The Firm Part 27

"Not that I know of. Must be a mistake."

He could almost hear DeVasher laughing at this very moment on the fifth floor. The fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d was standing up there somewhere in some dark room full of wires and machines with a headset stretched around his ma.s.sive bowling ball of a head, laughing uncontrollably.

"That's strange," Mitch said. Abby pulled on a pair of jeans and pointed to the backyard. Mitch nodded. The signal was simple, just a quick point or a nod of the head in the direction of the patio.

Mitch laid the envelope on the rolltop desk and for a second touched the scrawled markings on it. Probably DeVasher's handwriting. He could almost hear him laughing. He could see his fat face and nasty smile. The photographs had probably been pa.s.sed around during lunch in the partners' dining room. He could see Lambert and McKnight and even Avery gawking admiringly over coffee and dessert.

They'd better enjoy the pictures, dammit. They'd better enjoy the remaining few months of their bright and rich and happy legal careers.

Abby walked by and he grabbed her hand. "What's for dinner?" he asked for the benefit of those listening.

"Why don't we go out. We should celebrate since you're home at a decent hour."

They walked through the den. "Good idea," said Mitch. They eased through the rear door, across the patio and into the darkness.

"What is it?" Mitch asked.

"You got a letter today from Doris. She said she's in Nashville, but will return to Memphis on the twenty-seventh of February. She says she needs to see you. It's important. It was a very short letter."

"The twenty-seventh! That was yesterday."

"I know. I presume she's already in town. I wonder what she wants."

"Yeah, and I wonder where she is."

"She said her husband had an engagement here in town."

"Good. She'll find us," Mitch said.

Nathan Locke closed his office door and pointed DeVasher in the direction of the small conference table near the window. The two men hated each other and made no attempt to be cordial. But business was business, and they took orders from the same man.

"Lazarov wanted me to talk to you, alone," DeVasher said. "I've spent the past two days with him in Vegas, and he's very anxious. They're all anxious, Locke, and he trusts you more than anyone else around here. He likes you more than he likes me."

"That's understandable," Locke said with no smile. The ripples of black around his eyes narrowed and focused intently on DeVasher.

"Anyway, there are a few things he wants us to discuss."

"I'm listening."

"McDeere's lying. You know how Lazarov's always bragged about having a mole inside the FBI. Well, I've never believed him, and still don't, for the most part. But according to Lazarov, his little source is telling him that there was some kind of secret meeting involving McDeere and some FBI heavyweights when your boy was in Washington back in January. We were there, and our men saw nothing, but it's impossible to track anyone twenty-four hours a day without getting caught. It's possible he could've slipped away for a little while without our knowledge."

"Do you believe it?"

"It's not important whether I believe it. Lazarov believes it, and that's all that matters. At any rate, he told me to make preliminary plans to, uh, take care of him."

"d.a.m.n, DeVasher! We can't keep eliminating people."

"Just preliminary plans, nothing serious. I told Lazarov I thought it was much too early and that it would be a mistake. But they are very worried, Locke."

"This can't continue, DeVasher. I mean, d.a.m.n! We have reputations to consider. We have a higher casualty rate than oil rigs. People will start talking. We're gonna reach a point where no law student in his right mind would take a job here."

"I don't think you need to worry about that. Lazarov has put a freeze on hiring. He told me to tell you that. He also wants to know how many a.s.sociates are still in the dark."

"Five, I think. Let's see, Lynch, Sorrell, Buntin, Myers and McDeere."

"Forget McDeere. Lazarov is convinced he knows much more than we think. Are you certain the other four know nothing?"

Locke thought for a moment and mumbled under his breath. "Well, we haven't told them. You guys are listening and watching. What do you hear?"

"Nothing, from those four. They sound ignorant and act as if they suspect nothing. Can you fire them?"

"Fire them! They're lawyers, DeVasher. You don't fire lawyers. They're loyal members of the firm."

"The firm is changing, Locke. Lazarov wants to fire the ones who don't know and stop hiring new ones. It's obvious the Fibbies have changed their strategy, and it's time for us to change as well. Lazarov wants to circle the wagons and plug the leaks. We can't sit back and wait for them to pick off our boys."

"Fire them," Locke repeated in disbelief. "This firm has never fired a lawyer."

"Very touching, Locke. We've disposed of five, but never fired one. That's real good. You've got a month to do it, so start thinking of a reason. I suggest you fire all four at one time. Tell them you lost a big account and you're cutting back."

"We have clients, not accounts."

"Okay, fine. Your biggest client is telling you to fire Lynch, Sorrell, Buntin and Myers. Now start making plans."

"How do we fire those four without firing McDeere?"

"You'll think of something, Nat. You got a month. Get rid of them and don't hire any new boys. Lazarov wants a tight little unit where everyone can be trusted. He's scared, Nat. Scared and mad. I don't have to tell you what could happen if one of your boys spilled his guts."

"No, you don't have to tell me. What does he plan to do with McDeere?"

"Right now, nothing but the same. We're listening twenty-four hours a day, and the kid has never mentioned a word to his wife or anyone else. Not a word! He's been corralled twice by Tarrance, and he reported both incidents to you. I still think the second meeting was somewhat suspicious, so we're being very careful. Lazarov, on the other hand, insists there was a meeting in Washington. He's trying to confirm. He said his sources knew little, but they were digging. If in fact McDeere met with the Fibbies up there and failed to report it, then I'm sure Lazarov will instruct me to move quickly. That's why he wants preliminary plans to take McDeere out."

"How do you plan to do it?"

"It's too early. I haven't given it much thought."

"You know he and his wife are going to the Caymans in two weeks for a vacation. They'll stay in one of our condos, the usual."

"We wouldn't do it there again. Too suspicious. Lazarov instructed me to get her pregnant."

"McDeere's wife?"

"Yep. He wants them to have a baby, a little leverage. She's on the pill, so we gotta break in, take her little box, match up the pills and replace them with placebos."

At this, the great black eyes saddened just a touch and looked through the window. "What the h.e.l.l's going on, DeVasher?" he asked softly.

"This place is about to change, Nat. It appears as though the feds are extremely interested, and they keep pecking away. One day, who knows, one of your boys may take the bait, and you'll all leave town in the middle of the night."

"I don't believe that, DeVasher. A lawyer here would be a fool to risk his life and his family for a few promises from the feds. I just don't believe it will happen. These boys are too smart and they're making too much money."

"I hope you're right."

22.

The leasing agent leaned against the rear of the elevator and admired the black leather miniskirt from behind. He followed it down almost to the knees, where it ended and the seams in the black silk stockings began and snaked downward to black heels. Kinky heels, with little red bows across the toes. He slowly worked his way back up the seams, past the leather, pausing to admire the roundness of her rear, then upward to the red cashmere sweater, which from his vantage point revealed little but from the other side was quite impressive, as he had noticed in the lobby. The hair landed just below the shoulder blades and contrasted nicely with the red. He knew it was bleached, but add the bleach to the leather mini and the seams and the kinky heels and the tight sweater hugging those things around the front, add all that together and he knew this was a woman he could have. He would like to have her in the building. She just wanted a small office. The rent was negotiable.

The elevator stopped. The door opened, and he followed her into the narrow hall. "This way"-he pointed, flipping on a light switch. In the corner, he moved in front of her and stuck a key in a badly aged wooden door.

"It's just two rooms," he said, flipping on another switch. "About two hundred square feet."

She walked straight to the window. "The view is okay," Tammy said, staring into the distance.

"Yes, a nice view. The carpet is new. Painted last fall. Rest room's down the hall. It's a nice place. The entire building's been renovated within the past eight years." He stared at the black seams as he spoke.

"It's not bad," Tammy said, not in response to anything he had mentioned. She continued to stare out the window. "What's the name of this place?"

"The Cotton Exchange Building. One of the oldest in Memphis. It's really a prestigious address."

"How prestigious is the rent?"

He cleared his throat and held a file before him. He did not look at the file. He was gaping at the heels now. "Well, it's such a small office. What did you say you needed it for?"

"Secretarial work. Free-lance secretarial." She moved to the other window, ignoring him. He followed every move.

"I see. How long will you need it?"

"Six months, with an option for a year."

"Okay, for six months we can lease it for three-fifty a month."

She did not flinch or look from the window. She slid her right foot out of the shoe and rubbed the left calf with it. The seam continued, he observed, under the heel and along the bottom of the foot. The toe-nails were ... red! She c.o.c.ked her rear to the left and leaned on the windowsill. His file was shaking.

"I'll pay two-fifty a month," she said with authority.

He cleared his throat. There was no sense being greedy. The tiny rooms were dead s.p.a.ce, useless to anyone else, and had not been occupied in years. The building could use a free-lance secretary. h.e.l.l, he might even need a free-lance secretary.

"Three hundred, but no less. This building is in demand. Ninety percent occupied right now. Three hundred a month, and that's too low. We're barely covering costs at that."

She turned suddenly, and there they were. Staring at him. The cashmere was stretched tightly around them. "The ad said there were furnished offices available," she said.

"We can furnish this one," he said, eager to cooperate. "What do you need?"

She looked around the office. "I would like a secretarial desk with credenza in here. Several file cabinets. A couple of chairs for clients. Nothing fancy. The other room does not have to be furnished. I'll put a copier in there."

"No problem," he said with a smile.

"And I'll pay three hundred a month, furnished."

"Good," he said as he opened a file and withdrew a blank lease. He laid it on a folding table and began writing.

"Your name?"

"Doris Greenwood." Her mother was Doris Greenwood, and she had been Tammy Inez Greenwood before she ran up on Buster Hemphill, who later became (legally) Elvis Aaron Hemphill, and life had pretty much been downhill since. Her mother lived in Effingham, Illinois.

"Okay, Doris," he said with an effort at suaveness, as if they were now on a first-name basis and growing closer by the moment. "Home address?"

"Why do you need that?" she asked with irritation.

"Well, uh, we just need that information."

"It's none of your business."

"Okay, okay. No problem." He dramatically scratched out that portion of the lease. He hovered above it. "Let's see. We'll run it from today, March 2, for six months until September 2. Is that okay?"

She nodded and lit a cigarette.

He read the next paragraph. "Okay, we require a three-hundred-dollar deposit and the first month's rent in advance."

From a pocket in the tight black leather skirt, she produced a roll of cash. She counted six one-hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the table. "Receipt, please," she demanded.

"Certainly." He continued writing.

"What floor are we on?" she asked, returning to the windows.

"Ninth. There's a ten percent late charge past the fifteenth of the month. We have the right to enter at any reasonable time to inspect. Premises cannot be used for any illegal purpose. You pay all utilities and insurance on contents. You get one parking s.p.a.ce in the lot across the street, and here are two keys. Any questions?"

"Yeah. What if I work odd hours? I mean, real late at night."

"No big deal. You can come and go as you please. After dark the security guard at the Front Street door will let you pa.s.s."

Tammy stuck the cigarette between her sticky lips and walked to the table. She glanced at the lease, hesitated, then signed the name of Doris Greenwood.

They locked up, and he followed her carefully down the hall to the elevator.

By noon the next day, the odd a.s.sortment of furniture had been delivered and Doris Greenwood of Greenwood Services arranged the rented typewriter and the rented phone next to each other on the secretarial desk. Sitting and facing the typewriter, she could look slightly to her left out the window and watch the traffic on Front Street. She filled the desk drawers with typing paper, notepads, pencils, odds and ends. She placed magazines on the filing cabinets and the small table between the two chairs where her clients would sit.

There was a knock at the door. "Who is it?" she asked.

"It's your copier," a voice answered.

She unlocked the door and opened it. A short, hyperactive little man named Gordy rushed in, looked around the room and said rudely, "Okay, where do you want it?"

"In there," Tammy said, pointing to the eight-by-ten empty room with no door on the hinges. Two young men in blue uniforms pushed and pulled the cart holding the copier.

Gordy laid the paperwork on her desk. "It's a mighty big copier for this place. We're talking ninety copies a minute with a collator and automatic feed. It's a big machine."

"Where do I sign?" she asked, ignoring the small talk.