Lazarov arrived first and did not wait for a table. He knew from experience the crowd thinned around 4 P.M., especially on Thursdays. He ordered a glass of red wine. The waitress tipped the hourglass above his head, and the race was on. He sat at a front table, facing the street, his back to the other tables. He was a heavy man of fifty-eight, with a thick chest and ponderous belly. He leaned hard on the red-checkered tablecloth and watched the traffic on Forty-sixth.
Thankfully, Tubertini was prompt. Less than a fourth of the white sand was wasted on him. They shook hands politely, while Tubertini scornfully surveyed the tiny sliver of a restaurant. He flashed a plastic smile at Lazarov and glared at his seat in the window. His back would face the street, and this was extremely irritating. And dangerous. But his car was just outside with two of his men. He decided to be polite. He deftly maneuvered around the tiny table and sat down.
Tubertini was polished. He was thirty-seven, the son-in-law of old man Palumbo himself. Family. Married his only daughter. He was beautifully thin and tanned with his short black hair oiled to perfection and slicked back. He ordered red wine.
"How's my pal Joey Morolto?" he asked with a perfect brilliant smile.
"Fine. And Mr. Palumbo?"
"Very ill, and very ill-tempered. As usual."
"Please give him my regards."
"Certainly."
The waitress approached and looked menacingly at the timepiece. "Just wine," said Tubertini. "I won't be eating."
Lazarov looked at the menu and handed it to her. "Sauteed blackfish, with another glass of wine."
Tubertini glanced at his men in the car. They appeared to be napping. "So, what's wrong in Chicago?"
"Nothing's wrong. We just need a little information, that's all. We've heard, unconfirmed of course, that you have a very reliable man somewhere deep in the Bureau, somewhere close to Voyles."
"And if we do?"
"We need some information from this man. We have a small unit in Memphis, and the Fibbies are trying like hell to infiltrate. We suspect one of our employees may be working with them, but we can't seem to catch him."
"And if you caught him?"
"We'd slice out his liver and feed it to the rats."
"Serious, huh?"
"Extremely serious. Something tells me the feds have targeted our little unit down there, and we've grown quite nervous."
"Let's say his name is Alfred, and let's say he's very close to Voyles."
"Okay. We need a very simple answer from Alfred. We need to know, yes or no, if our employee is working with the Fibbies."
Tubertini watched Lazarov and sipped his wine. "Alfred specializes in simple answers. He prefers the yes and no variety. We've used him twice, only when it's critical, and both times it was a question of 'Are the feds coming here or there?' He's extremely cautious. I don't think he would provide too many details."
"Is he accurate?"
"Deadly accurate."
"Then he should be able to help us. If the answer is yes, we move accordingly. If no, the employee is off the hook and it's business as usual."
"Alfred's very expensive."
"I was afraid so. How much?"
"Well, he has sixteen years with the Bureau and is a career man. That's why he's so cautious. He has much to lose."
"How much?"
"Half a million."
"Damn!"
"Of course, we have to make a small profit on the transaction. After all, Alfred is ours."
"A small profit?"
"Quite small, really. Most of it goes to Alfred. He talks to Voyles daily, you know. His office is two doors down."
"All right. We'll pay."
Tubertini flashed a conquering smile and tasted his wine. "I think you lied, Mr. Lazarov. You said it was a small unit in Memphis. That's not true, is it?"
"No."
"What's the name of this unit?"
"The Bendini firm."
"Old man Morolto's daughter married a Bendini."
"That's it."
"What's the employee's name?"
"Mitchell McDeere."
"It might take two or three weeks. Meeting with Alfred is a major production."
"Yes. Just be quick about it."
27
IT was highly unusual for wives to appear at the quiet little fortress on Front Street. They were certainly welcome, they were told, but seldom invited. So Abby McDeere arrived through the front door, into the reception area uninvited and unannounced. It was imperative that she see her husband, she insisted. The receptionist phoned Nina on the second floor, and within seconds she appeared in a rush and warmly greeted her boss's wife. Mitch was in a meeting, she explained. He's always in a damned meeting, Abby replied. Get him out! They rushed to his office, where Abby closed the door and waited.
Mitch was observing another one of Avery's chaotic departures. Secretaries bumped into each other and packed briefcases while Avery yelled into the phone. Mitch sat on the sofa with a legal pad and watched. His partner was scheduled for two days on Grand Cayman. April 15 loomed on the calendar like a date with a firing squad, and the banks down there had certain records that had become critical. It was all work, Avery insisted. He talked about the trip for five days, dreading it, cursing it, but finding it completely unavoidable. He would take the Lear, and it was now waiting, said a secretary.
Probably waiting with a load of cash, thought Mitch.
Avery slammed the phone down and grabbed his coat.
Nina walked through the door and glared at Mitch. "Mr. McDeere, your wife is here. She says it's an emergency."
The chaos became silent. He looked blankly at Avery. The secretaries froze. "What is it?" he asked, standing.
"She's in your office," Nina said.
"Mitch, I've gotta go," Avery said. "I'll call you tomorrow. I hope things are okay."
"Sure." He followed Nina down the hall, saying nothing, to his office. Abby sat on his desk. He closed and locked the door. He watched her carefully.
"Mitch, I have to go home."
"Why? What's happened?"
"My father just called at school. They found a tumor in one of Mother's lungs. They're operating tomorrow."
He breathed deeply. "I'm so sorry." He did not touch her. She was not crying.
"I must go. I've taken a leave of absence at school."
"For how long?" It was a nervous question.
She looked past him, to the Ego Wall. "I don't know, Mitch. We need some time apart. I'm tired of a lot of things right now, and I need time. I think it will be good for both of us."
"Let's talk about it."
"You're too busy to talk, Mitch. I've been trying to talk for six months, but you can't hear me."
"How long will you be gone, Abby?"
"I don't know. I guess it depends on Mother. No, it depends on a lot of things."
"You're scaring me, Abby."
"I'll be back, I promise. I don't know when. Maybe a week. Maybe a month. I need to sort out some things."
"A month?"
"I don't know, Mitch. I just need some time. And I need to be with Mother."
"I hope she's okay. I mean that."
"I know. I'm going home to pack a few things, and I'll leave in an hour or so."
"All right. Be careful."
"I love you, Mitch."
He nodded and watched as she opened the door. There was no embrace.
On the fifth floor, a technician rewound the tape and pushed the emergency button direct to DeVasher's office. He appeared instantly and slapped the headphones over his extra-large cranium. He listened for a moment. "Rewind," he demanded. He was quiet for another moment.