"It's your copier," a voice answered.
She unlocked the door and opened it. A short, hyperactive little man named Gordy rushed in, looked around the room and said rudely, "Okay, where do you want it?"
"In there," Tammy said, pointing to the eight-by-ten empty room with no door on the hinges. Two young men in blue uniforms pushed and pulled the cart holding the copier.
Gordy laid the paperwork on her desk. "It's a mighty big copier for this place. We're talking ninety copies a minute with a collator and automatic feed. It's a big machine."
"Where do I sign?" she asked, ignoring the small talk.
He pointed with the pen. "Six months, at two-forty a month. That includes service and maintenance and five hundred sheets of paper for the first two months. You want legal or letter-sized?"
"Legal."
"First payment due on the tenth, and same thereafter for five months. Operator's manual is on the rack. Call me if you have any questions."
The two servicemen gawked at the tight stonewashed jeans and the red heels and slowly left the office. Gordy ripped off the yellow copy and handed it to her. "Thanks for the business," he said.
She locked the door behind them. She walked to the window next to her desk and looked north, along Front. Two blocks up on the opposite side, floors four and five of the Bendini Building were visible.
He kept to himself with his nose buried deep in the books and the piles of paperwork. He was too busy for any of them, except Lamar. He was very much aware that his withdrawal was not going unnoticed. So he worked harder. Perhaps they would not be suspicious if he billed twenty hours a day. Perhaps money could insulate him.
Nina left a box of cold pizza when she checked out after lunch. He ate it while he cleared his desk. He called Abby. Said he was going to see Ray and that he would return to Memphis late Sunday. He eased through the side door and into the parking lot.
For three and a half hours, he raced along Interstate 40 with his eyes on the rearview mirror. Nothing. He never saw them. They probably just call ahead, he thought, and wait for him somewhere up there. In Nashville, he made a sudden exit into downtown. Using a map he had scribbled, he darted in and out of traffic, making U-turns wherever possible and in general driving like a nut. To the south of town, he turned quickly into a large apartment complex and cruised between the buildings. It was nice enough. The parking lots were clean and the faces were white. All of them. He parked next to the office and locked the BMW. The pay phone by the covered pool worked. He called a cab and gave an address two blocks away. He ran between the buildings, down a side street, and arrived precisely with the cab. "Greyhound bus station," he said to the driver. "And in a hurry. I've got ten minutes."
"Relax, pal. It's only six blocks away."
Mitch ducked low in the rear seat and watched the traffic. The driver moved with a slow confidence and seven minutes later stopped in front of the station. Mitch threw two fives over the seat and darted into the terminal. He bought a oneway ticket on the four-thirty bus to Atlanta. It was four thirty-one, according to the clock on the wall. The clerk pointed through the swinging doors. "Bus No. 454," she said. "Leaving in a moment."
The driver slammed the baggage door, took his ticket and followed Mitch onto the bus. The first three rows were filled with elderly blacks. A dozen more passengers were scattered toward the rear. Mitch walked slowly down the aisle, gazing at each face and seeing no one. He took a window seat on the fourth row from the rear. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses and glanced behind him. No one. Dammit! Was it the wrong bus? He stared out the dark windows as the bus moved quickly into traffic. They would stop in Knoxville. Maybe his contact would be there.
When they were on the interstate and the driver reached his cruising speed, a man in blue jeans and madras shirt suddenly appeared and slid into the seat next to Mitch. It was Tarrance. Mitch breathed easier.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
"In the rest room. Did you lose them?" Tarrance spoke in a low voice while surveying the backs of the heads of the passengers. No one was listening. No one could hear.
"I never see them, Tarrance. So I cannot say if I lost them. But I think they would have to be supermen to keep my trail this time."
"Did you see our man in the terminal?"
"Yes. By the pay phone with the red Falcons cap. Black dude."
"That's him. He would've signaled if they were following."
"He gave me the go-ahead."
Tarrance wore silver reflective sunglasses under a green Michigan State baseball cap. Mitch could smell the fresh Juicy Fruit.
"Sort of out of uniform, aren't you?" Mitch said with no smile. "Did Voyles give you permission to dress like that?"
"I forgot to ask him. I'll mention it in the morning."
"Sunday morning?" Mitch asked.
"Of course. He'll wanna know all about our little bus ride. I briefed him for an hour before I left town."
"Well, first things first. What about my car?"
"We'll pick it up in a few minutes and babysit it for you. It'll be in Knoxville when you need it. Don't worry."
"You don't think they'll find us?"
"No way. No one followed you out of Memphis, and we detected nothing in Nashville. You're clean as a whistle."
"Pardon my concern. But after that fiasco in the shoe store, I know you boys are not above stupidity."
"It was a mistake, all right. We"
"A big mistake. One that could get me on the hit list."
"You covered it well. It won't happen again."
"Promise me, Tarrance. Promise me no one will ever again approach me in public."
Tarrance looked down the aisle and nodded.
"No, Tarrance. I need to hear it from your mouth. Promise me."
"Okay, okay. It won't happen again. I promise."
"Thanks. Now maybe I can eat at a restaurant without fear of being grabbed."
"You've made your point."
An old black man with a cane inched toward them, smiled and walked past. The rest-room door slammed. The Greyhound rode the left lane and blew past the lawful drivers.
Tarrance flipped through a magazine. Mitch gazed into the countryside. The man with the cane finished his business and wobbled to his seat on the front row.
"So what brings you here?" Tarrance asked, flipping pages.
"I don't like airplanes. I always take the bus."
"I see. Where would you like to start?"
"Voyles said you had a game plan."
"I do. I just need a quarterback."
"Good ones are very expensive."
"We've got the money."
"It'll cost a helluva lot more than you think. The way I figure it, I'll be throwing away a forty-year legal career at, say, an average of half a million a year."
"That's twenty million bucks."
"I know. But we can negotiate."
"That's good to hear. You're assuming that you'll work, or practice, as you say, for forty years. That's a very precarious assumption. Just for fun, let's assume that within five years we bust up and indict you along with all of your buddies. And that we obtain convictions, and you go off to prison for a few years. They won't keep you long because you're a white-collar type, and of course you've heard how nice the federal pens are. But at any rate, you'll lose your license, your house, your little BMW. Probably your wife. When you get out, you can open up a private investigation service like your old friend Lomax. It's easy work, unless you sniff the wrong underwear."
"Like I said. It's negotiable."
"All right. Let's negotiate. How much do you want?"
"For what?"
Tarrance closed the magazine, placed it under his seat and opened a thick paperback. He pretended to read. Mitch spoke from the corner of his mouth with his eyes on the median.
"That's a very good question," Tarrance said softly, just above the distant grind of the diesel engine. "What do we want from you? Good question. First, you have to give up your career as a lawyer. You'll have to divulge secrets and records that belong to your clients. That, of course, is enough to get you disbarred, but that won't seem important. You and I must agree that you will hand us on a silver platter. Once we agree, if we agree, the rest will fall in place. Second, and most important, you will give us enough documentation to indict every member of and most of the top Morolto people. The records are in the little building there on Front Street."