partners, was the resident expert on ethics and would supervise that portion of the review. The second day would be an eight-hour exam known simply as multi-state. It covered most areas of the law common to all states. It, too, was multiple-choice and the questions were very deceptive. Then the heavy action. Days three and four would be eight hours each and cover fifteen areas of substantive law. Contracts, Uniform Commercial Code, real estate, torts, domestic relations, wills, estates, taxation, workers’ compensation, constitutional law, federal trial procedure, criminal procedure, corporations, partnerships, insurance and debtor-creditor relations. All answers would be in essay form, and the questions would emphasize Tennessee law. The Firm had a review plan for each of the fifteen sections.
   “You mean fifteen of these?” Mitch asked as he lifted the notebook.
   Wally smiled. “Yes. We’re very thorough. No one in this firm has ever flunked—”
   “I know. I know. I won’t be the first.”
   “You and I will meet at least once a week for the next six weeks to go through the materials. Each session will last about two hours, so you can plan accordingly. I would suggest each Wednesday at three.”
   “Morning or afternoon?”
   “Afternoon.”
   “That’s fine.”
   “As you know, contracts and the Uniform Commercial Code go hand in hand, so I’ve incorporated the UCC into those materials. We’ll cover both, but it’ll take more time. A typical bar exam is loaded with commercial transactions. Those problems make great essay questions, so that notebook will be very important. I’ve included actual questions from old exams, along with the model answers. It’s fascinating reading.”
   “I can’t wait.”
   “Take the first eighty pages for next week. You’ll find some essay questions you’ll need to answer.”
   “You mean homework?”
   “Absolutely. I’ll grade it next week. It’s very important to practice these questions each week.”
   “This could be worse than law school.”
   “It’s much more important than law school. We take it very seriously. We have a committee to monitor your progress from now until you sit for the exam. We’ll be watching very closely.”
   “Who’s on the committee?”
   “Myself, Avery Tolar, Royce McKnight, Randall Dunbar and Kendall Mahan. We’ll meet each Friday to assess your progress.”
   Wally produced a smaller, letter-sized notebook and laid it on the desk. “This is your daily log. You are to record the hours spent studying for the exam and the subjects studied. I’ll pick it up every Friday morning before the committee meets. Any questions?”
   “I can’t think of any,” Mitch said as he laid the notebook on top of the Capps file.
   “Good. See you next Wednesday at three.”
   Less than ten seconds after he left, Randall Dunbar walked in with a thick notebook remarkably similar to the one left behind by Wally. In fact, it was identical, but not quite as thick. Dunbar was head of real estate and had handled the purchase and sale of the McDeere home in May. He handed Mitch the notebook, labeled Real Estate Law, and explained how his specialty was the most critical part of the exam. Everything goes back to property, he said. He had carefully prepared the materials himself over the past ten years and confessed that he had often thought of publishing them as an authoritative work on property rights and land financing. He would need at least one hour a week, preferably on Tuesday afternoon. He talked for an hour about how different the exam was thirty years ago when he took it.
   Kendall Mahan added a new twist. He wanted to meet on Saturday mornings. Early, say seven-thirty.
   “No problem,” Mitch said as he took the notebook and placed it next to the others. This one was for constitutional law, a favorite of Kendall’s, although he seldom got to use it, he said. It was the most important section of the exam, or at least it had been when he took it five years ago. He had published an article on First Amendment rights in the Columbia Law Review in his senior year there. A copy of it was in the notebook, in case Mitch wanted to read it. He promised to do so almost immediately.
   The procession continued throughout the afternoon until half of The Firm had stopped by with notebooks, assignments of homework and requests for weekly meetings. No fewer than six reminded him that no member of The Firm had ever failed the bar exam.
   When his secretary said goodbye at five, the small desk was covered with enough bar review materials to choke a ten-man firm. Unable to speak, he simply smiled at her and returned to Wally’s version of contract law. Food crossed his mind an hour later. Then, for the first time in twelve hours, he thought of Abby. He called her.
   “I won’t be home for a while,” he said.
   “But I’m cooking dinner.”
   “Leave it on the stove,” he said, somewhat shortly.
   There was a pause. “When will you be home?” she asked with slow, precise words.
   “In a few hours.”
   “A few hours. You’ve already been there half the day.”
   “That’s right, and I’ve got much more to do.”
   “But it’s your first day.”
   “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
   “Are you all right?”
   “I’m fine. I’ll be home later.”


* * *

   The starting engine awakened Dutch Hendrix, and he jumped to his feet. The gate opened and he waited by it as the last car left the lot. It stopped next to him.
   “Evenin’, Dutch,” Mitch said.
   “You just now leaving?”
   “Yeah, busy day.”
   Dutch flashed his light at his wrist and checked the time. Eleven-thirty.
   “Well, be careful,” Dutch said.
   “Yeah. See you in a few hours.”
   The BMW turned onto Front Street and raced away into the night. A few hours, thought Dutch. The rookies were indeed amazing. Eighteen, twenty hours a day, six days a week. Sometimes seven. They all planned to be the world’s greatest lawyer and make a million dollars overnight. Sometimes they worked around the clock, slept at their desks. He had seen it all. But they couldn’t last. The human body was not meant for such abuse. After about six months they lost steam. They would cut back to fifteen hours a day, six days a week. Then five and a half. Then twelve hours a day.
   No one could work a hundred hours a week for more than six months.

Chapter 7

   One secretary dug through a file cabinet in search of something Avery needed immediately. The other secretary stood in front of his desk with a steno pad, occasionally writing down the instructions he gave when he stopped yelling into the receiver of his phone and listened to whoever was on the other end. Three red lights were blinking on the phone. When he spoke into the receiver the secretaries spoke sharply to each other. Mitch walked slowly into the office and stood by the door.
   “Quiet!” Avery yelled to the secretaries.
   The one in the file cabinet slammed the drawer and went to the next file cabinet, where she bent over and pulled the bottom drawer. Avery snapped his fingers at the other one and pointed at his desk calendar. He hung up without saying goodbye.
   “What’s my schedule for today?” he asked while pulling a file from his credenza.
   “Ten A.M. meeting with the IRS downtown. One P.M. meeting with Nathan Locke on the Spinosa file. Three-thirty, partners’ meeting. Tomorrow you’re in tax court all day, and you’re supposed to prepare all day today.”
   “Great. Cancel everything. Check the flights to Houston Saturday afternoon and the return nights Monday, early Monday.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Mitch! Where’s the Capps file?”
   “On my desk.”
   “How much have you done?”
   “I’ve read through most of it.”
   “We need to get in high gear. That was Sonny Capps on the phone. He wants to meet Saturday morning in Houston, and he wants a rough draft of the limited partnership agreement.”
   Mitch felt a nervous pain in his empty stomach. If he recalled correctly, the agreement was a hundred and forty-some pages long.
   “Just a rough draft,” Avery said as he pointed to a secretary.
   “No problem,” Mitch said with as much confidence as he could muster. “It may not be perfect, but I’ll have a rough draft.”
   “I need it by noon Saturday, as perfect as possible. I’ll get one of my secretaries to show Nina where the form agreements are in the memory bank. That will save some dictation and typing. I know this is unfair, but there’s nothing fair about Sonny Capps. He’s very demanding. He told me the deal must close in twenty days or it’s dead. Everything is waiting on us.”
   “I’ll get it done.”
   “Good. Let’s meet at eight in the morning to see where we are.”
   Avery punched one of the blinking lights and began arguing into the receiver. Mitch walked to his office and looked for the Capps file under the fifteen notebooks. Nina stuck her head in the door.
   “Oliver Lambert wants to see you.”
   “When?” Mitch asked.
   “As soon as you can get there.”
   Mitch looked at his watch. Three hours at the office and he was ready to call it a day. “Can it wait?”
   “I don’t think so. Mr. Lambert doesn’t usually wait for anybody.”
   “I see.”
   “You’d better go.”
   “What does he want?”
   “His secretary didn’t say.”
   He put on his coat, straightened his tie and raced upstairs to the fourth floor, where Mr. Lambert’s secretary was waiting. She introduced herself and informed him she had been with The Firm for thirty-one years. In fact, she was the second secretary hired by Mr. Anthony Bendini after he moved to Memphis. Ida Renfroe was her name, but everyone called her Mrs. Ida. She showed him into the big office and closed the door.
   Oliver Lambert stood behind his desk and removed his reading glasses. He smiled warmly and laid his pipe in the brass holder. “Good morning, Mitch,” he said softly, as if time meant nothing. “Let’s sit over there.” He waved to the sofa.
   “Would you like coffee?” Mr. Lambert asked.
   “No, thanks.”
   Mitch sank into the couch and the partner sat in a stiff wing chair, two feet away and three feet higher. Mitch unbuttoned his coat and tried to relax. He crossed his legs and glanced at his new pair of Cole-Haans. Two hundred bucks. That was an hour’s work for an associate at this money-printing factory. He tried to relax. But he could feel the panic in Avery’s voice and see the desperation in his eyes when he held the phone and listened to this Capps fellow on the other end. This, his second full day on the job, and his head was pounding and his stomach hurting.
   Mr. Lambert smiled downward with his best sincere grandfatherly smile. It was time for a lecture of some sort. He wore a brilliant white shirt, button-down, all-cotton, pinpoint, with a small, dark silk bow tie which bestowed upon him a look of extreme intelligence and wisdom. As always, he was tanned beyond the usual midsummer Memphis scorched bronzeness. His teeth sparkled like diamonds. A sixty-year-old model.
   “Just a couple of things, Mitch,” he said. “I understand you’ve become quite busy.”
   “Yes, sir, quite.”
   “Panic is a way of life in a major law firm, and clients like Sonny Capps can cause ulcers. Our clients are our only assets, so we kill ourselves for them.”
   Mitch smiled and frowned at the same time.
   “Two things, Mitch. First, my wife and I want you and Abby to have dinner with us Saturday. We dine out quite often, and we enjoy having our friends with us. I am somewhat of a chef myself, and I appreciate fine food and drink. We usually reserve a large table at one of our favorite restaurants in town, invite our friends and spend the evening with a nine-course meal and the rarest of wines. Will you and Abby be free on Saturday?”
   “Of course.”
   “Kendall Mahan, Wally Hudson, Lamar Quin and their wives will also be there.”
   “We’d be delighted.”
   “Good. My favorite place in Memphis is Justine’s. It’s an old French restaurant with exquisite cuisine and an impressive wine list. Say seven Saturday?”
   “We’ll be there.”
   “Second, there’s something we need to discuss. I’m sure you’re aware of it, but it’s worth mentioning. It’s very important to us. I know they taught you at Harvard that there exists a confidential relationship between yourself, as a lawyer, and your client. It’s a privileged relationship and you can never be forced to divulge anything a client tells you. It’s strictly confidential. It’s a violation of our ethics if we discuss our client’s business. Now, this applies to every lawyer, but at this firm we take this professional relationship very seriously. We don’t discuss a client’s business with anyone. Not other lawyers. Not spouses. Sometimes, not even each other. As a rule, we don’t talk at home, and our wives have learned not to ask. The less you say, the better off you are. Mr. Bendini was a great believer in secrecy, and he taught us well. You will never hear a member of this firm mention even so much as a client’s name outside this building. That’s how serious we are.”
   Where’s he going with this?Mitch asked himself. Any second-year law student could give this speech.
   “I understand that, Mr. Lambert, and you don’t have to worry about me.”
   “’Loose tongues lose lawsuits.’ That was Mr. Bendini’s motto, and he applied it to everything. We simply do not discuss our client’s business with anyone, and that includes our wives. We’re very quiet, very secretive, and we like it that way. You’ll meet other lawyers around town and sooner or later they’ll ask something about our firm, or about a client. We don’t talk, understand?”
   “Of course, Mr. Lambert.”
   “Good. We’re very proud of you, Mitch. You’ll make a great lawyer. And a very rich lawyer. See you Saturday.”
   Mrs. Ida had a message for Mitch. Mr. Tolar needed him at once. He thanked her and raced down the stairs, down the hallway, past his office, to the big one in the corner. There were now three secretaries digging and whispering to each other while the boss yelled into the telephone. Mitch found a safe spot in a chair by the door and watched the circus. The women pulled files and notebooks and mumbled in strange tongues among themselves. Occasionally Avery would snap his fingers and point here and there and they would jump like scared rabbits.
   After a few minutes he slammed the phone down, again without saying goodbye. He glared at Mitch.
   “Sonny Capps again. The Chinese want seventy-five million and he’s agreed to pay it. There will be forty-one limited partners instead of twenty-five. We have twenty days, or the deal is off.”
   Two of the secretaries walked over to Mitch and handed him thick expandable files.
   “Can you handle it?” Avery asked, almost with a sneer. The secretaries looked at him.
   Mitch grabbed the files and headed for the door. “Of course I can handle it. Is that all?”
   “It’s enough. I don’t want you to work on anything but that file between now and Saturday, understand?”
   “Yes, boss.”
   In his office he removed the bar review materials, all fifteen notebooks, and piled them in a corner. The Capps file was arranged neatly across the desk. He breathed deeply and began reading. There was a knock at the door.
   “Who is it?”
   Nina stuck her head through. “I hate to tell you this, but your new furniture is here.”
   He rubbed his temples and mumbled incoherently.
   “Perhaps you could work in the library for a couple of hours.”
   “Perhaps.”
   They repacked the Capps file and moved the fifteen notebooks into the hall, where two large black men waited with a row of bulky cardboard boxes and an oriental rug.
   Nina followed him to the second-floor library.
   “I’m supposed to meet with Lamar Quin at two—to study for the bar exam. Call him and cancel. Tell him I’ll explain later.”
   “You have a two o’clock meeting with Gill Vaughn,” she said.
   “Cancel that one too.”
   “He’s a partner.”
   “Cancel it. I’ll make it up later.”
   “It’s not wise.”
   “Just do as I say.”
   “You’re the boss.”
   “Thank you.”


* * *

   The paperhanger was a short muscle-bound woman advanced in years but conditioned to hard work and superbly trained. For almost forty years now, she explained to Abby, she had hung expensive paper in the finest homes in Memphis. She talked constantly, but wasted no motion. She cut precisely, like a surgeon, then applied glue like an artist. While it dried, she removed her tape measure from her leather work belt and analyzed the remaining corner of the dining room. She mumbled numbers which Abby could not decipher. She gauged the length and height in four different places, then committed it all to memory. She ascended the stepladder and instructed Abby to hand her a roll of paper. It fit perfectly. She pressed it firmly to the wall and commented for the hundredth time on how nice the paper was, how expensive, how long it would look good and last. She liked the color too. It blended wonderfully with the curtains and the rug. Abby had long since grown tired of saying thanks. She nodded and looked at her watch. It was time to start dinner.
   When the wall was finished, Abby announced it was quitting time and asked her to return at nine the next morning. The lady said certainly, and began cleaning up her mess. She was being paid twelve dollars an hour, cash, and was agreeable to almost anything. Abby admired the room. They would finish it tomorrow, and the wallpapering would be complete except for two bathrooms and the den. The painting was scheduled to begin next week. The glue from the paper and the wet lacquer from the mantel and the newness of the furniture combined for a wonderful fresh aroma. Just like a new house.
   Abby said goodbye to the paperhanger and went to the bedroom where she undressed and lay across her bed. She called her husband, spoke briefly to Nina and was told he was in a meeting and would be a while. Nina said he would call. Abby stretched her long, sore legs and rubbed her shoulders. The ceiling fan spun slowly above her. Mitch would be home, eventually. He would work a hundred hours a week for a while, then cut back to eighty. She could wait.
   She awoke an hour later and jumped from the bed. It was almost six. Veal piccata. Veal piccata. She stepped into a pair of khaki walking shorts and slipped on a white polo. She ran to the kitchen, which was finished except for some paint and a set of curtains due in next week. She found the recipe in a pasta cookbook and arranged the ingredients neatly on the countertop. There had been little red meat in law school, maybe an occasional hamburger steak. When she cooked, it had been chicken this or chicken that. There had been a lot of sandwiches and hot dogs.
   But now, with all this sudden affluence, it was time to learn to cook. In the first week she prepared something new every night, and they ate whenever he got home. She planned the meals, studied the cookbooks, experimented with the sauces. For no apparent reason, Mitch liked Italian food, and with spaghetti and pork cappellini tried and perfected, it was time for veal piccata. She pounded the veal scallops with a mallet until they were thin enough, then laid them in flour seasoned with salt and pepper. She put a pan of water on the burner for the linguine. She poured a glass of Chablis and turned on the radio. She had called the office twice since lunch, and he had not found time to return the calls. She thought of calling again, but said no. It was his turn. Dinner would be fixed, and they would eat whenever he got home.
   The scallops were sauteed in hot oil for three minutes until the veal was tender; then removed. She poured the oil from the pan and added wine and lemon juice until it was boiling. She scraped and stirred the pan to thicken the sauce. She returned the veal to the pan, and added mushrooms and artichokes and butter. She covered the pan and let it simmer.
   She fried bacon, sliced tomatoes, cooked linguine and poured another glass of wine. By seven, dinner was ready; bacon and tomato salad with tubettini, veal piccata, and garlic bread in the oven. He had not called. She took her wine to the patio and looked around the backyard. Hearsay ran from under the shrubs. Together they walked the length of the yard, surveying the Bermuda and stopping under the two large oaks. The remains of a long-abandoned tree house were scattered among the middle branches of the largest oak. Initials were carved on its trunk. A piece of rope hung from the other. She found a rubber ball, threw it and watched as the dog chased it. She listened for the phone through the kitchen window. It did not ring.
   Hearsay froze, then growled at something next door. Mr. Rice emerged from a row of perfectly trimmed box hedges around his patio. Sweat dripped from his nose and his cotton undershirt was soaked. He removed his green gloves, and noticed Abby across the chain-link fence, under her tree. He smiled. He looked at her brown legs and smiled. He wiped his forehead with a sweaty forearm and headed for the fence.
   “How are you?” he asked, breathing heavy. His thick gray hair dripped and clung to his scalp.
   “Just fine, Mr. Rice. How are you?”
   “Hot. Must be a hundred degrees.”
   Abby slowly walked to the fence to chat. She had caught his stares for a week now, but did not mind. He was at least seventy and probably harmless. Let him look. Plus, he was a living, breathing, sweating human who could talk and maintain a conversation to some degree. The paperhanger had been her only source of dialogue since Mitch left before dawn.
   “Your lawn looks great,” she said.
   He wiped again and spat on the ground. “Great? You call this great? This belongs in a magazine. I’ve never seen a puttin’ green look this good. I deserve garden of the month, but they won’t give it to me. Where’s your husband?”
   “At the office. He’s working late.”
   “It’s almost eight. He must’ve left before sunup this morning. I take my walk at six-thirty, and he’s already gone. What’s with him?”
   “He likes to work.”
   “If I had a wife like you, I’d stay at home. Couldn’t make me leave.”
   Abby smiled at the compliment. “How is Mrs. Rice?”
   He frowned, then yanked a weed out of the fence. “Not too good, I’m afraid. Not too good.” He looked away and bit his lip. Mrs. Rice was almost dead with cancer. There were no children. She had a year, the doctors said. A year at the most. They had removed most of her stomach, and the tumors were now in the lungs. She weighed ninety pounds and seldom left the bed. During their first visit across the fence his eyes watered when he talked of her and of how he would be alone after fifty-one years.
   “Now, they won’t give me garden of the month. Wrong part of town. It always goes to those rich folks who hire yard boys to do all the work while they sit by the pool and sip daiquiris. It does look good, doesn’t it?”
   “It’s incredible. How many times a week do you mow?”
   “Three or four. Depends on the rain. You want me to mow yours?”
   “No. I want Mitch to mow it.”
   “He ain’t got time, seems like. I’ll watch it, and if it needs a little trim, I’ll come over.”
   Abby turned and looked at the kitchen window. “Do you hear the phone?” she asked, walking away. Mr. Rice pointed to his hearing aid.
   She said goodbye and ran to the house. The phone stopped when she lifted the receiver. It was eight-thirty, almost dark. She called the office, but no one answered. Maybe he was driving home.


* * *

   An hour before midnight, the phone rang. Except for it and the light snoring, the second-floor office was without a sound. His feet were on the new desk, crossed at the ankles and numb from lack of circulation. The rest of the body slouched comfortably in the thick leather executive chair.
   He slumped to one side and intermittently exhaled the sounds of a deep sleep. The Capps file was strewn over the desk and one formidable-looking document was held firmly against his stomach. His shoes were on the floor, next to the desk, next to a pile of documents from the Capps file. An empty potato-chip bag was between the shoes.
   After a dozen rings he moved, then jumped at the phone. It was his wife.
   “Why haven’t you called?” she asked, coolly, yet with a slight touch of concern.
   “I’m sorry. I fell asleep. What time is it?” He rubbed his eyes and focused on his watch.
   “Eleven. I wish you would call.”
   “I did call. No one answered.”
   “When?”
   “Between eight and nine. Where were you?”
   She did not answer. She waited. “Are you coming home?”
   “No. I need to work all night.”
   “All night? You can’t work all night, Mitch.”
   “Of course I can work all night. Happens all the time around here. It’s expected.”
   “I expected you home, Mitch. And the least you could’ve done was call. Dinner is still on the stove.”
   “I’m sorry. I’m up to my ears in deadlines and I lost track of time. I apologize.”
   There was silence for a moment as she considered the apology. “Will this become a habit, Mitch?”
   “It might.”
   “I see. When do you think you might be home?”
   “Are you scared?”
   “No, I’m not scared. I’m going to bed.”
   “I’ll come in around seven for a shower.”
   “That’s nice. If I’m asleep, don’t wake me.”
   She hung up. He looked at the receiver, then put it in place. On the fifth floor a security agent chuckled to himself. “’Don’t wake me.’ That’s good,” he said as he pushed a button on the computerized recorder. He punched three buttons and spoke into a small mike. “Hey, Dutch, wake up down there.”
   Dutch woke up and leaned to the intercom. “Yeah, what is it?”
   “This is Marcus upstairs, I think our boy plans to stay all night.”
   “What’s his problem?”
   “Right now it’s his wife. He forgot to call her and she fixed a real nice supper.”
   “Aw, that’s too bad. We’ve heard that before, ain’t we?”
   “Yeah, every rookie does it the first week. Anyway, he told her he ain’t coming home till in the morning. So go back to sleep.”
   Marcus pushed some more buttons and returned to his magazine.
   Abby was waiting when the sun peeked between the oak trees. She sipped coffee and held the dog and listened to the quiet sounds of her neighborhood stirring to life. Sleep had been fitful. A hot shower had not eased the fatigue. She wore a white terry-cloth bathrobe, one of his, and nothing else. Her hair was wet and pulled straight back.
   A car door slammed and the dog pointed inside the house. She heard him unlock the kitchen door, and moments later the sliding door to the patio opened. He laid his coat on a bench near the door and walked over to her.
   “Good morning,” he said, then sat down across the wicker table.
   She gave him a fake smile. “Good morning to you.”
   “You’re up early,” he said in an effort at friendliness. It did not work. She smiled again and sipped her coffee.
   He breathed deeply and gazed across the yard. “Still mad about last night, I see.”
   “Not really. I don’t carry a grudge.”
   “I said I was sorry, and I meant it. I tried to call once.”
   “You could’ve called again.”
   “Please don’t divorce me, Abby. I swear it will never happen again. Just don’t leave me.”
   She managed a genuine grin. “You look terrible,” she said.
   “What’s under the robe?”
   “Nothing.”
   “Let’s see.”
   “Why don’t you take a nap. You look haggard.”
   “Thanks. But I’ve got a nine o’clock meeting with Avery. And a ten o’clock meeting with Avery.”
   “Are they trying to kill you the first week?”
   “Yes, but they can’t do it. I’m too much of a man. Let’s go take a shower.”
   “I’ve taken one.”
   “Naked?”
   “Yes.”
   “Tell me about it. Tell me every detail.”
   “If you’d come home at a decent hour you wouldn’t feel depraved.”
   “I’m sure it’ll happen again, dear. There will be plenty of all-nighters. You didn’t complain in law school when I studied around the clock.”
   “It was different. I endured law school because I knew it would soon end. But now you’re a lawyer and you will be for a long time. Is this part of it? Will you always work a thousand hours a week?”
   “Abby, this is my first week.”
   “That’s what worries me. It will only get worse.”
   “Sure it will. That’s part of it, Abby. It’s a cutthroat business where the weak are eaten and the strong get rich. It’s a marathon. He who endures wins the gold.”
   “And dies at the finish line.”
   “I don’t believe this. We moved here a week ago, and you’re already worried about my health.”
   She sipped the coffee and rubbed the dog. She was beautiful. With tired eyes, no makeup, and wet hair, she was beautiful. He stood, walked behind her and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you,” he whispered.
   She clutched his hand on her shoulder. “Go take a shower. I’ll fix breakfast.”
   The table was arranged to perfection. Her grandmother’s china was taken from the cabinet and used for the first time in the new home. Candles were lit in silver candlesticks. Grapefruit juice was poured in the crystal tea glasses. Linen napkins that matched the tablecloth were folded on the plates. When he finished his shower and changed into a new Burberry glen plaid, he walked to the dining room and whistled.
   “What’s the occasion?”
   “It’s a special breakfast, for a special husband.”
   He sat and admired the china. The food was warming in a covered silver dish. “What’d you cook?” he asked, smacking his lips. She pointed and he removed the lid. He stared at it.
   “What’s this?” he asked without looking at her.
   “Veal piccata.”
   “Veal what?”
   “Veal piccata.”
   He glanced at his watch. “I thought it was breakfast time.”
   “I cooked it for dinner last night, and I suggest you eat it.”
   “Veal piccata for breakfast?”
   She grinned firmly and shook her head slightly. He looked again at the dish, and for a second or two analyzed the situation.
   Finally, he said, “Smells good.”

Chapter 8

   Saturday morning he slept in and didn’t get to the office until seven. He didn’t shave, wore jeans, an old button-down, no socks and Bass loafers. Law school attire.
   The Capps agreement had been printed and reprinted late Friday. He made some further revisions, and Nina ran it again at eight Friday night. He assumed she had little or no social life, so he didn’t hesitate to ask her to work late. She said she didn’t mind overtime, so he asked her to work Saturday morning.
   She arrived at nine, wearing a pair of jeans that would fit a nose guard. He handed her the agreement, all two hundred and six pages, with his latest changes, and asked her to run it for the fourth time. He was to meet with Avery at ten.
   The office changed on Saturday. All of the associates were there, as well as most of the partners and a few of the secretaries. There were no clients, thus no dress code. There was enough denim to launch a cattle drive. No ties. Some of the preppier ones wore their finest starched Duckheads with heavily starched button-downs and seemed to crackle when they walked.
   But the pressure was there, at least for Mitchell Y. McDeere, the newest associate. He had canceled his bar review meetings on Thursday, Friday and Saturday, and the fifteen notebooks sat on the shelf, gathering dust and reminding him that he would indeed become the first member to flunk the bar exam.
   At ten the fourth revision was complete, and Nina ceremoniously laid it on Mitch’s desk and left for the coffee room. It had grown to two hundred and nineteen pages. He had read every word four times and researched the tax code provisions until they were memorized. He marched down the hall to his partner’s office and laid it on the desk. A secretary was packing a mammoth briefcase while the boss talked on the phone.
   “How many pages?” Avery asked when he hung up.
   “Over two hundred.”
   “This is quite impressive. How rough is it?”
   “Not very. That’s the fourth revision since yesterday morning. It’s almost perfect.”
   “We’ll see. I’ll read it on the plane, then Capps will read it with a magnifying glass. If he finds one mistake he’ll raise hell for an hour and threaten not to pay. How many hours are in this?”
   “Fifty-four and a half, since Wednesday.”
   “I know I’ve pushed, and I apologize. You’ve had a tough first week. But our clients sometimes push hard, and this won’t be the last time we break our necks for someone who pays us two hundred dollars an hour. It’s part of the business.”
   “I don’t mind it. I’m behind on the bar review, but I can catch up.”
   “Is that little Hudson twerp giving you a hard time?”
   “No.”
   “If he does, let me know. He’s only a five-year man, and he enjoys playing professor. Thinks he’s a real academic. I don’t particularly like him.”
   “He’s no problem.”
   Avery placed the agreement in the briefcase. “Where are the prospectus and other documents?”
   “I’ve done a very rough draft of each. You said we had twenty days.”
   “We do, but let’s get it done. Capps starts demanding things long before their deadlines. Are you working tomorrow?”
   “I hadn’t planned on it. In fact, my wife has sort of insisted we go to church.”
   Avery shook his head. “Wives can really get in the way, can’t they?” He said this without expecting a reply.
   Mitch did not respond.
   “Let’s have Capps finished by next Saturday.”
   “Fine. No problem,” Mitch said.
   “Have we discussed Koker-Hanks?” Avery asked while rummaging through a file.
   “No.”
   “Here it is. Koker-Hanks is a big general contractor out of Kansas City. Keeps about a hundred million under contract, all over the country. An outfit out of Denver called Holloway Brothers has offered to buy Koker-Hanks. They want to swap some stock, some assets, some contracts, and throw in some cash. Pretty complicated deal. Familiarize yourself with the file, and we’ll discuss it Tuesday morning when I get back.”
   “How much time do we have?”
   “Thirty days.”
   It was not quite as thick as the Capps file, but just as imposing. “Thirty days,” Mitch mumbled.
   “The deal is worth eighty million, and we’ll rake off two hundred grand in fees. Not a bad deal. Every time you look at that file, charge it for an hour. Work on it whenever you can. In fact, if the name Koker-Hanks crosses your mind while you’re driving to work, stick it for an hour. The sky’s the limit on this one.”
   Avery relished the thought of a client who would pay regardless of the charges. Mitch said goodbye and returned to his office.


* * *

   About the time the cocktails were finished, while they studied the wine list and listened to Oliver Lambert’s comparison of the nuances, the subtleties, the distinctions of each of the French wines, about the time Mitch and Abby realized they would much rather be home eating a pizza and watching TV, two men with the correct key entered the shiny black BMW in the parking lot of Justine’s. They wore coats and ties and looked inconspicuous. They sped away innocently and drove across midtown to the new home of Mr. and Mrs. McDeere. They parked the BMW where it belonged, in the carport. The driver produced another key, and the two entered the house. Hearsay was locked in a closet in the washroom.
   In the dark, a small leather attache case was placed on the dining table. Thin disposable rubber gloves were pulled and stretched over the hands, and each took a small flashlight.
   “Do the phones first,” one said.
   They worked quickly, in the dark. The receiver from the kitchen phone was unplugged and laid on the table. The microphone was unscrewed and examined. A tiny drop-in transmitter, the size of a raisin, was glued in the cavity of the receiver and held firmly in place for ten seconds. When the glue became firm, the microphone was replaced and the receiver was plugged into the phone and hung on the kitchen wall. The voices, or signals, would be transmitted to a small receiver to be installed in the attic. A larger transmitter next to the receiver would send the signals across town to an antenna on top of the Bendini Building. Using the AC lines as a power source, the small bugs in the phones would transmit indefinitely.
   “Get the one in the den.”
   The attache case was moved to a sofa. Above the recliner they drove a small nail into a ridge in the paneling, then removed it. A thin black cylinder, one twentieth of an inch by one inch, was carefully placed in the hole. It was cemented in place with a dab of black epoxy. The microphone was invisible. A wire, the thickness of a human hair, was gently fitted into the seam of the paneling and run to the ceiling. It would be connected to a receiver in the attic.
   Identical mikes were hidden in the walls of each bedroom. The men found the retractable stairs in the main hallway and climbed into the attic. One removed the receiver and transmitter from the case while the other painstakingly pulled the tiny wires from the walls. When he gathered them, he wrapped them together and laid them under the insulation and ran them to a corner where his partner was placing the transmitter in an old cardboard box. An AC line was spliced and wired to the unit to provide power and transmission. A small antenna was raised to within an inch of the roof decking.
   Their breathing became heavier in the sweltering heat of the dark attic. The small plastic casing of an old radio was fitted around the transmitter, and they scattered insulation and old clothing around it. It was in a remote corner and not likely to be noticed for months, maybe years. And if it was noticed, it would appear to be only worthless junk. It could be picked up and thrown away without suspicion. They admired their handiwork for a second, then descended the stairs.
   They meticulously covered their tracks and were finished in ten minutes.
   Hearsay was released from the closet, and the men crept into the carport. They backed quickly out the driveway and sped into the night.
   As the baked pompano was served, the BMW parked quietly next to the restaurant. The driver fished through his pockets and found the key to a maroon Jaguar, property of Mr. Kendall Mahan, attorney-at-law. The two technicians locked the BMW and slid into the Jag. The Mahans lived much closer than the McDeeres, and judging from the floor plans, the job would be quicker.


* * *

   On the fifth floor of the Bendini Building, Marcus stared at a panel of blinking lights and waited for some signal from 1231 East Meadowbrook. The dinner party had broken up thirty minutes earlier, and it was time to listen. A tiny yellow light flashed weakly, and he draped a headset over his ears. He pushed a button to record. He waited. A green light beside the code McD6 began flashing. It was the bedroom wall. The signals grew clearer, voices, at first faint, then very clear. He increased the volume. And listened.
   “Jill Mahan is a bitch,” the female, Mrs. McDeere, was saying. “The more she drank, the bitchier she got.”
   “I think she’s a blue blood of some sort,” Mr. McDeere replied.
   “Her husband is okay, but she’s a real snot,” Mrs. McDeere said.
   “Are you drunk?” asked Mr. McDeere.
   “Almost. I’m ready for passionate sex.”
   Marcus increased the volume and leaned toward the blinking lights.
   “Take your clothes off,” demanded Mrs. McDeere.
   “We haven’t done this in a while,” said Mr. McDeere.
   Marcus stood and hovered above the switches and lights.
   “And whose fault is that?” she asked.
   “I haven’t forgotten how. You’re beautiful.”
   “Get in the bed,” she said.
   Marcus turned the dial marked Volume until it would go no further. He smiled at the lights and breathed heavily. He loved these associates, fresh from law school and full of energy. He smiled at the sounds of their lovemaking. He closed his eyes and watched them.

Chapter 9

   The Capps crisis passed in two weeks without disaster, thanks largely to a string of eighteen-hour days by the newest member of The Firm, a member who had not yet passed the bar exam and who was too busy practicing law to worry about it. In July he billed an average of fifty-nine hours a week, a firm record for a nonlawyer. Avery proudly informed the partners at the monthly meeting that McDeere’s work was remarkable for a rookie. The Capps deal was closed three days ahead of schedule, thanks to McDeere. The documents totaled four hundred pages, all perfect, all meticulously researched, drafted and redrafted by McDeere. Koker-Hanks would close within a month, thanks to McDeere, and would earn close to a quarter of a mill. He was a machine.
   Oliver Lambert expressed concern over his study habits. The bar exam was less than three weeks away, and it was obvious to all that McDeere was not ready. He had canceled half his review sessions in July and had logged less than twenty hours. Avery said not to worry, his boy would be ready.
   Fifteen days before the exam, Mitch finally complained. He was about to flunk it, he explained to Avery over lunch at the Manhattan Club, and he needed time to study. Lots of time. He could cram it in for the next two weeks and pass by the hair of his ass. But he had to be left alone. No deadlines. No emergencies. No all-nighters. He pleaded. Avery listened carefully, and apologized. He promised to ignore him for the next two weeks. Mitch said thanks.


* * *

   On the first Monday in August, a firm meeting was called in the main library on the first floor. It was the meeting room, the largest of the four libraries, the showplace. Half the lawyers sat around the antique cherry conference table with twenty chairs under it. The rest stood next to the shelves of thick leather law books which had not been opened in decades. Every member was present, even Nathan Locke. He arrived late and stood next to the door by himself. He spoke to no one, and no one looked at him. Mitch stole a glance at Black Eyes when possible.
   The mood was somber. No smiles. Beth Kozinski and Laura Hodge were escorted through the door by Oliver Lambert. They were seated at the front of the room facing a wall where two veiled portraits hung. They held hands and tried to smile. Mr. Lambert stood with his back to the wall and faced the small audience.
   He spoke softly, his rich baritone exuding sympathy and compassion. He almost whispered at first, but the power of his voice made every sound and every syllable clear throughout the room. He looked at the two widows and told of the deep sadness felt, how they would always be taken care of as long as there was a firm. He talked of Marty and Joe, of their first few years with, of their importance to The Firm, of the vast voids their deaths created. He spoke of their love for their families, their dedication to their homes.
   The man was eloquent. He spoke in prose, with no forethought as to what the next sentence would be. The widows cried softly and wiped their eyes. And then some of the closer ones, Lamar Quin and Doug Turney, began to sniffle.
   When he had said enough, he unveiled the portrait of Martin Kozinski. It was an emotional moment. There were more tears. There would be a scholarship established at the Chicago Law School in his name. The Firm would set up trusts for his children’s education. The family would be taken care of. Beth bit her lip, but cried louder. The seasoned, hardened, tough-as-nails negotiators of the great Bendini firm swallowed rapidly and avoided looking at each other. Only Nathan Locke was unmoved. He glared at the wall with his penetrating lasers and ignored the ceremony.
   Then the portrait of Joe Hodge, and a similar biography, similar scholarship and trust funds. Mitch had heard a rumor that Hodge purchased a two-million-dollar life insurance policy four months before his death.
   When the eulogies were complete, Nathan Locke disappeared through the door. The lawyers surrounded the widows and offered quiet words and embraces. Mitch did not know them and had nothing to say. He walked to the front wall and examined the paintings. Next to those of Kozinski and Hodge were three slightly smaller, but equally dignified portraits. The one of the woman caught his attention. The brass plate read:


Alice Knauss
1948-1977

   “She was a mistake,” Avery said under his breath as he stepped next to his associate.
   “What do you mean?” Mitch asked.
   “Typical female lawyer. Came here from Harvard, number one in her class and carrying a chip because she was a female. Thought every man alive was a sexist and it was her mission in life to eliminate discrimination. Super-bitch. After six months we all hated her but couldn’t get rid of her. She forced two partners into early retirement. Milligan still blames her for his heart attack. He was her partner.”
   “Was she a good lawyer?”
   “Very good, but it was impossible to appreciate her talents. She was so contentious about everything.”
   “What happened to her?”
   “Car wreck. Killed by a drunk driver. It was really tragic.”
   “Was she the first woman?”
   “Yes, and the last, unless we get sued.”
   Mitch nodded to the next portrait. “Who was he?”
   “Robert Lamm. He was a good friend of mine. Emory Law School in Atlanta. He was about three years ahead of me.”
   “What happened?”
   “No one knows. He was an avid hunter. We hunted moose in Wyoming one winter. In 1972 he was deer hunting in Arkansas and turned up missing. They found him a month later in a ravine with a hole through his head. Autopsy said the bullet entered through the rear of his skull and blew away most of his face. They speculate the shot was fired from a high-powered rifle at long range. It was probably an accident, but we’ll never know. I could never imagine anyone wanting to kill Bobby Lamm.”
   The last portrait was of John Mickel, 1950-1984. “What happened to him?” Mitch whispered.
   “Probably the most tragic of all. He was not a strong man, and the pressure got to him. He drank a lot, and started drugs. Then his wife left him and they had a bitter divorce. The Firm was embarrassed. After he had been here ten years, he began to fear he would not become a partner. The drinking got worse. We spent a small fortune on treatment, shrinks, everything. But nothing worked. He became depressed, then suicidal. He wrote a seven-page suicide note and blew his brains out.”
   “That’s terrible.”
   “Sure was.”
   “Where’d they find him?”
   Avery cleared his throat and glanced around the room. “In your office.”
   “What!”
   “Yeah, but they cleaned it up.”
   “You’re kidding!”
   “No, I’m serious. It was years ago, and the office has been used since then. It’s okay.”
   Mitch was speechless.
   “You’re not superstitious, are you?” Avery asked with a nasty grin.
   “Of course not.”
   “I guess I should’ve told you, but it’s not something we talk about.”
   “Can I change offices?”
   “Sure. Just flunk the bar exam and we’ll give you one of those paralegal offices in the basement.”
   “If I flunk it, it’ll be because of you.”
   “Yes, but you won’t flunk it, will you?”
   “If you can pass it, so can I.”


* * *

   From 5 A.M. to 7 A.M. the Bendini Building was empty and quiet. Nathan Locke arrived around six, but went straight to his office and locked the door. At seven, the associates began appearing and voices could be heard. By seven-thirty The Firm had a quorum, and a handful of secretaries punched in. By eight the halls were full and it was chaos as usual. Concentration became difficult. Interruptions were routine. Phones beeped incessantly. By nine, all lawyers, paralegals, clerks and secretaries were either present or accounted for. Mitch treasured the solitude of the early hours. He moved his clock up thirty minutes and began waking Dutch at five, instead of five-thirty. After making two pots of coffee, he roamed the dark halls flipping light switches and inspecting the building. Occasionally, on a clear morning, he would stand before the window in Lamar’s office and watch the dawn break over the mighty Mississippi below. He would count the barges lined neatly before their tugboats plowing slowly upriver. He watched the trucks inch across the bridge in the distance. But he wasted little time. He dictated letters, briefs, summaries, memorandums and a hundred other documents for Nina to type and Avery to review. He crammed for the bar exam.
   The morning after the ceremony for the dead lawyers, he found himself in the library on the first floor looking for a treatise when he again noticed the five portraits. He walked to the wall and stared at them, remembering the brief obituaries given by Avery. Five dead lawyers in twenty years. It was a dangerous place to work. On a legal pad he scribbled their names and the years they died. It was five-thirty.
   Something moved in the hallway, and he jerked to his right. In the darkness he saw Black Eyes watching. He stepped forward to the door and glared at Mitch. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
   Mitch faced him and attempted a smile. “Good morning to you. It happens I am studying for the bar exam.”
   Locke glanced at the portraits and then stared at Mitch. “I see. Why are you so interested in them?”
   “Just curious. This firm has had its share of tragedy.”
   “They’re all dead. A real tragedy will occur if you don’t pass the bar exam.”
   “I intend to pass it.”
   “I’ve heard otherwise. Your study habits are causing concern among the partners.”
   “Are the partners concerned about my excessive billing?”
   “Don’t get smart. You were told the bar exam has priority over everything. An employee with no license is of no use to this firm.”
   Mitch thought of a dozen smart retorts, but let it pass. Locke stepped backward and disappeared. In his office with the door closed, Mitch hid the names and dates in a drawer and opened a review book on constitutional law.

Chapter 10

   The saturday after the bar exam Mitch avoided his office and his house and spent the morning digging in the flower beds and waiting. With the remodeling complete, the house was now presentable, and of course the first guests had to be her parents. Abby had cleaned and polished for a week, and it was now time. She promised they wouldn’t stay long, no more than a few hours. He promised to be as nice as possible.
   Mitch had washed and waxed both new cars and they looked as if they had just left the showroom. The lawn had been manicured by a kid down the street. Mr. Rice had applied fertilizer for a month and it looked like a puttin’ green, as he liked to say.
   At noon they arrived, and he reluctantly left the flower beds. He smiled and greeted them and excused himself to go clean up. He could tell they were uncomfortable, and he wanted it that way. He took a long shower as Abby showed them every piece of furniture and every inch of wallpaper. These things impressed the Sutherlands. Small things always did. They dwelt on the things others did or did not have. He was the president of a small county bank that had been on the verge of collapse for ten years. She was too good to work and had spent all of her adult life seeking social advancement in a town where there was none to be had. She had traced her ancestry to royalty in one of the old countries, and this had always impressed the coal miners in Danesboro, Kentucky. With so much blue blood in her veins, it had fallen her duty to do nothing but drink hot tea, play bridge, talk of her husband’s money, condemn the less fortunate and work tirelessly in the Garden Club. He was a stuffed shirt who jumped when she barked and lived in eternal fear of making her mad. As a team they had relentlessly pushed their daughter from birth to be the best, achieve the best, but most importantly, marry the best. Their daughter had rebelled and married a poor kid with no family except a crazy mother and a criminal brother.
   “Nice place you’ve got here, Mitch,” Mr. Sutherland said in an effort to break the ice. They sat for lunch and began passing dishes.
   “Thanks.” Nothing else, just thanks. He concentrated on the food. There would be no smiles from him at lunch. The less he said, the more uncomfortable they would be. He wanted them to feel awkward, guilty, wrong. He wanted them to sweat, to bleed. It had been their decision to boycott the wedding. It had been their stones cast, not his.
   “Everything is so lovely,” her mother gushed in his direction.
   “Thanks.”
   “We’re so proud of it, Mother,” Abby said.
   The conversation immediately went to the remodeling. The men ate in silence as the women chattered on and on about what the decorator did to this room and that one. At times, Abby was almost desperate to fill in the gaps with words about whatever came to mind. Mitch almost felt sorry for her, but he kept his eyes on the table. The butter knife could have cut the tension.
   “So you’ve found a job?” Mrs. Sutherland asked.
   “Yes. I start a week from Monday. I’ll be teaching third-graders at St. Andrew’s Episcopal School.”
   “Teaching doesn’t pay much,” her father blurted.
   He’s relentless, thought Mitch.
   “I’m not concerned with money, Dad. I’m a teacher. To me, it’s the most important profession in the world. If I wanted money, I would’ve gone to medical school.”
   “Third-graders,” her mother said. “That’s such a cute age. You’ll be wanting children before long.”
   Mitch had already decided that if anything would attract these people to Memphis on a regular basis, it was grandchildren. And he had decided he could wait a long time. He had never been around children. There were no nieces or nephews, except for maybe a few unknown ones Ray had scattered around the country. And he had developed no affinity for children.
   “Maybe in a few years, Mother.”
   Maybe after they’re both dead,thought Mitch.
   “You want children, don’t you, Mitch?” asked the mother-in-law.
   “Maybe in a few years.”
   Mr. Sutherland pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. The issue of smoking had been repeatedly discussed in the days before the visit. Mitch wanted it banned completely from his house, especially by these people. They had argued vehemently, and Abby won.
   “How was the bar exam?” the father-in-law asked.
   This could be interesting, Mitch thought. “Grueling.” Abby chewed her food nervously.
   “Do you think you passed?”
   “I hope so.”
   “When will you know?”
   “Four to six weeks.”
   “How long did it last?”
   “Four days.”
   “He’s done nothing but study and work since we moved here. I haven’t seen much of him this summer,” Abby said.
   Mitch smiled at his wife. The time away from home was already a sore subject, and it was amusing to hear her condone it.
   “What happens if you don’t pass it?” her father asked.
   “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”
   “Do they give you a raise when you pass?”
   Mitch decided to be nice, as he had promised. But it was difficult. “Yes, a nice raise and a nice bonus.”
   “How many lawyers are in?”
   “Forty.”
   “My goodness,” said Mrs. Sutherland. She lit up one of hers. “There’s not that many in Dane County.”
   “Where’s your office?” he asked.
   “Downtown.”
   “Can we see it?” she asked.
   “Maybe some other time. It’s closed to visitors on Saturdays.” Mitch amused himself with his answer. Closed to visitors, as if it was a museum.
   Abby sensed disaster and began talking about the church they had joined. It had four thousand members, a gymnasium and bowling alley. She sang in the choir and taught eight-year-olds in Sunday school. Mitch went when he was not working, but he’d been working most Sundays.
   “I’m happy to see you’ve found a church home, Abby,” her father said piously. For years he had led the prayer each Sunday at the First Methodist Church in Danesboro, and the other six days he had tirelessly practiced greed and manipulation. He had also steadily but discreetly pursued whiskey and women.
   An awkward silence followed as the conversation came to a halt. He lit another one.
   Keep smoking, old boy,Mitch thought. Keep smoking.
   “Let’s have dessert on the patio,” Abby said. She began clearing the table.
   They bragged about his gardening skills, and he accepted the credit. The same kid down the street had pruned the trees, pulled the weeds, trimmed the hedges and edged the patio. Mitch was proficient only in pulling weeds and scooping dog crap. He could also operate the lawn sprinkler, but usually let Mr. Rice do it.
   Abby served strawberry shortcake and coffee. She looked helplessly at her husband, but he was noncommittal.
   “This is a real nice place you’ve got here,” her father said for the third time as he surveyed the backyard. Mitch could see his mind working. He had taken the measure of the house and neighborhood, and the curiosity was becoming unbearable. How much did the place cost, dammit?That’s what he wanted to know. How much down? How much a month?Everything. He would keep pecking away until he could work in the questions somewhere.
   “This is a lovely place,” her mother said for the tenth time.
   “When was it built?” her father asked.
   Mitch laid his plate on the table and cleared his throat. He could sense it coming. “It’s about fifteen years old,” he answered.
   “How many square feet?”
   “About three thousand,” Abby answered nervously. Mitch glared at her. His composure was vanishing.
   “It’s a lovely neighborhood,” her mother added helpfully.
   “New loan, or did you assume one?” her father asked, as if he were interviewing a loan applicant with weak collateral.
   “It’s a new loan,” Mitch said, then waited. Abby waited and prayed.
   He didn’t wait, couldn’t wait. “What’d you pay for it?”
   Mitch breathed deeply and was about to say, “Too much.” Abby was quicker. “We didn’t pay too much, Daddy,” she said firmly with a frown. “We’re quite capable of handling our money.”
   Mitch managed a smile while biting his tongue.
   Mrs. Sutherland was on her feet. “Let’s go for a drive, shall we? I Want to see the river and that new pyramid they’ve built beside it. Shall we? Come on, Harold.”
   Harold wanted more information about the house, but his wife was now tugging on his arm.
   “Great idea,” Abby said.
   They loaded into the shiny new BMW and went to see the river. Abby asked them not to smoke in the new car. Mitch drove in silence and tried to be nice.

Chapter 11

   Nina entered the office in a rush with a stack of paper work and laid it before her boss. “I need signatures,” she demanded, and handed him his pen.
   “What is all this?” Mitch asked as he dutifully scribbled his name.
   “Don’t ask. Just trust me.”
   “I found a misspelled word in the Landmark Partners agreement.”
   “It’s the computer.”
   “Okay. Get the computer fixed.”
   “How late are you working tonight?”
   Mitch scanned the documents and signed off on each. “I don’t know. Why?”
   “You look tired. Why don’t you go home early, say around ten or ten-thirty, and get some rest. Your eyes are beginning to look like Nathan Locke’s.”
   “Very funny.”
   “Your wife called.”
   “I’ll call her in a minute.”
   When he finished she restacked the letters and documents. “It’s five o’clock. I’m leaving. Oliver Lambert is waiting on you in the first-floor library.”
   “Oliver Lambert! Waiting on me?”
   “That’s what I said. He called not more than five minutes ago. Said it was very important.”
   Mitch straightened his tie and ran down the hall, down the stairs, and walked casually into the library. Lambert, Avery and what appeared to be most of the partners sat around the conference table. All of the associates were present, standing behind the partners. The seat at the head of the table was empty, and waiting. The room was quiet, almost solemn. There were no smiles. Lamar was close by and refused to look at him. Avery was sheepish, sort of embarrassed. Wally Hudson twirled the end of his bow tie and slowly shook his head.
   “Sit down, Mitch,” Mr. Lambert said gravely. “We have something to discuss with you.” Doug Turney closed the door.
   He sat and searched for any small sign of reassurance. None. The partners rolled their chairs in his direction, squeezing together in the process. The associates surrounded him and glared downward.
   “What is it?” he asked meekly, looking helplessly at Avery. Small beads of sweat surfaced above his eyebrows. His heart pounded like a jackhammer. His breathing was labored.
   Oliver Lambert leaned across the edge of the table and removed his reading glasses. He frowned sincerely, as if this would be painful. “We’ve just received a call from Nashville, Mitch, and we wanted to talk with you about it.”
   The bar exam. The bar exam. The bar exam. History had been made. An associate of the great Bendini firm had finally flunked the bar exam.He glared at Avery, and wanted to scream, “It’s all your fault!” Avery pinched his eyebrows as if a migraine had hit and avoided eye contact. Lambert eyed the other partners suspiciously and returned to McDeere.
   “We were afraid this would happen, Mitch.”
   He wanted to speak, to explain that he deserved just one more chance, that the exam would be given again in six months and he would ace it, that he would not embarrass them again. A thick pain hit below the belt.
   “Yes, sir,” he said humbly, in defeat.
   Lambert moved in for the kill. “We aren’t supposed to know these things, but the folks in Nashville told us that you made the highest score on the bar exam. Congratulations, Counselor.”
   The room exploded with laughter and cheers. They gathered around and shook his hand, patted his back and laughed at him. Avery rushed forward with a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Kendall Mahan slammed three bottles of champagne on the table and began popping corks. A round was poured into plastic wineglasses. He finally breathed and broke into a smile. He slugged the champagne, and they poured him another glass.
   Oliver Lambert placed his arm gently around Mitch’s neck and spoke. “Mitch, we are very proud of you. This calls for a little bonus. I have here a firm check in the amount of two thousand dollars, which I am presenting to you as a small reward for this achievement.”
   There were whistles and catcalls.
   “This is, of course, in addition to the substantial raise you have just earned.”
   More whistles and catcalls. Mitch took the check but did not look at it.
   Mr. Lambert raised his hand and asked for quiet. “On behalf of The Firm, I would like to present you with this.” Lamar handed him a package wrapped in brown paper. Mr. Lambert peeled it off and threw it on the table.
   “It’s a plaque which we prepared in anticipation of this day. As you can see, it is a bronzed replica of a piece of firm stationery, complete with every name. As you can also see, the name of Mitchell Y. McDeere has been added to the letterhead.”
   Mitch stood and awkwardly received the award. The color had returned to his face, and the champagne was beginning to feel good. “Thank you,” he said softly.


* * *

   Three days later the Memphis paper published the names of the attorneys who passed the bar exam. Abby clipped the article for the scrapbook and sent copies to her parents and Ray.
   Mitch had discovered a deli three blocks from the Bendini Building between Front Street and Riverside Drive, near the river. It was a dark hole in the wall with few customers and greasy chili dogs. He liked it because he could sneak away and proofread a document while he ate. Now that he was a full-blown associate, he could eat a hot dog for lunch and bill a hundred and fifty an hour.
   A week after his name was in the paper, he sat by himself at a table in the rear of the deli and ate a chili dog with a York. The place was empty. He read a prospectus an inch thick. The Greek who ran the place was asleep behind the cash register.
   A stranger approached his table and stopped a few feet away. He unraveled a piece of Juicy Fruit, making as much noise as possible. When it was apparent he was not being seen, he walked to the table and sat down. Mitch looked across the red-checkered tablecloth and laid the document next to the iced tea.
   “Can I help you?” he asked.
   The stranger glanced at the counter, glanced at the empty tables and glanced behind him. “You’re McDeere, aren’t you?”
   It was a rich brogue, undoubtedly Brooklyn. Mitch studied him carefully. He was about forty, with a short military haircut on the sides and a wisp of gray hair hanging almost to his eyebrows. The suit was a three-piece, navy in color, made of at least ninety percent polyester. The tie was cheap imitation silk. He wasn’t much of a dresser, but there was a certain neatness about him. And an air of cockiness.
   “Yeah. Who are you?” Mitch asked.
   He grabbed his pocket and whipped out a badge. “Tarrance, Wayne Tarrance, Special Agent, FBI.” He raised his eyebrows and waited for a response.
   “Have a seat,” Mitch said.
   “Don’t mind if I do.”
   “Do you want to frisk me?”
   “Not till later. I just wanted to meet you. Saw your name in the paper and heard you were the new man at Bendini, Lambert & Locke.”
   “Why should that interest the FBI?”
   “We watch that firm pretty close.”
   Mitch lost interest in the chili dog and slid the plate to the center of the table. He added more sweetener to his tea in a large Styrofoam cup.
   “Would you like something to drink?” Mitch asked.
   “No, thanks.”
   “Why do you watch the Bendini firm?”
   Tarrance smiled and looked toward the Greek. “I can’t really say at this point. We got our reasons, but I didn’t come here to talk about that. I came here to meet you, and to warn you.”
   “To warn me?”
   “Yes, to warn you about The Firm.”
   “I’m listening.”
   “Three things. Number one, don’t trust anyone. There’s not a single person in that firm you can confide in. Remember that. It will become important later on. Number two, every word you utter, whether at home, at the office or anywhere in the building, is likely to be recorded. They might even listen to you in your car.”
   Mitch watched and listened intently. Tarrance was enjoying this.
   “And number three?” Mitch asked.
   “Number three, money don’t grow on trees.”
   “Would you care to elaborate?”
   “I can’t right now. I think you and I will become very close. I want you to trust me, and I know I’ll have to earn your trust. So I don’t want to move too fast. We can’t meet at your office, or my office, and we can’t talk on the phone. So from time to time I’ll come find you. In the meantime, just remember those three things, and be careful.”
   Tarrance stood and reached for his wallet. “Here’s my card. My home number is on the back. Use it only from a pay phone.”
   Mitch studied the card. “Why should I be calling you?”
   “You won’t need to for a while. But keep the card.”
   Mitch placed it in his shirt pocket.
   “There’s one other thing,” Tarrance said. “We saw you at the funerals of Hodge and Kozinski. Sad, really sad. Their deaths were not accidental.”
   He looked down at Mitch with both hands in his pockets and smiled.
   “I don’t understand.”
   Tarrance started for the door. “Gimme a call sometime, but be careful. Remember, they’re listening.”


* * *

   A few minutes after four a horn honked and Dutch bolted to his feet. He cursed and walked in front of the headlights. “Dammit, Mitch. It’s four o’clock. What’re you doing here?”
   “Sorry, Dutch. Couldn’t sleep. Rough night.” The gate opened.
   By seven-thirty he had dictated enough work to keep Nina busy for two days. She bitched less when her nose was glued to the monitor. His immediate goal was to become the first associate to justify a second secretary.
   At eight o’clock he parked himself in Lamar’s office and waited. He proofed a contract and drank coffee, and told Lamar’s secretary to mind her own business. He arrived at eight-fifteen.
   “We need to talk,” Mitch said as he closed the door. If he believed Tarrance, the office was bugged and the conversation would be recorded. He was not sure whom to believe.
   “You sound serious,” Lamar said.
   “Ever hear of a guy named Tarrance, Wayne Tarrance?”
   “No.”
   “FBI.”
   Lamar closed his eyes. “FBI,” he mumbled.
   “That’s right. He had a badge and everything.”
   “Where did you meet him?”
   “He found me at Lansky’s Deli on Union. He knew who I was, knew I’d just been admitted. Says he knows all about. They watch us real close.”
   “Have you told Avery?”
   “No. No one but you. I’m not sure what to do.”
   Lamar picked up the phone. “We need to tell Avery. I think this has happened before.”
   “What’s going on, Lamar?”
   Lamar talked to Avery’s secretary and said it was an emergency. In a few seconds he was on the other end. “We’ve got a small problem, Avery. An FBI agent contacted Mitch yesterday. He’s in my office.”
   Lamar listened, then said to Mitch, “He’s got me on hold. Said he was calling Lambert.”
   “I take it this is pretty serious,” Mitch said.
   “Yes, but don’t worry. There’s an explanation. It’s happened before.”
   Lamar held the receiver closer and listened to the instructions. He hung up. “They want us in Lambert’s office in ten minutes.”
   Avery, Royce McKnight, Oliver Lambert, Harold O’Kane and Nathan Locke were waiting. They stood nervously around the small conference table and tried to appear calm when Mitch entered the office.
   “Have a seat,” Nathan Locke said with a short, plastic smile. “We want you to tell us everything.”
   “What’s that?” Mitch pointed to a tape recorder in the center of the table.
   “We don’t want to miss anything,” Locke said, and pointed to an empty chair. Mitch sat and stared across the table at Black Eyes. Avery sat between them. No one made a sound.
   “Okay. I was eating lunch yesterday at Lansky’s Deli on Union. This guy walks up and sits across my table. He knows my name. Shows me a badge and says his name is Wayne Tarrance, Special Agent, FBI. I look at the badge, and it’s real. He tells me he wants to meet because we’ll get to know each other. They watch this firm real close and he warns me not to trust anyone. I ask him why, and he said he doesn’t have time to explain, but he will later. I don’t know what to say, so I just listen. He says he will contact me later. He gets up to leave and tells me they saw me at the funerals. Then he says the deaths of Kozinski and Hodge were not accidents. And he leaves. The entire conversation lasted less than five minutes.”
   Black Eyes glared at Mitch and absorbed every word. “Have you ever seen this man before?”
   “Never.”
   “Whom did you tell?”
   “Only Lamar. I told him first thing this morning.”
   “Your wife?”
   “No.”
   “Did he leave you a phone number to call?”
   “No.”
   “I want to know every word that was said,” Locke demanded.
   “I’ve told you what I remember. I can’t recall it verbatim.”
   “Are you certain?”
   “Let me think a minute.” A few things he would keep to himself. He stared at Black Eyes, and knew that Locke suspected more.
   “Let’s see. He said he saw my name in the paper and knew I was the new man here. That’s it. I’ve covered everything. It was a very brief conversation.”
   “Try to remember everything,” Locke persisted.
   “I asked him if he wanted some of my tea. He declined.”
   The tape recorder was turned off, and the partners seemed to relax a little. Locke walked to the window. “Mitch, we’ve had trouble with the FBI, as well as the IRS. It’s been going on for a number of years. Some of our clients are high rollers—wealthy individuals who make millions, spend millions and expect to pay little or no taxes. They pay us thousands of dollars to legally avoid taxes. We have a reputation for being very aggressive, and we don’t mind taking chances if our clients instruct us to. We’re talking about very sophisticated businessmen who understand risks. They pay dearly for our creativeness. Some of the shelters and write-offs we set up have been challenged by the IRS. We’ve slugged it out with them in tax litigation for the past twenty years. They don’t like us, we don’t like them. Some of our clients have not always possessed the highest degree of ethics, and they have been investigated and harassed by the FBI. For the past three years, we, too, have been harassed.
   “Tarrance is a rookie looking for a big name. He’s been here less than a year and has become a thorn. You are not to speak to him again. Your brief conversation yesterday was probably recorded. He is dangerous, extremely dangerous. He does not play fair, and you’ll learn soon enough that most of the feds don’t play fair.”
   “How many of these clients have been convicted?”
   “Not a single one. And we’ve won our share of litigation with the IRS.”
   “What about Kozinski and Hodge?”
   “Good question,” answered Oliver Lambert. “We don’t know what happened. It first appeared to be an accident, but now we’re not sure. There was a native of the islands on board with Marty and Joe. He was the captain and divemaster. The authorities down there now tell us they suspect he was a key link in a drug ring based in Jamaica and perhaps the explosion was aimed at him. He died, of course.”
   “I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Royce McKnight added. “The police down there are not that sophisticated. We’ve chosen to protect the families, and as far as we’re concerned, it was an accident. Frankly, we’re not sure how to handle it.”
   “Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” Locke instructed. “Stay away from Tarrance, and if he contacts you again, let us know immediately. Understand?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Don’t even tell your wife,” Avery said.
   Mitch nodded.
   The grandfather’s warmth returned to Oliver Lambert’s face. He smiled and twirled his reading glasses. “Mitch, we know this is frightening, but we’ve grown accustomed to it. Let us handle it, and trust us. We are not afraid of Mr. Tarrance, the FBI, the IRS or anybody else because we’ve done nothing wrong. Anthony Bendini built this firm by hard work, talent and uncompromising ethics. It has been drilled into all of us. Some of our clients have not been saints, but no lawyer can dictate morals to his client. We don’t want you worrying about this. Stay away from this guy—he is very, very dangerous. If you feed him, he’ll get bolder and become a nuisance.”
   Locke pointed a crooked finger at Mitch. “Further contact with Tarrance will jeopardize your future with this firm.”
   “I understand,” Mitch said.
   “He understands,” Avery said defensively. Locke glared at Tolar.
   “That’s all we have, Mitch,” Mr. Lambert said. “Be cautious.”
   Mitch and Lamar hit the door and found the nearest stairway.


* * *

   “Get DeVasher,” Locke said to Lambert, who was on the phone. Within two minutes the two senior partners had been cleared and were sitting before DeVasher’s cluttered desk.
   “Did you listen?” Locke asked.
   “Of course I listened to it, Nat. We heard every word the boy said. You handled it real well. I think he’s scared and will run from Tarrance.”
   “What about Lazarov?”
   “I gotta tell him. He’s the boss. We can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”
   “What will they do?”
   “Nothing serious. We’ll watch the boy around the clock and check all his phone calls. And wait. He’s not gonna move. It’s up to Tarrance. He’ll find him again, and the next time we’ll be there. Try to keep him in the building as much as possible. When he leaves, let us know, if you can. I don’t think it’s that bad, really.”
   “Why would they pick McDeere?” asked Locke.
   “New strategy, I guess. Kozinski and Hodge went to them, remember. Maybe they talked more than we thought. I don’t know. Maybe they figure McDeere is the most vulnerable because he’s fresh out of school and full of rookie idealism. And ethics—like our ethical friend Ollie here. That was good, Ollie, real good.”
   “Shut up, DeVasher.”
   DeVasher quit smiling and bit his bottom lip. He let it pass. He looked at Locke. “You know what the next step is, don’t you? If Tarrance keeps pushing, that idiot Lazarov will call me one day and tell me to remove him. Silence him. Put him in a barrel and drop him in the Gulf. And when that happens, all of you honorable esquires will take your early retirement and leave the country.”
   “Lazarov wouldn’t order a hit on an agent.”
   “Oh, it would be a foolish move, but then Lazarov is a fool. He’s very anxious about the situation down here. He calls a lot and asks all sorts of questions. I give him all sorts of answers. Sometimes he listens, sometimes he cusses. Sometimes he says he’s gotta talk to the board. But if he tells me to take out Tarrance, then we’ll take out Tarrance.”
   “This makes me sick at my stomach,” Lambert said.
   “You wanna get sick, Ollie. You let one of your little Gucci-loafered counselors get chummy with Tarrance and start talking, you’ll get a helluva lot worse than sick. Now, I suggest you boys keep McDeere so busy he won’t have time to think about Tarrance.”
   “My God, DeVasher, he works twenty hours a day. He started like fire and he hasn’t slowed down.”
   “Just watch him close. Tell Lamar Quin to get real tight with him so if he’s got something on his mind, maybe he’ll unload.”
   “Good idea,” said Locke. He looked at Ollie. “Let’s have a long talk with Quin. He’s closest to McDeere, and maybe he can get closer.”
   “Look, boys,” DeVasher said, “McDeere is scared right now. He won’t make a move. If Tarrance contacts him again, he’ll do what he did today. He’ll run straight to Lamar Quin. He showed us who he confides in.”
   “Did he tell his wife last night?” asked Locke.
   “We’re checking the tapes now. It’ll take about an hour. We’ve got so damned many bugs in this city it takes six computers to find anything.”


* * *

   Mitch stared through the window in Lamar’s office and selected his words carefully. He said little. Suppose Tarrance was correct. Suppose everything was being recorded.
   “Do you feel better?” Lamar asked.
   “Yeah, I guess. It makes sense.”
   “It’s happened before, just like Locke said.”
   “Who? Who was approached before?”
   “I don’t remember. Seems like it was three or four years ago.”
   “But you don’t remember who it was?”
   “No. Why is that important?”
   “I’d just like to know. I don’t understand why they would pick me, the new man, the one lawyer out of forty who knows the least about this firm and its clients. Why would they pick me?”
   “I don’t know, Mitch. Look, why don’t you do as Locke suggested? Try to forget about it and run from this guy Tarrance. You don’t have to talk to him unless he’s got a warrant. Tell him to get lost if he shows up again. He’s dangerous.”
   “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Mitch forced a smile and headed for the door. “We’re still on for dinner tomorrow night?”
   “Sure. Kay wants to grill steaks and eat by the pool. Make it late, say around seven-thirty.”
   “See you then.”

Chapter 12

   The guard called his name, frisked him and led him to a large room where a row of small booths was occupied with visitors talking and whispering through thick metal screens.
   “Number fourteen,” the guard said, and pointed. Mitch walked to his booth and sat down. A minute later Ray appeared and sat between his dividers on the other side of the screen. Were it not for a scar on Ray’s forehead and a few wrinkles around the eyes, they could pass for twins. Both were six-two, weighed about one-eighty, with light brown hair, small blue eyes, high cheekbones and large chins. They had always been told there was Indian blood in the family, but the dark skin had been lost through years in the coal mines.
   Mitch had not been to Brushy Mountain in three years. Three years and three months. They’d exchanged letters twice a month, every month, for eight years now.
   “How’s your French?” Mitch finally asked. Ray’s Army test scores had revealed an amazing aptitude for languages. He had served two years as a Vietnamese interpreter. He had mastered German in six months while stationed there. Spanish had taken four years, but he was forced to learn it from a dictionary in the prison library. French was his latest project.
   “I’m fluent, I guess,” Ray answered. “It’s kinda hard to tell in here. I don’t get much practice. Evidently they don’t teach French in the projects, so most of these brothers here are unilingual. It’s undoubtedly the most beautiful language.”
   “Is it easy?”
   “Not as easy as German. Of course, it was easier to learn German since I was living there and everybody spoke it. Did you know that fifty percent of our language comes from German through Old English?”
   “No, I didn’t know that.”
   “It’s true. English and German are first cousins.”
   “What’s next?”
   “Probably Italian. It’s a Romance language like French and Spanish and Portuguese. Maybe Russian. Maybe Greek. I’ve been reading about the Greek isles. I plan to go there soon.”
   Mitch smiled. He was at least seven years away from parole.
   “You think I’m kidding, don’t you?” Ray asked. “I’m checking out of here, Mitchell, and it won’t be long.”
   “What are your plans?”
   “I can’t talk. But I’m working on it.”
   “Don’t do it, Ray.”
   “I’ll need some help on the outside, and enough money to get me out of the country. A thousand should do it. You can handle that, can’t you? You won’t be implicated.”
   “Aren’t they listening to us?”
   “Sometimes.”
   “Let’s talk about something else.”
   “Sure. How’s Abby?”
   “She’s fine.”
   “Where is she?”
   “Right now she’s in church. She wanted to come, but I told her she wouldn’t get to see you.”
   “I’d like to see her. Your letters sound like y’all are doing real well. New house, cars, country club. I’m very proud of you. You’re the first McDeere in two generations to amount to a damned thing.”
   “Our parents were good people, Ray. They had no opportunities and a lot of bad luck. They did the best they could.”
   Ray smiled and looked away. “Yeah, I guess so. Have you talked to Mom?”
   “It’s been a while.”
   “Is she still in Florida?”
   “I think so.”
   They paused and studied their fingers. They thought of their mother. Painful thoughts for the most part. There had been happier times, when they were small and their father was alive. She never recovered from his death, and after Rusty was killed the aunts and uncles put her in an institution.
   Ray took his finger and followed the small metal rods in the screen. He watched his finger. “Let’s talk about something else.”
   Mitch nodded in agreement. There was so much to talk about, but it was all in the past. They had nothing in common but the past, and it was best to leave it alone.
   “You mentioned in a letter that one of your excellmates is a private investigator in Memphis.”
   “Eddie Lomax. He was a Memphis cop for nine years, until he got sent up for rape.”
   “Rape?”
   “Yeah. He had a tough time here. Rapists are not well regarded around this place. Cops are hated. They almost killed him until I stepped in. He’s been out about three years now. He writes me all the time. Does mainly divorce investigations.”
   “Is he in the phone book?”
   “969-3838. Why do you need him?”
   “I’ve got a lawyer buddy whose wife is fooling around, but he can’t catch her. Is this guy good?”
   “Very good, so he says. He’s made some money.”
   “Can I trust him?”
   “Are you kidding? Tell him you’re my brother and he’ll kill for you. He’s gonna help me get out of here, he just doesn’t know it. You might mention it to him.”
   “I wish you’d stop that.”
   A guard walked behind Mitch. “Three minutes,” he said.
   “What can I send you?” Mitch asked.
   “I’d like a real favor, if you don’t mind.”
   “Anything.”
   “Go to a bookstore and look for one of those cassette courses on how to speak Greek in twenty-four hours. That plus a Greek-to-English dictionary would be nice.”
   “I’ll send it next week.”
   “How about Italian too?”
   “No problem.”
   “I’m undecided about whether to go to Sicily or the Greek isles. It’s really got me tore up. I asked the prison minister about it, and he was of no help. I’ve thought of going to the warden. What do you think?”
   Mitch chuckled and shook his head. “Why don’t you go to Australia?”
   “Great idea. Send me some tapes in Australian and a dictionary.”
   They both smiled, then stopped. They watched each other carefully and waited for the guard to call time. Mitch looked at the scar on his forehead and thought of the countless bars and countless fights that led to the inevitable killing. Self-defense, Ray called it. For years he had wanted to cuss Ray for being so stupid, but the anger had passed. Now he wanted to embrace him and take him home and help him find a job.
   “Don’t feel sorry for me,” Ray said.
   “Abby wants to write you.”
   “I’d like that. I barely remember her as a small girl in Danesboro, hanging around her daddy’s bank on Main Street. Tell her to send me a picture. And I’d like a picture of your house. You’re the first McDeere in a hundred years to own real estate.”
   “I gotta go.”
   “Do me a favor. I think you need to find Mom, just to make sure she’s alive. Now that you’re out of school, it would be nice to reach out to her.”
   “I’ve thought about that.”
   “Think about it some more, okay?”
   “Sure. I’ll see you in a month or so.”


* * *

   DeVasher sucked on a Roi-Tan and blew a lungful of smoke into his air purifier. “We found Ray McDeere,” he announced proudly.
   “Where?” asked Ollie.
   “Brushy Mountain State Prison. Convicted of second-degree murder in Nashville eight years ago and sentenced to fifteen years with no parole. Real name is Raymond McDeere. Thirty-one years old. No family. Served three years in the Army. Dishonorable discharge. A real loser.”
   “How’d you find him?”
   “He was visited yesterday by his kid brother. We happened to be following. Twenty-four-hour surveillance, remember.”
   “His conviction is public record. You should’ve found this earlier.”
   “We would have, Ollie, if it was important. But it’s not important. We do our job.”
   “Fifteen years, huh? Who’d he kill?”
   “The usual. A buncha drunks in a bar fighting over a woman. No weapon, though. Police and autopsy reports say he hit the victim twice with his fists and cracked his skull.”
   “Why the dishonorable discharge?”
   “Gross insubordination. Plus, he assaulted an officer. I don’t know how he avoided a court-martial. Looks like a nasty character.”
   “You’re right, it’s not important. What else do you know?”
   “Not much. We’ve got the house wired, right? He has not mentioned Tarrance to his wife. In fact, we listen to this kid around the clock, and he ain’t mentioned Tarrance to anyone.”
   Ollie smiled and nodded his approval. He was proud of McDeere. What a lawyer.
   “What about sex?”
   “All we can do is listen, Ollie. But we listen real close, and I don’t think they’ve had any in two weeks. Of course, he’s here sixteen hours a day going through the workaholic rookie counselor routine that you guys instill. It sounds like she’s getting tired of it. Could be the usual rookie’s wife syndrome. She calls her mother a lot—collect, so he won’t know. She told her mom that he’s changing and all that crap. She thinks he’ll kill himself working so hard. That’s what we’re hearing. So I don’t have any pictures, Ollie, and I’m sorry because I know how much you enjoy them. First chance we get, we’ll have you some pictures.”
   Ollie glared at the wall but said nothing.
   “Listen, Ollie, I think we need to send the kid with Avery to Grand Cayman on business. See if you can arrange it.”
   “That’s no problem. May I ask why?”
   “Not right now. You’ll know later.”


* * *

   The building was in the low-rent section of downtown, a couple of blocks from the shadows of the modern steel-and-glass towers which were packed together as if land was scarce in Memphis. A sign on a door directed one’s attention upstairs, where Eddie Lomax, private investigator, maintained an office. Hours by appointment only. The door upstairs advertised investigations of all types—divorces, accidents, missing relatives, surveillance. The ad in the phone book mentioned the police expertise, but not the ending of that career. It listed eavesdropping, countermeasures, child custody, photographs, courtroom evidence, voice-stress analysis, location of assets, insurance claims and premarital background review. Bonded, insured, licensed and available twenty-four hours a day. Ethical, reliable, confidential, peace of mind.
   Mitch was impressed with the abundance of confidence. The appointment was for 5 P.M., and he arrived a few minutes early. A shapely platinum blonde with a constricting leather skirt and matching black boots asked for his name and pointed to an orange vinyl chair next to a window. Eddie would be a minute. He inspected the chair, and noticing a fine layer of dust and several spots of what appeared to be grease, he declined and said his back was sore. Tammy shrugged and returned to her gum chewing and typing of some document; Mitch speculated whether it was a premarital report, or maybe a surveillance summary, or perhaps a countermeasure attack plan. The ashtray on her desk was filled with butts smeared with pink lipstick. While typing with her left hand, the right one instantly and precisely picked another cigarette from the pack and thrust it between her sticky lips. With remarkable coordination, she nicked something with her left hand and a flame shot to the tip of a very skinny and incredibly long liberated cigarette. When the flame disappeared, the lips instinctively compacted and hardened around the tiny protrusion, and the entire body began to inhale. Letters became words, words became sentences, sentences became paragraphs as she tried desperately to fill her lungs. Finally, with an inch of the cigarette hanging as ashes, she swallowed, picked it from her lips with two brilliant red fingernails and exhaled mightily. The smoke billowed toward the stained plaster ceiling, where it upset an existing cloud and swirled around a hanging fluorescent light. She coughed, a hacking, irritating cough which reddened her face and gyrated her full breasts until they bounced dangerously close to the typewriter keys. She grabbed a nearby cup and lapped up something, then reinserted the filter-tip 1000 and pecked away.
   After two minutes, Mitch began to fear carbon monoxide. He spotted a small hole in the window, in a pane that for some reason the spiders had not draped with cobwebs. He walked to within inches of the shredded, dust-laden curtains and tried to inhale in the direction of the opening. He felt sick. There was more hacking and wheezing behind him. He tried to open the window, but layers of cracked paint had long since welded it shut.
   Just when he began to feel dizzy the typing and smoking stopped.
   “You a lawyer?”
   Mitch turned from the window and looked at the secretary. She was now sitting on the edge of her desk, legs crossed, with the black leather skirt well above her knees. She sipped a Diet Pepsi.
   “Yes.”
   “In a big firm?”
   “Yes.”
   “I thought so. I could tell by your suit and your cute little preppie button-down with the silk paisley tie. I can always spot the big-firm lawyers, as opposed to the ham-and-eggers who hang around City Court.”
   The smoke was clearing and Mitch was breathing easier. He admired her legs, which for the moment were positioned just so and demanded to be admired. She was now looking at his shoes.
   “You like the suit, huh?” he said.
   “It’s expensive, I can tell. So’s the tie. I’m not so sure about the shirt and shoes.”
   Mitch studied the leather boots, the legs, the skirt and the tight sweater around the large breasts and tried to think of something cute to say. She enjoyed this gazing back and forth, and again sipped on her Diet Pepsi.
   When she’d had enough, she nodded at Eddie’s door and said, “You can go in now. Eddie’s waiting.”
   The detective was on the phone, trying to convince some poor old man that his son was in fact a homosexual. A very active homosexual. He pointed to a wooden chair, and Mitch sat down. He saw two windows, both wide open, and breathed easier.
   Eddie looked disgusted and covered the receiver. “He’s crying,” he whispered to Mitch, who smiled obligingly, as if he was amused.
   He wore blue lizard-skin boots with pointed toes, Levi’s, a well-starched peach button-down, which was unbuttoned well into the dark chest hair and exposed two heavy gold chains and one which appeared to be turquoise. He favored Tom Jones or Humperdinck or one of those bushy-headed, dark-eyed singers with thick sideburns and solid chins.
   “I’ve got photographs,” he said, and yanked the receiver from his ear when the old man screamed. He pulled five glossy eight-by-tens from a file and slid them across the desk into Mitch’s lap. Yes, indeed, they were homosexuals, whoever they were. Eddie smiled at him proudly. The bodies were somewhere on a stage in what appeared to be a queer club. He laid them on the desk and looked at the window. They were of high quality, in color. Whoever took them had to have been in the club. Mitch thought of the rape conviction. A cop sent up for rape.
   He slammed the phone down. “So you’re Mitchell McDeere! Nice to meet you.”
   They shook hands across the desk. “My pleasure,” Mitch said. “I saw Ray Sunday.”
   “I feel like I’ve known you for years. You look just like Ray. He told me you did. Told me all about you. I guess he told you about me. The police background. The conviction. The rape. Did he explain to you it was statutory rape, and that the girl was seventeen years old, looked twenty-five, and that I got framed?”
   “He mentioned it. Ray doesn’t say much. You know that.”
   “He’s a helluva guy. I owe him my life, literally. They almost killed me in prison when they found out I was a cop. He stepped in and even the blacks backed down. He can hurt people when he wants to.”
   “He’s all the family I have.”
   “Yeah, I know. You bunk with a guy for years in an eight-by-twelve cell and you learn all about him. He’s talked about you for hours. When I was paroled you were thinking about law school.”
   “I finished in June of this year and went to work for Bendini, Lambert & Locke.”
   “Never heard of them.”
   “It’s a tax and corporate firm on Front Street.”
   “I do a lot of sleazy divorce work for lawyers. Surveillance, taking pictures, like those, and gathering filth for court.” He spoke quickly, with short, clipped words and sentences. The cowboy boots were placed gingerly on the desk for display. “Plus, I’ve got some lawyers I run cases for. If I dig up a good car wreck or personal-injury suit, I’ll shop around to see who’ll give me the best cut. That’s how I bought this building. That’s where, the money is—personal injury. These lawyers take forty percent of the recovery. Forty percent!” He shook his head in disgust as if he couldn’t believe greedy lawyers actually lived and breathed in this city.
   “You work by the hour?” Mitch asked.
   “Thirty bucks, plus expenses. Last night I spent six hours in my van outside a Holiday Inn waiting for my client’s husband to leave his room with his whore so I could take more pictures. Six hours. That’s a hundred eighty bucks for sitting on my ass looking at dirty magazines and waiting. I also charged her for dinner.”
   Mitch listened intently, as if he wished he could do it.
   Tammy stuck her head in the door and said she was leaving. A stale cloud followed her and Mitch looked at the windows. She slammed the door.
   “She’s a great gal,” Eddie said. “She’s got trouble with her husband. He’s a truck driver who thinks he’s Elvis. Got the jet-black hair, ducktail, lamb-chop sideburns. Wears those thick gold sunglasses Elvis wore. When he’s not on the road he sits around the trailer listening to Elvis albums and watching those terrible movies. They moved here from Ohio just so this clown can be near the King’s grave. Guess what his name is.”
   “I have no idea.”
   “Elvis. Elvis Aaron Hemphill. Had his name legally changed after the King died. He does an impersonation routine in dark nightclubs around the city. I saw him one night. He wore a white skintight jumpsuit unbuttoned to his navel, which would’ve been okay except he’s got this gut that hangs out and looks like a bleached watermelon. It was pretty sad. His voice is hilarious, sounds like one of those old Indian chiefs chanting around the campfire.”
   “So what’s the problem?”
   “Women. You would not believe the Elvis nuts who visit this city. They flock to watch this buffoon act like the King. They throw panties at him, big panties, panties made for heavy, wide lardasses, and he wipes his forehead and throws them back. They give him their room numbers, and we suspect he sneaks around and tries to play the big stud, just like Elvis. I haven’t caught him yet.”
   Mitch could not think of any response to all this. He grinned like an idiot, like this was truly an incredible story. Lomax read him well.
   “You got trouble with your wife?”
   “No. Nothing like that. I need some information about four people. Three are dead, one is alive.”
   “Sounds interesting. I’m listening.”
   Mitch pulled the notes from a pocket. “I assume this is strictly confidential.”
   “Of course it is. As confidential as you are with your client.”
   Mitch nodded in agreement, but thought of Tammy and Elvis and wondered why Lomax told him that story.
   “It must be confidential.”
   “I said it would be. You can trust me.”
   “Thirty bucks an hour?”
   “Twenty for you. Ray sent you, remember?”
   “I appreciate that.”
   “Who are these people?”
   “The three dead ones were once lawyers in our firm. Robert Lamm was killed in a hunting accident somewhere in Arkansas. Somewhere in the mountains. He was missing for about two weeks and they found him with a bullet in the head. There was an autopsy. That’s all I know. Alice Knauss died in 1977 in a car wreck here in Memphis. Supposedly a drunk driver hit her. John Mickel committed suicide in 1984. His body was found in his office. There was a gun and a note.”
   “That’s all you know?”
   “That’s it.”
   “What’re you looking for?”
   “I want to know as much as I can about how these people died. What were the circumstances surrounding each death? Who investigated each death? Any unanswered questions or suspicions.”
   “What do you suspect?”
   “At this point, nothing. I’m just curious.”
   “You’re more than curious.”
   “Okay, I’m more than curious. But for now, let’s leave it at that.”
   “Fair enough. Who’s the fourth guy?”
   “A man named Wayne Tarrance. He’s an FBI agent here in Memphis.”
   “FBI!”
   “Does that bother you?”
   “Yes, it bothers me. I get forty an hour for cops.”
   “No problem.”
   “What do you want to know?”
   “Check him out. How long has he been here? How long has he been an agent? What’s his reputation?”
   “That’s easy enough.”
   Mitch folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. “How long will this take?”
   “About a month.”
   “That’s fine.”
   “Say, what was the name of your firm?”
   “Bendini, Lambert & Locke.”
   “Those two guys who got killed last summer—”
   “They were members.”
   “Any suspicions?”
   “No.”
   “Just thought I’d ask.”
   “Listen, Eddie. You must be very careful with this. Don’t call me at home or the office. I’ll call you in about a month. I suspect I’m being watched very closely.”
   “By whom?”
   “I wish I knew.”

Chapter 13

   Avery smiled at the computer printout. “For the month of October you billed an average of sixty-one hours per week.”
   “I thought it was sixty-four,” Mitch said.
   “Sixty-one is good enough. In fact, we’ve never had a first-year man average so high in one month. Is it legitimate?”
   “No padding. In fact, I could’ve pushed it higher.”
   “How many hours are you working a week?”
   “Between eighty-five and ninety. I could bill seventy-five if I wanted to.”
   “I wouldn’t suggest it, at least not now. It could cause a little jealousy around here. The younger associates are watching you very closely.”
   “You want me to slow down?”
   “Of course not. You and I are a month behind right now. I’m just worried about the long hours. A little worried, that’s all. Most associates start like wildfire—eighty– and ninety-hour weeks—but they burn out after a couple of months. Sixty-five to seventy is about average. But you seem to have unusual stamina.”
   “I don’t require much sleep.”
   “What does your wife think about it?”
   “Why is that important?”
   “Does she mind the long hours?”
   Mitch glared at Avery, and for a second thought of the argument the previous night when he arrived home for dinner at three minutes before midnight. It was a controlled fight, but the worst one yet, and it promised to be followed by others. No ground was surrendered. Abby said she felt closer to Mr. Rice next door than to her husband.
   “She understands. I told her I would make partner in two years and retire before I was thirty.”
   “Looks like you’re trying.”
   “You’re not complaining, are you? Every hour I billed last month was on one of your files, and you didn’t seem too concerned about overworking me.”
   Avery laid the printout on his credenza and frowned at Mitch. “I just don’t want you to burn out or neglect things at home.”
   It seemed odd receiving marital advice from a man who had left his wife. He looked at Avery with as much contempt as he could generate. “You don’t need to worry about what happens at my house. As long as I produce around here you should be happy.”
   Avery leaned across the desk. “Look, Mitch, I’m not very good at this sort of thing. This is coming from higher up. Lambert and McKnight are worried that maybe you’re pushing a bit too hard. I mean, five o’clock in the morning, every morning, even some Sundays. That’s pretty intense, Mitch.”
   “What did they say?”
   “Nothing much. Believe it or not, Mitch, those guys really care about you and your family. They want happy lawyers with happy wives. If everything is lovely, then the lawyers are productive. Lambert is especially paternalistic. He’s planning to retire in a couple of years, and he’s trying to relive his glory years through you and the other young guys. If he asks too many questions or gives a few lectures, take it in stride. He’s earned the right to be the grandfather around here.”
   “Tell them I’m fine, Abby’s fine, we’re all happy and I’m very productive.”
   “Fine, now that that’s out of the way, you and I leave for Grand Cayman a week from tomorrow. I’ve got to meet with some Caymanian bankers on behalf of Sonny Capps and three other clients. Mainly business, but we always manage to work in a little scuba diving and snorkeling. I told Royce McKnight you were needed, and he approved the trip. He said you probably needed the R and R. Do you want to go?”
   “Of course. I’m just a little surprised.”
   “It’s business, so our wives won’t be going. Lambert was a little concerned that it may cause a problem at home.”
   “I think Mr. Lambert worries too much about what happens at my home. Tell him I’m in control. No problems.”
   “So you’re going?”
   “Sure, I’m going. How long will we be there?”
   “Couple of days. We’ll stay in one of The Firm’s condos. Sonny Capps may stay in the other one. I’m trying to get plane, but we may have to fly commercial.”
   “No problem with me.”


* * *

   Only two of the passengers on board the Cayman Airways 727 in Miami wore ties, and after the first round of complimentary rum punch Avery removed his and stuffed it in his coat pocket. The punch was served by beautiful brown Caymanian stewardesses with blue eyes and comely smiles. The women were great down there, Avery said more than once.
   Mitch sat by the window and tried to conceal the excitement of his first trip out of the country. He had found a book on the Cayman Islands in a library. There were three islands, Grand Cayman, Little Cayman and Cayman Brae. The two smaller ones were sparsely populated and seldom visited. Grand Cayman had eighteen thousand people, twelve thousand registered corporations and three hundred banks. The population was twenty percent white, twenty percent black, and the other sixty percent wasn’t sure and didn’t care. Georgetown, the capital, in recent years had become an international tax haven with bankers as secretive as the Swiss. There were no income taxes, corporate taxes, capital-gains taxes, estate or gift taxes. Certain companies and investments were given guarantees against taxation for fifty years. The islands were a dependent British territory with an unusually stable government. Revenue from import duties and tourism funded whatever government was necessary. There was no crime or unemployment.
   Grand Cayman was twenty-three miles long and eight miles wide in places, but from the air it looked much smaller. It was a small rock surrounded by clear, sapphire water.
   The landing almost occurred in a lagoon, but at the last second a small asphalt strip came forth and caught the plane. They disembarked and sang their way through customs. A black boy grabbed Mitch’s bags and threw them with Avery’s into the trunk of a 1972 Ford Ltd. Mitch tipped him generously.
   “Seven Mile Beach!” Avery commanded as he turned up the remnants of his last rum punch.
   “Okay, mon,” the driver drawled. He gunned the taxi and laid rubber in the direction of Georgetown. The radio blared reggae. The driver shook and gyrated and kept a steady beat with his fingers on the steering wheel. He was on the wrong side of the road, but so was everybody else. Mitch sank into the worn seat and crossed his legs. The car had no airconditioning except for the open windows. The muggy tropical air rushed across his face and blew his hair. This was nice.
   The island was flat, and the road into Georgetown was busy with small, dusty European cars, scooters and bicycles. The homes were small one-stories with tin roofs and neat, colorful paint jobs. The lawns were tiny with little grass, but the dirt was neatly swept. As they neared the town the houses became shops, two– and three-story white frame buildings where tourists stood under the canopies and took refuge from the sun. The driver made a sharp turn and suddenly they were in the midst of a downtown crowded with modern bank buildings.
   Avery assumed the role of tour guide. “There are banks here from everywhere. Germany, France, Great Britain, Canada, Spain, Japan, Denmark. Even Saudi Arabia and Israel. Over three hundred, at last count. It’s become quite a tax haven. The bankers here are extremely quiet. They make the Swiss look like blabbermouths.”
   The taxi slowed in heavy traffic, and the breeze stopped. “I see a lot of Canadian banks,” Mitch said.
   “That building right there is the Royal Bank of Montreal. We’ll be there at ten in the morning. Most of our business will be with Canadian banks.”
   “Any particular reason?”
   “They’re very safe, and very quiet.”
   The crowded street turned and dead-ended into another one. Beyond the intersection the glittering blue of the Caribbean rose to the horizon. A cruise ship was anchored in the bay.
   “That’s Hogsty Bay,” Avery said. “That’s where the pirates docked their ships three hundred years ago. Black-beard himself roamed these islands and buried his loot. They found some of it a few years ago in a cave east of here near Bodden Town.”
   Mitch nodded as if he believed this tale. The driver smiled in the rearview mirror.
   Avery wiped the sweat from his forehead. “This place has always attracted pirates. Once it was Black-beard, now it’s modern-day pirates who form corporations and hide their money here. Right, mon?”
   “Right, mon,” the driver replied.
   “That’s Seven Mile Beach,” Avery said. “One of the most beautiful and most famous in the world. Right, mon?”
   “Right, mon.”
   “Sand as white as sugar. Warm, clear water. Warm, beautiful women. Right, mon?”
   “Right, mon.”
   “Will they have the cookout tonight at the Palms?”
   “Yes, mon. Six o’clock.”
   “That’s next door to our condo. The Palms is a popular hotel with the hottest action on the beach.”
   Mitch smiled and watched the hotels pass. He recalled the interview at Harvard when Oliver Lambert preached about how frowned on divorce and chasing women. And drinking. Perhaps Avery had missed those sermons. Perhaps he hadn’t.
   The condos were in the center of Seven Mile Beach, next door to another complex and the Palms. As-expected, the units owned by The Firm were spacious and richly decorated. Avery said they would sell for at least half a million each, but they weren’t for sale. They were not for rent. They were sanctuaries for the weary lawyers of Bendini, Lambert & Locke. And a few very favored clients.
   From the balcony off the second-floor bedroom, Mitch watched the small boats drift aimlessly over the sparkling sea. The sun was beginning its descent and the small waves reflected its rays in a million directions. The cruise ship moved slowly away from the island. Dozens of people walked the beach, kicking sand, splashing in the water, chasing sand crabs and drinking rum punch and Jamaican Red Stripe beer. The rhythmic beat of Caribbean music drifted from the Palms, where a large open-air thatched-roof bar attracted the beachcombers like a magnet. From a grass hut nearby they rented snorkeling gear, catamarans and volleyballs.
   Avery walked to the balcony in a pair of brilliant orange-and-yellow flowered shorts. His body was lean and hard, with no flab. He owned part interest in a health club in Memphis and worked out every day. Evidently there were some tanning beds in the club. Mitch was impressed.
   “How do you like my outfit?” Avery asked.
   “Very nice. You’ll fit right in.” “I’ve got another pair if you’d like.”
   “No, thanks. I’ll stick to my Western Kentucky gyrh shorts.”
   Avery sipped on a drink and took in the scenery. “I’ve been here a dozen times, and I still get excited. I’ve thought about retiring down here.”
   “That would be nice. You could walk the beach and chase sand crabs.”
   “And play dominoes and drink Red Stripe. Have you ever had a Red Stripe?”
   “Not that I recall.”
   “Let’s go get one.”


* * *

   The open-air bar was called Rumheads. It was packed with thirsty tourists and a few locals who sat together around a wooden table and played dominoes. Avery fought through the crowd and returned with two bottles. They found a seat next to the domino game.
   “I think this is what I’ll do when I retire. I’ll come down here and play dominoes for a living. And drink Red Stripe.”
   “It’s good beer.”
   “And when I get tired of dominoes, I’ll throw some darts.” He nodded to a corner where a group of drunk Englishmen were tossing darts at a board and cursing each other. “And when I get tired of darts, well, who knows what I’ll do. Excuse me.” He headed for a table on the patio where two string bikinis had just sat down. He introduced himself, and they asked him to have a seat. Mitch ordered another Red Stripe and went to the beach. In the distance he could see the bank buildings of Georgetown. He walked in that direction.
   The food was placed on folding tables around the pool. Grilled grouper, barbecued shark, pompano, fried shrimp, turtle and oysters, lobster and red snapper. It was all from the sea, and all fresh. The guests crowded around the tables and served themselves while waiters scurried back and forth with gallons of rum punch. They ate on small tables in the courtyard overlooking Rumheads and the sea. A reggae band tuned up. The sun dipped behind a cloud, then over the horizon.
   Mitch followed Avery through the buffet and, as expected, to a table where the two women were waiting. They were sisters, both in their late twenties, both divorced, both half drunk. The one named Carrie had fallen in heat with Avery, and the other one, Julia, immediately began making eyes at Mitch. He wondered what Avery had told them.
   “I see you’re married,” Julia whispered as she moved next to him.
   “Yes, happily.”
   She smiled as if to accept the challenge. Avery and his woman winked at each other. Mitch grabbed a glass of punch and gulped it down. ’
   He picked at his food and could think of nothing but Abby. This would be hard to explain, if an explanation became necessary. Having dinner with two attractive women who were barely dressed. It would be impossible to explain. The conversation became awkward at the table, and Mitch added nothing. A waiter set a large pitcher on the table, and it quickly was emptied. Avery became obnoxious. He told the women Mitch had played for the New York Giants, had two Super Bowl rings. Made a million bucks a year before a knee injury ruined his career. Mitch shook his head and drank some more. Julia drooled at him and moved closer.
   The band turned up the volume, and it was time to dance. Half the crowd moved to a wooden dance floor under two trees, between the pool and the beach. “Let’s dance!” Avery yelled, and grabbed his woman. They ran through the tables and were soon lost in the crowd of jerking and lunging tourists.
   He felt her move closer, then her hand was on his leg. “Do you wanna dance?” she asked.
   “No.”
   “Good. Neither do I. What would you like to do?” She rubbed her breasts on his biceps and gave her best seductive smile, only inches away.
   “I don’t plan to do anything.” He removed her hand.
   “Aw, come on. Let’s have some fun. Your wife will never know.”
   “Look, you’re a very lovely lady, but you’re wasting your time with me. It’s still early. You’ve got plenty of time to pick up a real stud.”
   “You’re cute.”
   The hand was back, and Mitch breathed deeply. “Why don’t you get lost.”
   “I beg your pardon.” The hand was gone.
   “I said, ’Get lost.’ ”
   She backed away. “What’s wrong with you?”
   “I have an aversion to communicable diseases. Get lost.”
   “Why don’t you get lost.”
   “That’s a wonderful idea. I think I will get lost. Enjoyed dinner.”
   Mitch grabbed a glass of rum punch and made his way through the dancers to the bar. He ordered a Red Stripe and sat by himself in a dark corner of the patio. The beach in front of him was deserted. The lights of a dozen boats moved slowly across the water. Behind him were the sounds of the Barefoot Boys and the laughter of the Caribbean night.
   Nice,he thought, but it would be nicer with Abby. Maybe they would vacation here next summer. They needed time together, away from home and the office.There was a distance between them—distance he could not define. Distance they could not discuss but both felt. Distance he was afraid of.
   “What are you watching?” The voice startled him. She walked to the table and sat next to him. She was a native, dark skin with blue or hazel eyes. It was impossible to tell in the dark. But they were beautiful eyes, warm and uninhibited. Her dark curly hair was pulled back and hung almost to her waist. She was an exotic mixture of black, white and probably Latin. And probably more. She wore a white bikini top cut very low and barely covering her large breasts and a long, brightly colored skirt with a slit to the waist that exposed almost everything when she sat and crossed her legs. No shoes.
   “Nothing, really,” Mitch said.
   She was young, with a childish smile that revealed perfect teeth. “Where are you from?” she asked.
   “The States.”
   She smiled and chuckled. “Of course you are. Where in the States?” It was the soft, gentle, precise, confident English of the Caribbean.
   “ Memphis.”
   “A lot of people come here from Memphis. A lot of divers.”
   “Do you live here?” he asked.
   “Yes. All my life. My mother is a native. My father is from England. He’s gone now, back to where he came from.”
   “Would you like a drink?” he asked.
   “Yes. Rum and soda.”
   He stood at the bar and waited for the drinks. A dull, nervous something throbbed in his stomach. He could slide into the darkness, disappear into the crowd and find his way to the safety of the condo. He could lock the door and read a book on international tax havens. Pretty boring. Plus, Avery was there by now with his hot little number. The girl was harmless, the rum and Red Stripe told him. They would have a couple of drinks and say good night.
   He returned with the drinks and sat across from the girl, as far away as possible. They were alone on the patio.
   “Are you a diver?” she asked.
   “No. Believe it or not, I’m here on business. I’m a lawyer, and I have meetings with some bankers in the morning.”
   “How long will you be here?”
   “Couple of days.” He was polite, but short. The less he said, the safer he would be. She recrossed her legs and smiled innocently. He felt weak.
   “How old are you?” he asked.
   “I’m twenty, and my name is Eilene. I’m old enough.”
   “I’m Mitch.” His stomach flipped and he felt lightheaded. He sipped rapidly on his beer. He glanced at his watch.
   She watched with that same seductive smile. “You’re very handsome.”
   This was unraveling in a hurry. Keep cool, he told himself, just keep cool.
   “Thank you.”
   “Are you an athlete?”
   “Sort of. Why do you ask?”
   “You look like an athlete. You’re very muscular and firm.” It was the way she emphasized “firm” that made his stomach flip again. He admired her body and tried to think of some compliment that would not be suggestive. Forget it.
   “Where do you work?” he asked, aiming for less sensual areas.
   “I’m a clerk in a jewelry store in town.”
   “Where do you live?”
   “In Georgetown. Where are you staying?”
   “A condo next door.” He nodded in the direction, and she looked to her left. She wanted to see the condo, he could tell. She sipped on her drink.
   “Why aren’t you at the party?” she asked.
   “I’m not much on parties.”
   “Do you like the beach?”
   “It’s beautiful.”
   “It’s prettier in the moonlight.” That smile, again.
   He could say nothing to this.
   “There’s a better bar about a mile down the beach,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
   “I don’t know, I should get back. I’ve got some work to do before morning.”
   She laughed and stood. “No one goes in this early in the Caymans. Come on. I owe you a drink.”
   “No. I’d better not.”
   She grabbed his hand, and he followed her off the patio onto the beach. They walked in silence until the Palms was out of sight and the music was growing dimmer. The moon was overhead and brighter now, and the beach was deserted. She unsnapped something and removed her skirt, leaving nothing but a string around her waist and a string running between her legs. She rolled up the skirt and placed it around his neck. She took his hand.
   Something said run. Throw the beer bottle in the ocean. Throw the skirt in the sand. And run like hell. Run to the condo. Lock the door. Lock the windows. Run. Run. Run.
   And something said to relax. It’s harmless fun. Have a few more drinks. If something happens, enjoy it. No one will ever know, Memphis is a thousand miles away. Avery won’t know. And what about Avery? What could he say? Everybody does it. It had happened once before when he was in college, before he was married but after he was engaged. He had blamed it on too much beer, and had survived with no major scars. Time took care of it. Abby would never know.
   Run. Run. Run.
   They walked for a mile and there was no bar in sight. The beach was darker. A cloud conveniently hid the moon. They had seen no one since Rumheads. She pulled his hand toward two plastic beach chairs next to the water. “Let’s rest,” she said. He finished his beer.
   “You’re not saying much,” she said.
   “What would you like for me to say?”
   “Do you think I’m beautiful?”
   “You are very beautiful. And you have a beautiful body.”
   She sat on the edge of her chair and splashed her feet in the water. “Let’s go for a swim.”
   “I, uh, I’m not really in the mood.”
   “Come on, Mitch. I love the water.”
   “Go ahead. I’ll watch.”
   She knelt beside him in the sand and faced him, niches away. In slow motion, she reached behind her neck. She unhooked her bikini top, and it fell off, very slowly. Her breasts, much larger now, lay on his left forearm. She handed it to him. “Hold this for me.” It was soft and white and weighed less than a millionth of an ounce. He was paralyzed and the breathing, heavy and labored only seconds ago, had now ceased altogether.
   She walked slowly into the water. The white string covered nothing from the rear. Her long, dark, beautiful hair hung to her waist. She waded knee deep, then turned to the beach.
   “Come on, Mitch. The water feels great.”
   She flashed a brilliant smile and he could see it. He rubbed the bikini top and knew this would be his last chance to run. But he was dizzy and weak. Running would require more strength than he could possibly muster. He wanted to just sit and maybe she would go away. Maybe she would drown. Maybe the tide would suddenly materialize and sweep her out to sea.
   “Come on, Mitch.”
   He removed his shirt and waded into the water. She watched him with a smile, and when he reached her, she took his hand and led him to deeper water. She locked her hands around his neck, and they kissed. He found the strings. They kissed again.
   She stopped abruptly and, without speaking, started for the beach. He watched her. She sat on the sand, between the two chairs, and removed the rest of her bikini. He ducked under the water and held his breath for an eternity. When he surfaced, she was reclining, resting on her elbows in the sand. He surveyed the beach and, of course, saw no one. At that precise instant, the moon, ducked behind another cloud. There was not a boat or a catamaran or a dinghy or a swimmer or a snorkeler or anything or anybody moving on the water.
   “I can’t do this,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “What did you say, Mitch?”
   “I can’t do this!” he yelled. “But I want you.”
   “I can’t do it.”
   “Come on, Mitch. No one will ever know.”
   No one will ever know. No one will ever know.He walked slowly toward her. No one will ever know.


* * *

   There was complete silence in the rear of the taxi as the lawyers rode into Georgetown. They were late. They had overslept and missed breakfast. Neither felt particularly well. Avery looked especially haggard. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was pale. He had not shaved.
   The driver stopped in heavy traffic in front of the Royal Bank of Montreal. The heat and humidity were already stifling.
   Randolph Osgood was the banker, a stuffy British type with a navy double-breasted suit, horn-rimmed glasses, a large shiny forehead and a pointed nose. He greeted Avery like an old friend and introduced himself to Mitch. They were led to a large office on the second floor with a view of Hogsty Bay. Two clerks were waiting.
   “Exactly what do you need, Avery?” Osgood asked through his nose.
   “Let’s start off with some coffee. I need summaries of all the accounts of Sonny Capps, Al Coscia, Dolph Hemmba, Ratzlaff Partners and Greene Group.”
   “Yes, and how far back would you like to go?”
   “Six months. Every account.”
   Osgood snapped his fingers at one of the clerks. She left and returned with a tray of coffee and pastries. The other clerk took notes.
   “Of course, Avery, we’ll need authorization and powers of attorney for each of these clients,” Osgood said.
   “They’re on file,” Avery said as he unpacked his briefcase.
   “Yes, but they’ve expired. We’ll need current ones. Every account.”
   “Very well.” Avery slid a file across the table. “They’re in there. Everything’s current.” He winked at Mitch.
   A clerk took the file and spread the documents over the table. Each instrument was scrutinized by both clerks, then by Osgood himself. The lawyers drank coffee and waited.
   Osgood smiled and said, “It all appears to be in order. We’ll get the records. What else do you need?”
   “I need to establish three corporations. Two for Sonny Capps and one for Greene Group. We’ll follow the usual procedure. The bank will serve as registered agent, etc.”
   “I’ll procure the necessary documents,” Osgood said, and looked at a clerk. “What else?”
   “That’s all for now.”
   “Very well. We should have these records within thirty minutes. Will you be joining me for lunch?”
   “I’m sorry, Randolph. I must decline. Mitch and I have a prior commitment. Maybe tomorrow.”
   Mitch knew nothing of a prior commitment, at least none he was involved in.
   “Perhaps,” replied Osgood. He left the room with the clerks.
   Avery closed the door and removed his jacket. He walked to the window and sipped coffee. “Look, Mitch. I’m sorry about last night. Very sorry. I got drunk and quit thinking. I was wrong to push that woman on you.”
   “Apology accepted. Don’t let it happen again.”
   “It won’t. I promise.”
   “Was she good?”
   I think so. I don’t remember too much. What did you do with her sister?”
   “She told me to get lost. I hit the beach and took a walk.”
   Avery bit into a pastry and wiped his mouth. “You know I’m separated. We’ll probably get a divorce in a year or so. I’m very discreet because the divorce could get nasty. There’s an unwritten rule in—what we do away from Memphis stays away from Memphis. Understand?”
   “Come on, Avery. You know I wouldn’t tell.”
   “I know. I know.”
   Mitch was glad to hear of the unwritten rule, although he awakened with the security that he had committed the perfect crime. He had thought of her in bed, the shower, the taxi, and now he had trouble concentrating on anything. He had caught himself looking at jewelry stores when they reached Georgetown.
   “I’ve got a question,” Mitch said.
   Avery nodded and ate the pastry.
   “When I was recruited a few months ago by Oliver Lambert and McKnight and the gang, it was impressed upon me repeatedly that frowned on divorce, women, booze, drugs, everything but hard work and money. That’s why I took the job. I’ve seen the hard work and money, but now I’m seeing other things. Where did you go wrong? Or do all the guys do it?”
   “I don’t like your question.”
   “I knew you wouldn’t. But I’d like an answer. I deserve an answer. I feel like I was misled.”
   “So what are you going to do? Leave because I got drunk and laid up with a whore?”
   “I haven’t thought about leaving.”
   “Good. Don’t.”
   “But I’m entitled to an answer.”
   “Okay. Fair enough. I’m the biggest rogue in, and they’ll come down hard when I mention the divorce. I chase women now and then, but no one knows it. Or at least they can’t catch me. I’m sure it’s done by other partners, but you’d never catch them. Not all of them, but a few. Most have very stable marriages and are forever faithful to their wives. I’ve always been the bad boy, but they’ve tolerated me because I’m so talented. They know I drink during lunch and sometimes in the office, and they know I violate some more of their sacred rules, but they made me a partner because they need me. And now that I’m a partner, they can’t do much about it. I’m not that bad of a guy, Mitch.”
   “I didn’t say you were.”
   “I’m not perfect. Some of them are, believe me. They’re machines, robots. They live, eat and sleep for Bendini, Lambert & Locke. I like to have a little fun.”
   “So you’re the exception—”
   “Rather than the rule, yes. And I don’t apologize for it.”
   “I didn’t ask you for an apology. Just a clarification.”
   “Clear enough?”
   “Yes. I’ve always admired your bluntness.”
   “And I admire your discipline. It’s a strong man who can remain faithful to his wife with the temptations you had last night. I’m not that strong. Don’t want to be.”
   Temptations. He had thought of inspecting the downtown jewelry shops during lunch.
   “Look, Avery, I’m not a Holy Roller, and I’m not shocked. I’m not one to judge—I’ve been judged all my life. I was just confused about the rules, that’s all.”
   “The rules never change. They’re cast in concrete. Carved in granite. Etched in stone. Violate too many and you’re out. Or violate as many as you want, but just don’t get caught.”
   “Fair enough.”
   Osgood and a group of clerks entered the room with computer printouts and stacks of documents. They made neat piles on the table and alphabetized it all.
   “This should keep you busy for a day or so,” Osgood said with a forced smile. He snapped his fingers and the clerks disappeared. “I’ll be in my office if you need something.”
   “Yes, thanks,” Avery said as he hovered over the first set of documents. Mitch removed his coat and loosened his tie.
   “Exactly what are we doing here?” he asked.
   “Two things. First, we’ll review the entries into all of these accounts. We’re looking primarily for interest earned, what rate, how much, etc. We’ll do a rough audit of each account to make sure the interest is going where it is supposed to go. For example, Dolph Hemmba sends his interest to nine different banks in the Bahamas. It’s stupid, but it makes him happy. It’s also impossible for anyone to follow, except me. He has about twelve million in this bank, so it’s worth keeping up with. He could do this himself, but he feels better if I do it. At two-fifty an hour, I don’t mind. We’ll check the interest this bank is paying on each account. The rate varies depending on a number of factors. It’s discretionary with the bank, and this is a good way to keep them honest.”
   “I thought they were honest.”
   “They are, but they’re bankers, remember.”
   “You’re looking at close to thirty accounts here, and when we leave we’ll know the exact balance, the interest earned and where the interest is going. Second, we have to incorporate three companies under Caymanian jurisdiction. It’s fairly easy legal work and could be done in Memphis. But the clients think we must come here to do it. Remember, we’re dealing with people who invest millions. A few thousand in legal fees doesn’t bother them.”
   Mitch flipped through a printout in the Hemmba stack. “Who’s this guy Hemmba? I haven’t heard of him.”
   “I’ve got a lot of clients you haven’t heard of. Hemmba is a big farmer in Arkansas, one of the state’s largest landowners.”
   “Twelve million dollars?”
   “That’s just in this bank!”
   “That’s a lot of cotton and soybeans.”
   “Let’s just say he has other ventures.”
   “Such as?”
   “I really can’t say.”
   “Legal or illegal?”
   “Let’s just say he’s hiding twenty million plus interest in various Caribbean banks from the IRS.”
   “Are we helping him?”
   Avery spread the documents on one end of the table and began checking entries. Mitch watched and waited for an answer. The silence grew heavier and it was obvious there would not be one. He could press, but he had asked enough questions for one day. He rolled up his sleeves and went to work.
   At noon he learned about Avery’s prior commitment. His woman was waiting at the condo for a little rendezvous. He suggested they break for a couple of hours and mentioned a cafe downtown Mitch could try.
   Instead of a cafe, Mitch found the Georgetown Library four blocks from the bank. On the second floor he was directed to the periodicals, where he found a shelf full of old editions of The Daily Caymanian. He dug back six months and pulled the one dated June 27. He laid it on a small table by a window overlooking the street. He glanced out the window, then looked closer. There was a man he had seen only moments earlier on the street by the bank. He was behind the wheel of a battered yellow Chevette parked in a narrow drive across from the library. He was a stocky, darkhaired, foreign-looking type with a gaudy green-and-orange shirt and cheap touristy sunglasses.
   The same Chevette with the same driver had been parked in front of the gift shop next to the bank, and now, moments later, it was parked four blocks away. A native on a bicycle stopped next to him and took a cigarette. The man in the car pointed at the library. The native left his bicycle and walked quickly across the street.
   Mitch folded the newspaper and stuck it in his coat. He walked past the rows of shelves, found a National Geographic and sat down at a table. He studied the magazine and listened carefully as the native climbed the stairs, noticed him, walked behind him, seemed to pause as if to catch a glimpse of what he was reading, then disappeared down the stairs. Mitch waited for a moment, then returned to the window. The native was taking another cigarette and talking to the man in the Chevette. He lit the cigarette and rode away.
   Mitch spread the newspaper on the table and scanned the headline story of the two American lawyers and their dive guide who had been killed in a mysterious accident the day before. He made mental notes and returned the paper.
   The Chevette was still watching. He walked in front of it, made the block and headed in the direction of the bank. The shopping district was squeezed tightly between the bank buildings and Hogsty Bay. The streets were narrow and crowded with tourists on foot, tourists on scooters, tourists in rented compacts. He removed his coat and ducked into a T-shirt shop with a pub upstairs. He climbed the stairs, ordered a Coke, and sat on the balcony.
   Within minutes the native with the bicycle was at the bar, drinking a Red Stripe and watching from behind a handprinted menu.
   Mitch sipped on the Coke and scanned the congestion below. No sign of the Chevette, but he knew it was close by. He saw another man stare at him from the street, then disappear. Then a woman. Was he paranoid? Then the Chevette turned the corner two blocks away and moved slowly beneath him.
   He went to the T-shirt store and bought a pair of sunglasses. He walked for a block, then darted into an alley. He ran through the dark shade to the next street, then into a gift shop. He left through the back door, into an alley. He saw a large clothing store for tourists and entered through a side door. He watched the street closely and saw nothing. The racks were full of shorts and shirts of all colors—clothes the natives would not buy but the Americans loved. He stayed conservative—white shorts with a red knit pullover. He found a pair of straw sandals that sort of matched the hat he liked. The clerk giggled and showed him to a dressing room. He checked the street again. Nothing. The clothes fit, and he asked her if he could leave his suit and shoes in the back for a couple of hours. “No problem, mon,” she said. He paid in cash, slipped her a ten and asked her to call a cab. She said he was very handsome.
   He watched the street nervously until the cab arrived. He darted across the sidewalk, into the back seat. “Abanks Dive Lodge,” he said.
   “That’s a long way, mon.”
   Mitch threw a twenty over the seat. “Get moving. Watch your mirror. If someone is following, let me know.”
   He grabbed the money. “Okay, mon.”
   Mitch sat low under his new hat in the back seat as his driver worked his way down Shedden Road, out of the shopping district, around Hogsty Bay, and headed east, past Red Bay, out of the city of Georgetown and onto the road to Bodden Town.
   “Who are you running from, mon?”
   Mitch smiled and rolled down his window. “The Internal Revenue Service.” He thought that was cute, but the driver seemed confused. There were no taxes and no tax collectors in the islands, he remembered. The driver continued in silence.
   According to the paper, the dive guide was Philip Abanks, son of Barry Abanks, the owner of the dive lodge. He was nineteen when he was killed. The three had drowned when an explosion of some sort hit their boat. A very mysterious explosion. The bodies had been found in eighty feet of water in full scuba gear. There were no witnesses to the explosion and no explanations as to why it occurred two miles offshore in an area not known for diving. The article said there were many unanswered questions.
   Bodden Town was a small village twenty minutes from Georgetown. The dive lodge was south of town on an isolated stretch of beach.
   “Did anyone follow us?” Mitch asked.
   The driver shook his head.
   “Good job. Here’s forty bucks.” Mitch looked at his watch. “It’s almost one. Can you be here at exactly two-thirty?”
   “No problem, mon.”
   The road ended at the edge of the beach and became a white-rock parking area shaded by dozens of royal palms. The front building of the lodge was a large, two-story home with a tin roof and an outer stairway leading to the center of the second floor. The Grand House, it was called. It was painted a light blue with neat white trim, and it was partially hidden by bay vines and spider lilies. The hand-wrought fretwork was painted pink. The solid wooden shutters were olive. It was the office and eating room of Abanks Dive Lodge. To its right the palm trees thinned and a small driveway curved around the Grand House and sloped downward to a large open area of white rock. On each side was a group of a dozen or so thatched-roof huts where divers roomed. A maze of wooden sidewalks ran from the huts to the central point of the lodge, the open-air bar next to the water.
   Mitch headed for the bar to the familiar sounds of reggae and laughter. It was similar to Rumheads, but without the crowd. After a few minutes, the bartender, Henry, delivered a Red Stripe to Mitch.
   “Where’s Barry Abanks?” Mitch asked.
   He nodded to the ocean and returned to the bar. Half a mile out, a boat cut slowly through the still water and made its way toward the lodge. Mitch ate a cheeseburger and watched the dominoes.
   The boat docked at a pier between the bar and a larger hut with the words Dive Shop hand-painted over a window. The divers jumped from the boat with their equipment bags and, without exception, headed for the bar. A short, wiry man stood next to the boat and barked orders at the deckhands, who were unloading empty scuba tanks onto the pier. He wore a white baseball cap and not much else. A tiny black pouch covered his crotch and most of his rear end. From the looks of his brown leathery skin he hadn’t worn much in the past fifty years. He checked in at the dive shop, yelled at the dive captains and deckhands and made his way to the bar. He ignored the crowd and went to the freezer, where he picked up a Heineken, removed the top and took a long drink.
   The bartender said something to Abanks and nodded toward Mitch. He opened another Heineken and walked to Mitch’s table.
   He did not smile. “Are you looking for me?” It was almost a sneer.
   “Are you Mr. Abanks?”
   “That’s me. What do you want?”
   “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
   He gulped his beer and gazed at the ocean. “I’m too busy. I have a dive boat leaving in forty minutes.”
   “My name is Mitch McDeere. I’m a lawyer from Memphis.”
   Abanks glared at him with tiny brown eyes. Mitch had his attention. “So?”
   “So, the two men who died with your son were friends of mine. It won’t take but a few minutes.”
   Abanks sat on a stool and rested on his elbows. “That’s not one of my favorite subjects.”
   “I know. I’m sorry.”
   “The police instructed me not to talk to anyone.”
   “It’s confidential. I swear.”
   Abanks squinted and stared at the brilliant blue water. His face and arms bore the scars of a life at sea, a life spent sixty feet down guiding novices through and around coral reefs and wrecked ships.
   “What do you want to know?” he asked softly.
   “Can we talk somewhere else?”
   “Sure. Let’s take a walk.” He yelled at Henry and spoke to a table of divers as he left. They walked on the beach.
   “I’d like to talk about the accident,” Mitch said.
   “You can ask. I may not answer.”
   “What caused the explosion?”
   “I don’t know. Perhaps an air compressor. Perhaps some fuel. We are not certain. The boat was badly damaged and most of the clues went up in flames.”
   “Was it your boat?”
   “Yes. One of my small ones. A thirty-footer. Your friends had chartered it for the morning.”
   “Where were the bodies found?”
   “In eighty feet of water. There was nothing suspicious about the bodies, except that there were no burns or other injuries that would indicate they had been in the explosion. So I guess that makes the bodies very suspicious.”
   “The autopsies said they drowned.”
   “Yes, they drowned. But your friends were in full scuba gear, which was later examined by one of my divemasters. It worked perfectly. They were good divers.”
   “What about your son?”
   “He was not in full gear. But he could swim like a fish.”
   “Where was the explosion?”
   “They had been scheduled to dive along a series of reef formations at Roger’s Wreck Point. Are you familiar with the island?”
   “No.”
   “It’s around the East Bay on Northeastern Point. Your friends had never dived there, and my son suggested they try it. We knew your friends well. They were experienced divers and took it seriously. They always wanted a boat by themselves and didn’t mind paying for it. And they always wanted Philip as their dive captain. We don’t know if they made any dives on the Point. The boat was found burning two miles at sea, far from any of our dive sites.”
   “Could the boat have drifted?”
   “Impossible. If there had been engine trouble, Philip would have used the radio. We have modern equipment, and our divemasters are always in touch with the dive shop. There’s no way the explosion could have occurred at the Point. No one saw it or heard it, and there’s always someone around. Secondly, a disabled boat could not drift two miles in that water. And, most importantly, the bodies were not on the boat, remember. Suppose the boat did drift, how do you explain the drifting of the bodies eighty feet below. They were found within twenty meters of the boat.”
   “Who found them?”
   “My men. We caught the bulletin over the radio, and I sent a crew. We knew it was our boat, and my men started diving. They found the bodies within minutes.”
   “I know this is difficult to talk about.”
   Abanks finished his beer and threw the bottle in a wooden garbage box. “Yes, it is. But time takes away the pain. Why are you so interested?”
   “The families have a lot of questions.”
   “I am sorry for them. I met their wives last year. They spent a week with us. Such nice people.”
   “Is it possible they were simply exploring new territory when it happened?”
   “Possible, yes. But not likely. Our boats report their movements from one dive site to the next. That’s standard procedure. No exceptions. I have fired a dive captain for not clearing a site before going to the next. My son was the best captain on the island. He grew up in these waters. He would never fail to report his movements at sea. It’s that simple. The police believe that is what happened, but they have to believe something. It’s the only explanation they have.”
   “But how do they explain the condition of the bodies?”
   “They can’t. It’s simply another diving accident as far as they’re concerned.”
   “Was it an accident?”
   “I think not.”
   The sandals had rubbed blisters by now, and Mitch removed them. They turned and started back to the lodge.
   “If it wasn’t an accident, what was it?”
   Abanks walked and watched the ocean crawl along the beach. He smiled for the first time. “What are the other possibilities?”
   “There’s a rumor in Memphis that drugs could have been involved.”
   “Tell me about this rumor.”
   “We’ve heard that your son was active in a drug ring, that possibly he was using the boat that day to meet a supplier at sea, that there was a dispute and my friends got in the way.”
   Abanks smiled again and shook his head. “Not Philip. To my knowledge he never used drugs, and I know he didn’t trade in them. He wasn’t interested in money. Just women and diving.”
   “Not a chance?”
   “No, not a chance. I’ve never heard this rumor, and I doubt if they know more in Memphis. This is a small island, and I would have heard it by now. It’s completely false.”
   The conversation was over and they stopped near the bar. “I’ll ask you a favor,” Abanks said. “Do not mention any of this to the families. I cannot prove what I know to be true, so it’s best if no one knows. Especially the families.”
   “I won’t tell anyone. And I will ask you not to mention our conversation. Someone might follow me here and ask questions about my visit. Just say we talked about diving.”
   “As you wish.”
   “My wife and I will be here next spring for our vacation. I’ll be sure to look you up.”