"Of course you're clean. Laney would've tackled you at the front door if you weren't clean."
"This place makes me nervous, Tarrance."
"Why did you go to Abanks?"
Mitch wiped his mouth and held the partially devoured thigh. A rather small thigh. "He's got a boat. I wanted to fish and snorkel, so we cut a deal. Where were you, Tarrance? In a submarine trailing us around the island?"
"What did Abanks say?"
"Oh, he knows lots of words. Hello. Give me a beer. Who's following us? Buncha words."
"They followed you, you know?"
"They! Which they? Your they or their they? I'm being followed so much I'm causing traffic jams."
"The bad guys, Mitch. Those from Memphis and Chicago and New York. The ones who'll kill you tomorrow if you get real cute."
"I'm touched. So they followed me. Where'd I take them? Snorkeling? Fishing? Come on, Tarrance. They follow me, you follow them, you follow me, they follow you. If I slam on brakes I get twenty noses up my ass. Why are we meeting here, Tarrance? This place is packed."
Tarrance glanced around in frustration.
Mitch closed his chicken box. "Look, Tarrance, I'm nervous and I've lost my appetite."
"Relax. You were clean coming from the condo."
"I'm always clean, Tarrance. I suppose Hodge and Kozinski were clean every time they moved. Clean at Abanks. Clean on the dive boat. Clean at the funerals. This was not a good idea, Tarrance. I'm leaving."
"Okay. When does your plane leave?"
"Why? You guys plan to follow? Will you follow me or them? What if they follow you? What if we all get real confused and I follow everybody?"
"Come on, Mitch."
"Nine-forty in the morning. I'll try to save you a seat. You can have the window next to Two-Ton Tony."
"When do we get your files?"
Mitch stood with his chicken box. "In a week or so. Give me ten days, and, Tarrance, no more meetings in public. They kill lawyers, remember, not stupid FBI agents."
26
AT eight Monday morning, Oliver Lambert and Nathan Locke were cleared through the concrete wall on the fifth floor and walked through the maze of small rooms and offices. DeVasher was waiting. He closed the door behind them and pointed to the chairs. His walk was not as quick. The night had been a long losing battle with the vodka. The eyes were red and the brain expanded with each breath.
"I talked with Lazarov yesterday in Las Vegas. I explained as best I could why you boys were so reluctant to fire your four lawyers, Lynch, Sorrell, Buntin and Myers. I gave him all your good reasons. He said he'd think about it, but in the meantime, make damned sure those four work on nothing but clean files. Take no chances and watch them closely."
"He's really a nice guy, isn't he?" Oliver Lambert said.
"Oh yes. A real charmer. He said Mr. Morolto has asked about once a week for six weeks now. Said they're all anxious."
"What did you tell him?" ,
"Told him things are secure, for now. Leaks are plugged, for now. I don't think he believes me."
"What about McDeere?" asked Locke.
"He had a wonderful week with h'is wife. Have you ever seen her in a string bikini? She wore one all week. Outstanding! We got some pictures, just for fun."
"I didn't come here to look at pictures," Locke snapped.
"You don't say. They spent an entire day with our little pal Abanks, just the three of them and a deckhand. They played in the water, did some fishing. And they did a lot of talking. About what, we don't know. Never could get close enough. But it makes me very suspicious, guys. Very suspicious."
"I don't see why," said Oliver Lambert. "What can they talk about besides fishing and diving, and, of course, Hodge and Kozinski? And so they talk about Hodge and Kozinski, what's the harm?"
"He never knew Hodge and Kozinski, Oliver," said Locke. "Why would he be so interested in their deaths?"
"Keep in mind," said DeVasher, "that Tarrance told him at their first meeting that the deaths were not accidental. So now he's Sherlock Holmes looking for clues."
"He won't find any, will he, DeVasher?"
"Hell no. It was a perfect job. Oh sure, there are a few unanswered questions, but the Caymanian police damned sure can't answer them. Neither can our boy McDeere."
"Then why are you worried?" asked Lambert.
"Because they're worried in Chicago, Ollie, and they pay me real good money to stay worried down here. And until the Fibbies leave us alone, everybody stays worried, okay?"
"What else did he do?"
"The usual Cayman vacation. Sex, sun, rum, a little shopping and sightseeing. We had three people on the island, and they lost him a couple of times, but nothing serious, I hope. Like I've always said, you can't trail a man twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, without getting caught. So we have to play it cool sometimes."
"You think McDeere's talking?" asked Locke.
"I know he lies, Nat. He lied about the incident in the Korean shoe store a month ago. You guys didn't want to believe it, but I'm convinced he went into that store voluntarily because he wanted to talk with Tarrance. One of our guys made a mistake, got too close, so the little meeting broke up. That ain't McDeere's version, but that's what happened. Yeah, Nat, I think he's talking. Maybe lie meets with Tarrance and tells him to go to hell. Maybe they're smoking dope together. I don't know."
"But you have nothing concrete, DeVasher," Ollie said.
The brain expanded and pressed mightily against the skull. It hurt too much to get mad. "No, Ollie, nothing like Hodge and Kozinski, if that's what you mean. We had those boys on tape and knew they were about to talk. McDeere's a little different."
"He's also a rookie," said Nat. "An eight-month lawyer who knows nothing. He's spent a thousand hours on sweat files, and the only clients he's handled have been legitimate. Avery's been extremely careful about the files McDeere's touched. We've talked about it."
"He has nothing to say, because he knows nothing," added Ollie. "Marty and Joe knew a helluva lot, but they'd been here for years. McDeere's a new recruit."
DeVasher gently massaged his temples. "So you've hired a real dumb-ass. Let's just suppose the FBI has a hunch who our biggest client is. Okay. Think along with me. And let's just suppose Hodge and Kozinski fed them enough to confirm the identity of this particular client. See where I'm going? And let's suppose the Fibbies have told McDeere all they know, along with a certain amount of embellishment. Suddenly, your ignorant rookie recruit is a very smart man. And a very dangerous one."
"How do you prove this?"
"We step up surveillance, for starters. Put his wife under twenty-four-hour watch. I've already called Lazarov and requested more men. Told him we needed some fresh faces. I'm going to Chicago tomorrow to brief Lazarov, and maybe Mr. Morolto. Lazarov thinks Morolto has a lead on a mole within the Bureau, some guy who's close to Voyles and will sell information. But it's expensive, supposedly. They wanna assess things and decide where to go."
"And you'll tell them McDeere's talking?" asked Locke.
"I'll tell them what I know and what I suspect. I'm afraid that if we sit back and wait for concrete, it might be too late. I'm sure Lazarov will wanna discuss plans to eliminate him."
"Preliminary plans?" Ollie asked, with a touch of hope.
"We've passed the preliminary stage, Ollie."
The Hourglass Tavern in New York City faces Forty-sixth Street, near its corner with Ninth Avenue. A small, dark hole-in-the-wall with twenty-two seats, it grew to fame with its expensive menu and fifty-nine-minute time limit on each meal. On the walls not far above the tables, hourglasses with white sand silently collect the seconds and minutes until the tavern's timekeeper-the waitress-finally makes her calculations and calls time. Frequented by the Broadway crowd, it is usually packed, with loyal fans waiting on the sidewalk. Lou Lazarov liked the Hourglass because it was dark and private conversations were possible. Short conversations, under fifty-nine minutes. He liked it because it was not in Little Italy, and he was not Italian, and although he was owned by Sicilians, he did not have to eat their food. He liked it because he was born and spent the first forty years of his life in the theater district. Then corporate headquarters was moved to Chicago, and he was transferred. But business required his presence in New York at least twice a week, and when the business included meeting a member of equal stature from another family, Lazarov always suggested the Hourglass. Tubertini had equal stature, and a little extra. Reluctantly, he agreed on the Hourglass.