The Deposit Slip (30 page)

T
he coffeehouse was nearly empty. A
For Lease
sign in the window testified to the establishment’s last days. Marcus could see why: the espresso was terrible. Mick had picked the right place for a meeting that demanded solitude.

Marcus hated Greenwich Village. It was pretentious and bohemian at the same time, and he despised both qualities. But Proctor Hamilton—the name Mick had dredged up for his New York man—only met clients in Manhattan, and this was better than most alternatives.

To find the information Marcus wanted on this man, Mick had made a quick trip to New York, called in many favors, and promised many in return. But the reward was a real phone number and a skeletal resume for the man they had hired, sight unseen, for the Athens work.

Proctor Hamilton lived in Queens, though he never met clients in that borough. He was a former Army Ranger with special operations training and experience. He usually limited himself to known clients or persons referred by those clients. Typically, he ran his earnings through one of three or four offshore banks in the Caribbean. And generally he insisted on a face-to-face meeting to arrange work. In fact, Mick’s contacts were quite surprised when he related that Mr. Hamilton had accepted the first job from Marcus over the phone.

Marcus looked at his watch, confirming that Proctor was now half an hour late. Marcus knew the man had only worked with him reluctantly the first time and might refuse this meeting. It was beginning to look like he had done just that.

The bell over the front door rang, and a man stepped into the nearly vacant coffeehouse. He scanned the shop before approaching the booth where Marcus sat.

Proctor Hamilton was in his midthirties, Marcus estimated. As he took off his jacket, the Paisley lawyer saw that he was slender, but wiry and muscular.

Hostility was carved onto the man’s face. Marcus sensed that any pleasantries would be unwelcome. Fine. No chitchat. Get right to business.

“I have another job I’d like you to perform.”

Proctor sat silent. If his face changed at all, Marcus couldn’t detect it.

“You weren’t successful last time. The girl gave a statement. The case is unraveling.”

“Is she coming to trial?” the man asked, breaking his silence.

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. She gave a written statement.”

Proctor looked at the table and shook his head. “That wasn’t what you hired me for. You hired me to keep her from coming back from Europe. She’s still there. If you had some other legal agenda, that’s your problem.”

Marcus was infuriated at the cool disdain in the man’s voice. But he needed this man, and arguing about the last job was not going to accomplish what he needed.

“The other assistance I need will make it all irrelevant anyway,” Marcus said, then paused. He expected Proctor to ask him what it was—but the man stared with indifference until Marcus continued.

“I need you to eliminate the plaintiff in the lawsuit, Erin Larson. And if the opportunity permits, the lawyer as well.”

The man shook his head, a sarcastic smile appearing on his face. “Eliminate. Is that a legal term?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do. I’m not interested. Lose my number,” Proctor answered and began to slide from the booth.

“You have to.” There. It was out. Marcus felt his throat grow dry.

Proctor stopped and looked at Marcus sullenly.

“What do you mean.”

“I taped our first phone conversation about the job in Athens,” Marcus said, restraining himself from running his tongue across parched lips.

Proctor’s eyes showed no concern. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I called you from my office. My phone’s set up for it. It’s all on a disk.”

“And just what does that get you. You burn me, you burn yourself.”

“You haven’t been listening. I need your help because I’m already burned. Now this has to get done. You get me out of my problem and yours goes away as well.”

“Do it yourself.”

Strangely, Marcus realized, this had not occurred to him. But then, he thought, he was an advocate. He didn’t take the stand to testify; he presented the story. Made it palatable, and he sold it. And when he needed expertise, he hired it.

“This needs to be an accident. I need your expertise.”

“Do you?” Proctor slid fully back into the booth. Pressing his elbows onto the table, he leaned close enough for Marcus to feel the breath on his cheek.

“Well, I’ve made some inquiries of my own, Mr. Stanford,” Proctor said in a soft monotone. “And my inquiries say that what you and that bank have done up in that little town, it’s a mess. A mess. Now you want me to be part of it.”

“No, you’re already part of it. I want you to help me sort it out,” Marcus responded. “And I’m not extorting you. I will pay your full fee.”

Proctor hesitated. “This isn’t a money issue. I told you, this is a mess. I don’t do messes.”

“It has to be done very soon.” Marcus pressed on, ignoring the last comment.

Full minutes passed, in which Proctor stared into Marcus’s eyes, and the Paisley attorney did not turn away. It wasn’t a contest. Marcus could see that Proctor was weighing his options: the risks, the money—particularly the money.

Marcus always knew—in the courtroom, in negotiations—when he had the winning edge. He had it now. Mick’s information made clear that this man saw himself as a businessman. Marcus’s threat was irrelevant: now that money was on the table, it was just business. They could sit here for an hour if Proctor liked, so close they nearly intertwined, but eventually Proctor would come to the same conclusion.

“Why was all this necessary?” Proctor asked.

“That’s not your concern,” Marcus answered rapidly, taken by surprise at the question.

“You’ve made it my concern. Why’d you get so deep into this one? You’re a hotshot attorney, lots of bucks.”

“It’s not your concern.”

“You want my service, you answer.”

Marcus heard the finality in Proctor’s voice. This deal—this arrangement—felt so close. He decided to answer.

“I needed this opportunity to break free. The freedom to fix some things in my life. And now these people could prevent it.”

“Oh,” Proctor came back—in a tone that Marcus could not discern between understanding and mockery. “Then this is
personal
.”

Marcus did not answer, and at last he saw Proctor shake his head. “Making this look like an accident, when it’s such a convenient accident for you and your client: it’s nearly impossible.”

“That’s why you’re the expert.” Marcus’s throat was cotton.

“All right,” Proctor said, spreading his hands across the table like he was clearing it. “I’ll clean up your mess. Three hundred thousand.”

“One hundred thousand.”

“Two hundred thousand. Half in advance.”

Would he carry through? Of course he would. He was a professional.

“Okay.”

Proctor recited a new account number and bank. “Transfer by tomorrow. This is rushed enough as it is.” Marcus wrote it quickly on the back of one of his cards, then nodded his assent.

“And on this short notice, you’ve got to assist,” Proctor finished. “I haven’t got time to track your targets, so you’ve got to help me set up.” Marcus agreed again.

Proctor gave him a new cell number, and then he was gone.

As Marcus watched the man leave the coffee shop, he felt, with a remote sense of wonder, his right hand trembling. Nothing more, just his right hand.

The information about taping their conversation had kept the man at the table, but the money put it over, Marcus told himself. He gripped the hand as it gave a last gentle shudder.

So, he thought, quashing a momentary echo of regret. So it really had come to this.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grant, but he’s still out of the office. He told me to let you know he hasn’t forgotten his promise to call.”

Sidney Grant gripped his pen like a spear. “I’ve called every day for a week.”

“I know,” Whittier’s oily voice came over the phone line. “Mr. Stanford is
very
sorry. He knows the importance of getting back to you. He said he needs to finish some arrangements before you speak.”

Sidney knew that Whittier was in the loop now, but how far?

No. He wouldn’t discuss this with Whittier. He’d deal with this himself. Without another word, Sidney punched the Intercom button on his desk phone, cutting Whittier off.

“Sharri, send Mr. Creedy in now.”

Sidney was shocked as the farmer entered the room. The man looked only a step out of the grave. Creedy’s hair was matted under a John Deere hat, his scarred hands oiled black from machine work. Mostly, the lines of his face and yellowed complexion told how far he had fallen.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Creedy muttered.

“That’s fine, Joe,” Sidney replied, unsure whether the farmer was being sincere or sarcastic. “Sit down.”

Joe’s gaze was distant as he slumped in his seat and looked at Sidney with unfocused eyes.

It had been nearly six months since Sidney had seen Creedy last, despite the farmer’s repeated requests to meet with him. He wondered if Creedy’s parents knew he was losing the farm. Sixty years that land had been in the family and his father never missed a payment. That man knew how to run an operation. But Creedy’s parents should’ve known their son wasn’t equipped to run the farm by himself.

“Mr. Grant, we had a deal,” the farmer said, pulling his cap off and clenching it in his hands.

Sidney estimated that Creedy was in his midthirties. Sitting across from the banker, the man looked fifteen years older. “Now, Joe, you know I’m a man of my word. But I always said we’d work out your mortgage when things were all settled.”

“I’ve done everything you wanted, Mr. Grant. You never told me what it was all about, but I did just like you asked.”

“I know, Joe, it’s . . .”

The farmer was shaking his head, not looking at Sidney as he rambled. “I went out and jammed up Pauly’s equipment; let his animals loose those nights—even shot out his windows.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Then we got on his girl these past months,” Creedy rolled on. “Everything you asked I’ve done.” A flick of spittle appeared at the corner of Joe’s mouth, and when he looked up, there was heat in his eyes.

“Settle down, Joseph. Let’s talk this through. I know you’ve done as I asked—”

“No, Mr. Grant, you don’t. There’s things that happened.” The farmer grew quiet. “You don’t know it all.”

“Joseph, we need to . . .” Sidney began, but fell silent as well when it was clear that the farmer wasn’t listening to him. “Joe?”

“No, Mr. Grant, you don’t know all that happened.”

“What are we talking about?”

“I was doin’ like you told me. Lookin’ for chances to rattle him some,” he said.

Sidney wished he’d quiet down but feared to interrupt.

“I saw Pauly leave the Legion Hall in the storm, and I followed ’im. I didn’t want him to recognize the truck, so I kept my lights off; followed his taillights. It was snowin’ real hard—you couldn’t see more ’en five feet ahead. When we got out on Highway 3 near his farm, I got up real close—to spook him—then flipped on my brights. An’ he was gone. One second he’s on the road, the other he’s just gone.”

Sidney was stunned. So Marcus hadn’t dealt with Larson. This drunken fool had done Paul Larson in.

“Maybe that wasn’t what made him crash ’cause I didn’t see it.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that, Joseph,” the banker said carefully.

The farmer looked up at Sidney warily. “Sure you did. You’re the one told me to stay on Pauly.”

Fear welled up in Sidney at the sudden glaze of anger and desperation in the farmer’s eyes. “I understand, Joseph,” the banker responded softly.

Where did he take this? Sidney thought quickly about his options. Did this change what he’d planned for this meeting? Or did it just make it easier?

“Well now, Joe,” Sidney drew out his response to calm the farmer, “let’s talk about your situation. Your family goes a long way back with this bank. That’s very important to me. The personal connection, with your father, with you and Susie. The reason I was ready to meet with you today was to tell you I’ve decided to take responsibility for your loan personally and start reforming your mortgage.”