"How do you know this?"
Tarrance smiled. "Because we spend billions of dollars fighting organized crime. Because we've tracked the Moroltos for twenty years. Because we have sources within the family. Because Hodge and Kozinski were talking when they were murdered. Don't sell us short, Mitch."
"And you think I can get the information out?"
"Yes, Counselor. You can build a case from the inside that will collapse and break up one of the largest crime families in the country. You gotta lay out for us. Whose office is where? Names of all secretaries, clerks, paralegals. Who works on what files? Who's got which clients? The chain of command. Who's on the fifth floor? What's up there? Where are the records kept? Is there a central storage area? How much is computerized? How much is on microfilm? And, most important, you gotta bring the stuff out and hand it to us. Once we have probable cause, we can go in with a small army and get everything. But that's an awfully big step. We gotta have a very tight and solid case before we go crashing in with search warrants."
"Is that all you want?"
"No. You'll have to testify against all of your buddies at their trials. Could take years."
Mitch breathed deeply and closed his eyes. The bus slowed behind a caravan of mobile homes split in two. Dusk was approaching, and, one at a time, the cars in the westbound lane brightened with headlights. Testifying at trial!
This, he had not thought of. With millions to spend for the best criminal lawyers, the trials could drag on forever.
Tarrance actually began reading the paperback, a Louis L'Amour. He adjusted the reading light above them, as if he was indeed a real passenger on a real journey. After thirty miles of no talk, no negotiation, Mitch removed his sunglasses and looked at Tarrance.
"What happens to me?"
"You'll have a lot of money, for what that's worth. If you have any sense of morality, you can face yourself each day. You can live anywhere in the country, with a new identity, of course. We'll find you a job, fix your nose, do anything you want, really."
Mitch tried to keep his eyes on the road, but it was impossible. He glared at Tarrance. "Morality? Don't ever mention that word to me again, Tarrance. I'm an innocent victim, and you know it."
Tarrance grunted with a smart-ass grin.
They rode in silence for a few miles.
"What about my wife?"
"Yeah, you can keep her."
"Very funny."
"Sorry. She'll get everything she wants. How much does she know?"
"Everything." He thought of the girl on the beach. "Well, almost everything."
"We'll get her a fat government job with the Social Security Administration anywhere you want. It won't be that bad, Mitch."
"It'll be wonderful. Until an unknown point in the future when one of your people opens his or her mouth and lets something slip to the wrong person, and you'll read about me or my wife in the paper. The Mob never forgets, Tarrance. They're worse than elephants. And they keep secrets better than your side. You guys have lost people, so don't deny it."
"I won't deny it. And I'll admit to you that they can be ingenious when they decide to kill."
"Thanks. So where do I go?"
"It's up to you. Right now we have about two thousand witnesses living all over the country under new names with new homes and new jobs. The odds are overwhelmingly in your favor."
"So I play the odds?"
"Yes. You either take the money and run, or you play big-shot lawyer and bet that we never infiltrate."
"That's a hell of a choice, Tarrance."
"It is. I'm glad it's yours."
The female companion of the ancient black man with the cane rose feebly from her seat and began shuffling toward them. She grabbed each aisle seat as she progressed. Tarrance leaned toward Mitch as she passed. He would not dare speak with this stranger in the vicinity. She was at least ninety, half crippled, probably illiterate, and could care less if Tarrance received his next breath of air. But Tarrance was instantly mute.
Fifteen minutes later, the rest-room door opened and released the sounds of the toilet gurgling downward into the pit of the Greyhound. She shuffled to the front and took.her seat.
"Who is Jack Aldrich?" Mitch asked. He suspected a cover-up with this one, and he carefully watched the reaction from the corner of his eye. Tarrance looked up from the book and stared at the seat in front of him.
"Name's familiar. I can't place him."
Mitch returned his gaze to the window. Tarrance knew. He had flinched, and his eyes had narrowed too quickly before he answered. Mitch watched the westbound traffic.
"So who is he?" Tarrance finally asked.
"You don't know him?"
"If I knew him, I wouldn't ask who he was."
"He's a member of our firm. You should've known that, Tarrance."
"The city's full of lawyers. I guess you know them all."
"I know the ones at Bendini, Lambert & Locke, the quiet little firm you guys have been studying for seven years. Al-drich is a six-year man who allegedly was approached by the FBI a couple of months ago. True or false?"
"Absolutely false. Who told you this?"
"It doesn't matter. Just a rumor around the office."
"It's a lie. We've talked to no one but you since August. You have my word. And we have no plans to talk to anyone else, unless, of course, you decline and we must find another prospect."
"You've never talked to Aldrich?"
"That's what I said."
Mitch nodded and picked up a magazine. They rode in silence for thirty minutes. Tarrance gave up on his novel, and finally said, "Look, Mitch, we'll be in Knoxville in an hour or so. We need to strike a deal, if we're going to. Director Voyles will have a thousand questions in the morning."
"How much money?"
"Half a million bucks."
Any lawyer worth his salt knew the first offer had to be rejected. Always. He had seen Avery's mouth drop open in shock and his head shake wildly in absolute disgust and disbelief with first offers, regardless of how reasonable. There would be counteroffers, and counter-counteroffers, and further negotiations, but always, the first offer was rejected.
So by shaking his head and smiling at the window as if this was what he expected, Mitch said no to half a million.
"Did I say something funny?" Tarrance, the nonlawyer, the nonnegotiator, asked.
"That's ridiculous, Tarrance. You can't expect me to walk away from a gold mine for half a million bucks. After taxes, I net three hundred thousand at best."
"And if we close the gold mine and send all you Gucci-footed hotshots to jail?"
"If. If. If. If you knew so much, why haven't you done something? Voyles said you boys have been watching and waiting for seven years. That's real good, Tarrance. Do you always move so fast?"
"Do you wanna take that chance, McDeere? Let's say it takes us another five years, okay? After five years we bust the joint and send your ass to jail. At that point it won't make any difference how long it took us, will it? The result will be the same, Mitch."
"I'm sorry. I thought we were negotiating, not threatening."
"I've made you an offer."
"Your offer is too low. You expect me to make a case that will hand you hundreds of indictments against a group of the sleaziest criminals in America, a case that could easily cost me my life. And you offer a pittance. Three million, at least."
Tarrance did not flinch or frown. He received the counteroffer with a good, straight poker face, and Mitch, the negotiator, knew it was not out of the ballpark.
"That's a lot of money," Tarrance said, almost to himself. "I don't think we've ever paid that much."