The Brethren

"How dirty is this money?" he asked, as if he might not want to get involved with it after all.

"It's not drug money," Spicer said quickly, on the defensive, as if all other money was clean.

"We really can't say." Beech replied.

"You've got a deal," Yarber said. "Take it or leave it." Good move, old boy, Argrow said to himself. "The FBI is involved?" he asked.

"Only with the lawyer's disappearance," Beech said. "The fells know nothing about the offshore account."

"Let me get this straight.You got a dead lawyer, the FBI, an offshore account hiding dirty money, right? What've you boys been up to?"

"You don't wa

"I think you're right."

"No one's forcing you to get involved"Yarber said.

So a decision had to be made. For Argrow, the red flags were up, the minefield was marked. If he went forward, then he did so armed with sufficient warnings that his three new friends could be dangerous. This, of course, meant nothing to Argrow But to Beech, Spicer, and Yarber, the opening in their tight little partnership, however slight it might be, meant they were admitting another conspirator. They would never tell him about their scam, and certainly not about Aaron Lake, nor would he share in any more of their loot, unless he earned it with his wiring prowess. But he already knew more than he should. They had no choice.

Desperation played no small role in their decision. With Trevor, they'd had access to the outside, something they'd taken for granted. Now that he was gone, their world had shrunk considerably.

Though they had yet to admit it, firing him had been a mistake. With perfect hindsight, they should've warned him, and told him everything about Lake and the tampered mail. He'd been far from perfect, but they needed all the help they could get.

Perhaps they would've hired him back a day or two later, but they never had the chance. Trevor bolted, and now he was gone forever.

Argrow had access. He had a phone and friends; he had guts and he knew how to get things done. Perhaps they might need him, but they would take it slowly

He scratched his head and frowned as if a headache was coming. "Don't tell me anything else," he said. "I don't wa

He returned to the conference room and closed the door behind him, then perched on the edge of the table and once again seemed to be firing calls all over the Caribbean.

They heard him laugh twice, probably a joke with an old friend surprised to hear his voice. They heard him swear once, but had no idea at whom or for what reason. His voice rose and fell, and try as they might to read court decisions and dust off old books and study Vegas odds, they couldn't ignore the noise from the room.

Argrow put on quite a show, and after an hour of useless chatter he came out and said, "I think I can finish it tomorrow, but we need an affidavit signed by one of you stating that you are the sole owners of Boomer Realty."

"Who sees the affidavit?" Beech asked.

"Only the bank in the Bahamas. They're getting a copy of the story about Mr. Carson, and they want verification about the ownership of the account."

The idea of actually signing any type of document in which they admitted they had anything to do with the dirty money terrified them. But the request made sense.

"Is there a fax machine around here?" Argrow asked.

"No, not for us," Beech replied.

"I'm sure the warden has one," Spicer said. "Just trot up there and tell him you need to send a document to your offshore bank."

It was u

"The lawyer was our mail ru

"How close do they inspect the legal mail?"

"They glance at it," Spicer said. "But they can't open it."

Argrow paced around a bit, deep in thought. Then, for the benefit of his audience he stepped between two racks of books, so that he could not be seen from outside the law library. He deftly unfolded his gadget, punched numbers, and stuck it to his ear. He said, "Yes, Wilson Argrow here. Is Jack in? Yes, tell him it's important." He waited.

"Who the hell's Jack?" Spicer asked from across the room. Beech and Yarber listened but watched for passersby.

"My brother in Boca," Argrow said. "He's a real estate lawyer. He's visiting me tomorrow" Then, into the phone, he said, "Hey, Jack, it's me. You comin tomorrow? Good, can you come in the morning? Good. Around ten. I'll have some mail going out. Good. How's Mom? Good. I'll see you in the morning."

The prospect of the resumption of mail intrigued the Brethren. Argrow had a brother who was a lawyer. And he had a phone, and brains, and guts.

He slid the gadget back into his pocket and walked from the racks. "I'll give the affidavit to my brother in the morning. He'll fax it to the bank. By noon the next day the money will be in Panama, safe and sound and earning fifteen percent. Piece of cake."

"We're assuming we can trust your brother?" Yarber said.

"With your life," Argrow said, almost offended by the question. He was walking to the door. "I'll see you guys later. I need some fresh air."

THIRTY-FOUR

Treyor's mother arrived from Scranton. She was with her sister, Trevor's aunt Helen. They were both in their seventies and in reasonably good health. They got lost four times between the airport and Neptune Beach, then meandered through the streets for an hour before stumbling on Trevor's house, a place his mother hadn't seen in six years. She hadn'tseen Trevor in two years. Aunt Helen hadn't seen him in at least ten, not that she particularly missed him.

His mother parked the rental car behind his little Beetle, and had a good cry before getting out.

What a dump, Aunt Helen said to herself.

The front door was unlocked. The place had been abandoned, but long before its owner fled the dishes had collected in the sink, the garbage had gone unattended, the vacuum hadn't left the closet.

The odor drove Aunt Helen out first, and Trevor's mother soon followed. They had no clue what to do: His body was still in Jamaica, in a crowded morgue, and according to the unfriendly young man she'd talked to at the State Department it would cost $600 to ship him home. The airlines would cooperate, but the paperwork was tied up in Kingston.

It took a half hour of bad driving to find his office. By then, word was out. Chap the paralegal was waiting at the reception desk, trying to look sad and busy at the same time. Wes the office manager was in a back room, just to listen and observe. The phone had rung constantly the day the news broke, but after a round of condolences from fellow lawyers and a client or two it went silent again.

On the front door was a cheap wreath, paid for by the CIA. "Ain't that nice." his mother said as they waddled up the sidewalk.

Another dump, thought Aunt Helen.

Chap greeted them and introduced himself as Trevor's paralegal. He was in the process of trying to close the office, a most difficult task.

"Where's the girl?" his mother asked, her eyes red from grieving.

"She left some time back. Trevor caught her stealing,"

"Oh dear."

"Would you like some coffee?" he asked.

"That would be nice, yes." They sat on the dusty and uneven sofa, while Chap fetched three coffees from a pot that just happened to be fresh. He sat across from them in an unstable wicker chair. The mother was bewildered. The aunt was curious, her eyes darting around the office, looking for any sign of prosperity. They were not poor, but at their ages affluence would never be attained.

"I'm very sorry about Trevor," Chap said.