The Brethren

Quince bolted upright in horror, his cheeks instantly pale, his face contorted in panic. "Uh, tell him I'm in a meeting." he said, trying to sound reassuring but coming off as a hopeless liar.

"You tell him," she said, and the intercom clicked.

"Excuse me." he said, actually trying to smile. He picked up the receiver, punched three numbers, and turned his back on Wes and Chap so that maybe they wouldn't hear.

"Dad, it's me.What's up?" he said, head law.

A long pause as the old man filled his ear.

Then, "No, no, they're not from the Federal Reserve. They're, uh, they're lawyers from Des Moines. They represent the family of an old college buddy of mine. That's all."

A shorter pause.

"Uh, Franklin Delaney, you wouldn't remember him. He died four months ago, without a will, a big mess. No, Dad, uh, it has nothing to do with the bank."

He hung up. Not a bad piece of lying.The door was locked. That's all that mattered.

Wes and Chap stood and moved in tandem to the edge of the desk, where they leaned forward together as Quince opened the file. The first thing they noticed was the photo, paper-clipped to the inside flap. Wes gently removed it, and said, "Is this supposed to be Ricky?"

"That's him." Quince said, ashamed but determined to get through it.

"A nice-looking young man," Chap said, as if they were staring at a Playboy centerfold. All three were immediately uncomfortable.

"You know who Ricky is, don't you?'-" Quince asked.

Yes.

"Then tell me."

"No, it's not part of the deal."

"Why can't you tell me? I'm giving you everything you want."

"That's not what we agreed on:"

"I want to kill the bastard."

"Relax, Mr. Garbe. We have a deal. You get the money, we get the file, nobody gets hurt."

"Let's go back to the begi

Quince moved some papers around in the file and produced a thin magazine. "I bought this at a bookstore in Chicago." he said, sliding it around so they could read it. The tide was Out and About, and it described itself as a publication for mature men with alternative lifestyles. He let them take in the cover, then flipped to the back pages. Wes and Chap didn't try to touch it, but their eyes took in as much as possible. Very few pictures, lots of small print. It wasn't pornography by any means.

On page forty-six was a small section of personals. One was circled with a red pen. It read:

SWM in 20's looking for kind and discreet gentleman in 40's or 50's to pen pal with.

Wes and Chap leaned lower to read it, then came back up together. "So you answered this ad?" Chap said

"I did. I sent a little note, and about two weeks later I heard from Ricky"

"Do you have a copy of your note?"

"No. I didn't copy my letters. Nothing left this office. I was afraid to make copies around here."

Wes and Chap fiowned in disbelief, then great disappointment. What kind of dumb ass were they dealing with here?

"Sorry," Quince said, tempted to grab the cash before they changed their minds.

Moving things along, he removed the first letter from Ricky and thrust it at them. "Just lay it down," Wes said, and they leaned in again, inspecting without touching. They were very slow readers, Quince noticed, and they read with incredible concentration. His mind was begi

"The next letter please," Chap said.

Quince laid them out in sequence, one beside the other, three lavender in color, one a soft blue, one yellow, all written in the tedious block handwriting of a person with plenty of time. When they finished one page, Chap would carefully arrange the next one with a pair of tweezers. Their fingers touched nothing.

The odd thing about the letters, as Chap and Wes would whisper to each other much later, was that they were so thoroughly believable. Ricky was wounded and tortured and in dire need of someone to talk to. He was pitiful and sympathetic. And there was hope because the worst was over for him and he would soon be free to pursue new friendships. The writing was superb!

After a deafening silence, Quince said, "I need to make a phone call."

"To whom?"

"It's business."

Wes and Chap looked at each other with uncertainty, then nodded. Quince walked with the phone to his credenza and watched Main Street below while talking to another banker.

At some point, Wes began making notes, no doubt in preparation for the cross-examination to come. Quince loitered by the bookcase, trying to read a newspaper, trying to ignore the note-taking He was calm now, thinking as clearly as possible, plotting his next move, the one after these goons left him-

"Did you send a check for a hundred thousand dollars?" Chap asked.

"I did."

Wes, the grimmer-faced of the two, glared at him with contempt, as if to say, "What a fool."

They read some more, took a few notes, whispered and mumbled between themselves.

"How much money has your client sent?" Quince asked, just for the hell of it.

Wes got even grimmer and said, "We can't say"

No surprise to Quince. The boys had no sense of humor.

They sat down after an hour, and Quince took his seat in his banker's chair.

"Just a couple of questions." Chap said, and Quince knew they'd be talking for another hour.

"How'd you book the gay cruise?"

"It's in the letter there. This thug gave me the name and number of a travel agency in New York. I called, then sent a money order. It was easy"

"Easy? Have you done it before?"

"Are we here to talk about my sex life?"

"No."

"So let's stick to the issues." Quince said like a real ass, and he felt good again. The banker in him boiled for a moment. Then he thought of something he simply couldn't resist. With a straight face, he said, "The cruise is still paid for.You guys wa

Fortunately, they laughed. It was a quick flash of humor, then back to business. Chap said, "Did you consider using a pseudonym?"

"Yes, of course. It was stupid not to. But I'd never done this before. I thought the guy was legitimate. He's in Florida, I'm in Podunk, Iowa. It never crossed my mind the guy was a fraud."

"We'll need copies of all this." Wes said.

"That could be a problem."

"Why"

"Where would you copy it?"

"The bank doesn't have a copier?"

"It does, but you're not copying that file in this bank."

"Then we'll take it to a quick print somewhere."

"This is Bakers.We don't have a quick print."

"Do you have an office supply store?"

"Yes, and the owner owes my bank eighty thousand dollars. He sits next to me at the Rotary C1ub.You're not copying it there. I'm not going to be seen with that file."

Chap and Wes looked at each other, then at Quince. Wes said, "Okay, look. I'll stay here with you. Chap will take the file and find a copier."

"Where?"

"The drugstore." Wes said.

"You've found the drugstore?"

"Sure, we needed some tweezers."

"That copier's twenty years old."

"No, they have a new one."

"You must be careful, okay? The pharmacist is my secretary's second cousin. This is a very small town."

Chap took the file and walked to the door. It clicked loudly when he unlocked it, and when he stepped through he was immediately under scrutiny The secretary's desk was crowded with older women, all busy doing nothing until Chap emerged and they froze and gawked. Old Mr. Garbe was not far away, holding a ledger, pretending to be busy but himself consumed with curiosity. Chap nodded to them all and eased away, passing as he went virtually every employee of the bank.