John Grisham - The firm

By ten-thirty, they were ready for the final assault on the condo. The contraband was divided into three equal parts. Three daring raids in open daylight. Tammy slid the shiny new keys into her blouse pocket and took off with the suitcases. She walked quickly, her eyes darting in all directions behind the sunglasses. The parking lot in front of the condos was still empty. Traffic was light on the highway.

The new key fit, and she was inside. The key to the storage door also fit, and five minutes later she left the condo. The second and third trips were equally quick and uneventful. When she left the storage room for the last time, she studied it carefully. Everything was in order, just as she found it. She locked the condo and took the empty, well-worn Samsonites back to her room.

For an hour they lay beside each other on the bed and laughed at Avery and his hangover. It was over now, for the most part, and they had committed the perfect crime. And lover boy was a willing but ignorant participant. It had been easy, they decided.

The small mountain of evidence filled eleven and a half corrugated storage boxes. At two-thirty, a native with a straw hat and no shirt knocked on the door and announced he was from an outfit called Cayman Storage. Abby pointed at the boxes. With no place to go and no hurry to get there, he took the first box and ever so slowly carried it to his van.

Like all the natives, he operated on Cayman time. No hurry, mon.

They followed him in the Stanza to a warehouse in Georgetown. Abby inspected the proposed storage room and paid cash for three months' rental.

WAYNE Tarrance sat on the back row of the 11:40 P.M. Greyhound from Louisville to Indianapolis to Chicago. Although he sat by himself, the bus was crowded. It was Friday night. The bus left Kentucky thirty minutes earlier, and by now he was convinced something had gone wrong. Thirty minutes, and not a word or signal from anyone. Maybe it was the wrong bus. Maybe McDeere had changed his mind. Maybe a lot of things. The rear seat was inches above the diesel engine, and Wayne Tarrance, of the Bronx, now knew why Greyhound Frequent Milers fought for the seats just behind the driver. His Louis L'Amour vibrated until he had a headache. Thirty minutes. Nothing.

The toilet flushed across the aisle, and the door flew open. The odor filtered out, and Tarrance looked away, to the southbound traffic. From nowhere, she slid into the aisle seat and cleared her throat. Tarrance jerked to his right, and there she was. He'd seen her before, somewhere.

"Are you Mr. Tarrance?" She wore jeans, white cotton sneakers and a heavy green rag sweater. She hid behind dark glasses.

"Yeah. And you?"

She grabbed his hand and shook it firmly. "Abby McDeere."

"I was expecting your husband."

"I know. He decided not to come, and so here I am."

"Well, uh, I sort of wanted to talk to him."

"Yes, but he sent me. Just think of me as his agent."

Tarrance laid his paperback under the seat and watched the highway. "Where is he?"

"Why is that important, Mr. Tarrance? He sent me to talk business, and you're here to talk business. So let's talk."

"Okay. Keep your voice down, and if anybody comes down the aisle, grab my hand and stop talking. Act like we're married or something. Okay? Now, Mr. Voyles—do you know who he is?"

"I know everything, Mr. Tarrance."

"Good. Mr. Voyles is about to stroke out because we haven't got Mitch's files yet. The good files. You understand why they're important, don't you?"

"Very much so."

"So we want the files."

"And we want a million dollars."

"Yes, that's the deal. But we get the files first."

"No. That's not the deal. The deal, Mr. Tarrance, is that we get the million dollars exactly where we want it, then we hand over the files."

"You don't trust us?"

"That's correct. We don't trust you, Voyles or anyone else. The money is to be deposited by wire transfer to a certain numbered account in a bank in Freeport, Bahamas. We will immediately be notified, and the money will then be wired by us to another bank. Once we have it where we want it, the files are yours."

"Where are the files?"

"In a mini-storage in Memphis. There are fifty-one files in all, all boxed up real neat and proper like. You'll be impressed. We do good work."

"We? Have you seen the files?"

"Of course. Helped box them up. There are these surprises in box number eight."

"Okay. What?"

"Mitch was able to copy three of Avery Tolar's files, and they appear to be questionable. Two deal with a company called Dunn Lane, Ltd., which we know to be a Mafia-controlled corporation chartered in the Caymans. It was established with ten million laundered dollars in 1986. The files deal with two construction projects financed by the corporation. You'll find it fascinating reading."

"How do you know it was chartered in the Caymans? And how do you know about the ten million? Surely that's • not in the files."

"No, it's not. We have other records."

Tarrance thought about the other records for six miles. It was obvious he wouldn't see them until the McDeeres had the first million. He let it pass.

"I'm not sure we can wire the money as you wish without first getting the files." It was a rather weak bluff. She read it perfectly and smiled.

"Do we have to play games, Mr. Tarrance? Why don't you just give us the mbney and quit sparring."

A foreign student of some sort, probably an Arab, sauntered down the aisle and into the rest room. Tarrance froze and stared at the window. Abby patted his arm like a real girlfriend. The flushing sounded like a short waterfall.

"How soon can this happen?" Tarrance asked. She was not touching him anymore.

"The files are ready. How soon can you round up a million bucks?"

"Tomorrow."

Abby looked out the window and talked from the left corner of her mouth. "Today's Friday. Next Tuesday, at ten A.M. Eastern time, Bahamas time, you transfer by wire the million dollars from your account at the Chemical Bank in Manhattan to a numbered account at the Ontario Bank in Freeport. It's a clean, legitimate wire transfer-take about fifteen seconds."

Tarrance frowned and listened hard. "What if we don't have an account at the Chemical Bank in Manhattan?"

"You don't now, but you will Monday. I'm sure you've got someone in Washington who can handle a simple wire transfer."

"I'm sure we do."

"Good."

"But why the Chemical Bank?"

"Mitch's orders, Mr. Tarrance. Trust him, he knows what he's doing."

"I see he's done his homework."

"He always does his homework. And there's something you need to always remember. He's much smarter than you are."

Tarrance snorted and faked a light chuckle. They rode in silence for a mile or two, each thinking of the next question and answer.

"Okay," Tarrance said, almost to himself. "And when do we get the files?"

"When the money's safe in Freeport, we'll be notified. Wednesday morning before ten-thirty, you'll receive at your Memphis office a Federal Express package with a note and the key to the mini-storage."

"So I can tell Mr. Voyles we'll have the files by Wednesday afternoon?"

She shrugged and said nothing. Tarrance felt stupid for asking the question. Quickly, he thought of a good one.

"We'll need the account number in Freeport."

"It's written down. I'll give it to you when the bus stops."

The particulars were now complete. He reached under the seat and retrieved his book. He nipped pages and pretended to read. "Just sit here a minute," he said.

"Any questions?" she asked.

"Yeah. Can we talk about these other records you mentioned?"

"Sure."

"Where are they?"

"Good question. The way the deal was explained to me, we would first get the next installment, a half million, I believe, in return for enough evidence to allow you to obtain the indictments. These other records are part of the next installment."