The Brethren (29 page)

“Why don’t you just pay the extortion money?” Trevor asked. “It’d be a whole lot easier.”

“We’ve thought of that,” Wes said. “But Ricky doesn’t play fair. If we paid him, then he’d come back for more. And more.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“Really? What about Quince Garbe in Bakers, Iowa?”

Oh my god, thought Trevor, and he almost said it
aloud. How much do they know? All he could manage was a very weak “Who’s he?”

“Come on, Trevor,” Chap said. “We know where the money is hidden in the Bahamas. We know about Boomer Realty, and about your little account, currently with a balance of almost seventy thousand bucks.”

“We’ve dug as far as we can dig, Trevor,” Wes said, jumping in with perfect timing. Trevor was watching tennis, back and forth, back and forth. “But we’ve finally hit a rock. That’s why we need you.”

Truthfully, Trevor had never liked Spicer. He was a cold, ruthless, nasty little man who’d had the gall to cut Trevor’s percentage. Beech and Yarber were okay, but what the hell. It wasn’t as if Trevor had a lot of choices here. “How much?” he asked.

“Our client is prepared to pay a hundred thousand dollars, cash,” Chap said.

“Of course it’s cash,” Trevor replied. “A hundred thousand is a joke. That would be Ricky’s first installment. My self-respect is worth a helluva lot more than a hundred thousand.”

“Two hundred thousand,” Wes said.

“Let’s do it this way,” Trevor said, trying to willfully suppress his racing heart. “How much is it worth to your client to have his little secret buried?”

“And you’re willing to bury it?” Wes asked.

“Yep.”

“Give me a second,” Chap said, yanking a tiny phone from his pocket. He punched numbers as he opened the door and stepped into the hallway, then mumbled several sentences Trevor could barely hear.
Wes stared at a wall, the gun lying peacefully beside his chair. Trevor couldn’t see it, though he tried.

Chap returned and stared hard at Wes, as if his eyebrows and wrinkles could somehow deliver a crucial message. In the brief hesitation, Trevor rushed in. “I think it’s worth a million bucks,” he said. “It could be my last case. You’re asking me to divulge confidential client information, a rather egregious act for a lawyer. It would get me disbarred in an instant.”

Disbarment would be a step up for old Trevor, but Wes and Chap let it pass. Nothing good could come from an argument about how valuable his law license might be.

“Our client will pay a million dollars,” Chap said.

And Trevor laughed. He couldn’t help it. He cackled as if he’d just heard the perfect punch line, and across the street in the rental they laughed because Trevor was laughing.

Trevor managed to control himself. He stopped chuckling but couldn’t wipe off the smile. A million bucks. Cash. Tax-free. Hidden offshore, in another bank, of course, away from the clutches of the IRS and every other branch of the government.

Then he managed to arrange a lawyerly frown, a little embarrassed that he’d reacted so unprofessionally. He was about to say something important when three sharp raps on glass came from the front. “Oh yes,” he said. “That would be the coffee.”

“She’s gotta go,” Chap said.

“I’ll send her home,” Trevor said, standing for the first time, a little light-headed.

“No. Permanently. Get her out of the office.”

“How much does she know?” Wes asked.

“She’s dumb as a rock,” Trevor said happily.

“It’s part of the deal,” Chap said. “She goes, and now. We have a lot to discuss, and we don’t want her around.”

The knocking grew louder. Jan had unlocked the door but was caught by the security chain. “Trevor! It’s me!” she shouted through the two-inch crack.

Trevor walked slowly down the hall, scratching his head, searching for words. He came face to face with her through the window of the front door, and he looked very confused.

“Open up,” she growled. “This coffee is hot.”

“I want you to go home,” he said.

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because, well, uh—” Words failed him for a second, then he thought of the money. Her exit was part of the deal. “Because you’re fired,” he said.

“What?”

“I said you’re fired!” he yelled, loud enough for his new pals in the back to hear.

“You can’t fire me! You owe me too much money.”

“I don’t owe you a damned thing!”

“How about a thousand bucks in back salary!”

The windows of the rental were crowded with faces hidden by one-way shading. The voices echoed down the quiet street.

“You’re crazy!” Trevor screamed. “I don’t owe you a dime!”

“One thousand forty bucks, to be exact!”

“You’re nuts.”

“You sonofabitch! I stick with you for eight years, making minimum wage, then you finally get the big case, and you fire me. Is that what you’re doing, Trevor!?”

“Something like that! Now leave!”

“Open the door, you little coward!”

“Leave, Jan!”

“Not until I get my things!”

“Come back tomorrow. I’m meeting with Mr. Newman.” With that, Trevor took a step back. When she saw he wasn’t opening the door, she lost it. “You sonofabitch!” she screamed even louder, then hurled the tall latte at the door. The thin, rickety window shook but didn’t break, and was instantly covered with creamy brown liquid.

Trevor, safe on the inside, flinched anyway and watched in horror as this woman he knew so well lost her mind. She stormed away, red-faced and cursing, and took a few steps until a rock caught her attention. It was a remnant of a long-forgotten, low-budget landscaping project he’d once okayed at her insistence. She grabbed it, gritted her teeth, cursed some more, then launched it toward the door.

Wes and Chap had done a masterful job of playing it straight, but when the rock crashed through the door window, they couldn’t help but laugh. Trevor yelled, “You crazy bitch!” They laughed again and looked away from each other, trying gamely to tighten up.

Silence followed. Peace had broken out in and around the reception area.

Trevor appeared in the doorway of his office, unscathed, no visible injuries. “Sorry about that,” he said softly, and went to his chair.

“You okay?” Chap asked.

“Sure. No problem. How about plain coffee?” he asked Wes.

“Forget about it.”

The details were hammered out during lunch, which Trevor insisted they enjoy at Pete’s. They found a table in the back, near the pinball machines. Wes and Chap were concerned with privacy, but they soon realized that nobody listened because nobody conducted business at Pete’s.

Trevor knocked down three longnecks with his french fries. They had soft drinks and burgers.

Trevor wanted all the money in hand before he betrayed his client. They agreed to deliver a hundred thousand cash that afternoon, and immediately start a wire transfer for the balance. Trevor demanded a different bank, but they insisted on keeping Geneva Trust in Nassau. They assured him their access was limited only to observing the account; they could not tamper with the funds. Besides, the money would arrive there by late afternoon. If they changed banks, then it might take a day or two. Both sides were anxious to complete the deal. Wes and Chap wanted full, immediate protection for their client. Trevor wanted his fortune. After three beers he was already spending it.

Chap left early to fetch the money. Trevor ordered a
longneck to go, and they got into Wes’ car for a ride around town. The plan was to meet Chap at some spot and take possession of the cash. As they rode south on Highway A1A, along the beach, Trevor began talking.

“Isn’t it amazing,” he said, his eyes hidden behind cheap sunglasses, his head back on the headrest.

“What’s amazing?”

“The risks people are willing to take. Your client, for example. A rich man. He could hire all the young boys he wanted, yet he answers an ad in a gay magazine and starts writing letters to a complete stranger.”

“I don’t understand it,” Wes said, and the two straight boys bonded for a second. “It’s not my job to ask questions.”

“I suppose the thrill is in the unknown,” Trevor said and took a small sip.

“Yeah, probably so. Who’s Ricky?”

“I’ll tell you when I get the money. Which one’s your client?”

“Which one? How many victims are you working on right now?”

“Ricky’s been busy lately. Probably twenty or so in the works.”

“How many have you extorted?”

“Two or three. It’s a nasty business.”

“How’d you get involved?”

“I’m Ricky’s lawyer. He’s very bright, very bored, somehow he cooked up this scheme to put the squeeze on gays still in the closet. Against my better judgment, I signed on.”

“Is he gay?” Wes asked. Wes knew the names of Beech’s grandchildren. He knew Yarber’s blood type.
He knew who Spicer’s wife was dating back in Mississippi.

“No,” said Trevor.

“He’s a sicko then.”

“No, he’s a nice guy. So who’s your client?”

“Al Konyers.”

Trevor nodded and tried to remember how many letters he’d handled between Ricky and Al. “What a coincidence. I was making plans to go to Washington to do some background work on Mr. Konyers. Not his real name, of course.”

“Of course not.”

“Do you know his real name?”

“No. We were hired by some of his people.”

“How interesting. So none of us knows the real Al Konyers?”

“That’s correct. And I’m sure it’ll stay that way.”

Trevor pointed to a convenience store and said, “Pull in there. I need a beer.”

Wes waited near the gas pumps. It had been determined that they would not say anything about his drinking until the money changed hands and he’d told them everything. They would build some trust, then gently try to nudge him closer to sobriety. The last thing they needed was Trevor at Pete’s every night, drinking and talking too much.

Chap was waiting in a matching rental car, in front of a Laundromat five miles south of Ponte Vedra Beach. He handed Trevor a thin, cheap briefcase and said, “It’s all there. A hundred thousand. I’ll meet you guys back at the office.”

Trevor didn’t hear him. He opened the briefcase and began counting the money. Wes turned around and headed north. Ten stacks of $10,000, all in $100 bills.

Trevor closed it, and crossed over to the other side.

TWENTY-SEVEN

C
hap’s first task as Trevor’s new paralegal was to organize the front desk and rid it of anything remotely female. He put Jan’s things in a cardboard box, everything from lipstick tubes and nail files to peanut candy and several X-rated romance novels. There was an envelope with eighty dollars and change. The boss claimed it for himself, said it was petty cash.

Chap wrapped her photos in old newspapers and placed them carefully in another box, along with the breakable knickknacks you find on most front desks. He copied her appointment books so they would know who was scheduled to appear in the future. The traffic would be light, he saw with little surprise. Not a single court date anywhere on the horizon. Two office appointments this week, two the next, then nothing. As Chap studied the calendars, it was obvious that Trevor had shifted to a slower gear at about the time the money arrived from Quince Garbe.

They knew Trevor’s gambling had picked up in recent weeks, and probably his drinking. Several times
Jan had told friends on the phone that Trevor was spending more time at Pete’s than at the office.

As Chap busied himself in the front room, packing her junk, rearranging her desk, dusting and vacuuming and throwing away old magazines, the phone rang occasionally. His job description covered the phone, and he stayed close to it. Most of the calls were for Jan, and he politely explained that she no longer worked there. “Good for her” seemed to be the general feeling.

An agent dressed as a carpenter arrived early to replace the front door. Trevor marveled at Chap’s efficiency. “How’d you find one so quick?” he asked.

“You just have to work the yellow pages,” Chap said.

Another agent posing as a locksmith followed the carpenter and changed every lock in the building.

Their agreement included the provision that Trevor would see no new clients for at least the next thirty days. He’d argued long and hard against this, as if he had a stellar reputation to protect. Think of all the people who might need him, he’d complained. But they knew how slow the last thirty days had been, and they pressed him until he conceded. They wanted the place to themselves. Chap called those clients with scheduled appointments and told them that Mr. Carson would be tied up in court on the day they were supposed to stop by. Rescheduling would be difficult, Chap explained, but he’d give them a call when there was a break in the action.

“I didn’t think he went to court,” one of them said.

“Oh yes,” Chap said. “It’s a really big case.”

When the client list was pared to the core, only one
case required an office visit. It was an ongoing child support matter, and Trevor had represented the woman for three years. He couldn’t simply give her the boot.

Jan stopped by to cause trouble, and brought with her a boyfriend of sorts. He was a wiry young man with a goatee, polyester pants, white shirt, and tie, and Chap figured he probably sold used cars. No doubt he could have easily thrashed Trevor, but he wanted no part of Chap.

“I’d like to speak to Trevor,” Jan said, her eyes darting around her newly organized desk.

“Sorry. He’s in a meeting.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“I’m a paralegal.”

“Yeah, well get your money up front.”

“Thank you. Your things are in those two boxes over there,” Chap said, pointing.

She noticed the magazine racks were purged and neat, the wastebasket was empty, the furniture had been polished. There was a smell of antiseptic, as if they’d fumigated the place where she’d once sat. She was no longer needed.

“Tell Trevor he owes me a thousand dollars in unpaid salary,” she said.

“I will,” Chap replied. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, that new client yesterday, Yates Newman. Tell Trevor I checked the newspapers. In the past two weeks there’s been no accident deaths on I-95. No record of a female named Newman getting killed either. Something’s up.”