"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.