Stuart Woods - Fast and Loose

“Charley,” Mike said, “does anybody at St. Clair know where you live?”

“My address is in my employee records,” he replied.

“You’d better get out of there before you make the move. It may piss off Macher, and we don’t want you to be too easy to find.”

“Tell you what, Charley,” Stone said. “I own the house next door where my staff live. There’s a furnished ground-floor rear apartment empty there, opens onto the common garden. You can move in there rent-free, until you decide where you want to live.”

“Thanks, Stone.”

“Call my secretary, Joan Robertson, when you want to start sending stuff over.”

“It’s just clothes — won’t take long.”

“You figure out when it’s the right moment to bail out of St. Clair, and tell me how you want to do it.”

“I’ll want to vanish in a puff of smoke,” Charley said.

“When you do, give Macher a proper letter of resignation. Do you still have family in Georgia?”

“Nope, they’re all gone.”

“Then tell him you have to go back there to deal with family matters. If he looks for you there, he’ll find a dead end.”

“Good idea,” Charley said. “And there’s something I should tell you.”

“Okay,” Stone said.

“I’ve got Macher’s office wired for sound, and I have recordings of a couple of his meetings, including one with his board, which is exercised over something to do with the Coast Guard finding cocaine aboard the company yacht.”

“I believe I’m acquainted with that incident,” Stone said drily.

“Do you want me to keep the wire in there?”

“Yes, but for informational purposes only, since it’s illegal. Make sure you shut it down without a trace when you go. You don’t want them finding it later.”

“Right,” Charley said. “I’ll be out of there in a week.”

“Good. Be careful. Don’t roil the waters there. We don’t want our new partner to get hurt.”

“Charley,” Mike said, “I’m in the security business, you know. If you feel in danger at any time, call me on my cell, twenty-four/seven.” He handed Charley a card. “I can put people on you or snatch you off the street, if necessary. And when you check out of the hotel, give them a forwarding address in Georgia, and after you leave, don’t return to the hotel.”

“Not even for a haircut?” Charley asked. “My barber’s there.”

“Find a new barber for the moment,” Mike said.

“I get my hair cut there, too,” Stone said. “I’ll make excuses for you next time I’m in.”

They walked Charley to the front door.

“Let me have a look outside,” Mike said, “then I’ll give you a lift to the hotel.” He did so, while Stone and Charley waited.

“I think this is going to work well,” Stone said. “Just remember to stay safe. You’ve been trained on how to do that, haven’t you?”

“I certainly have,” Charley said.

Mike returned. “Okay, into my car,” he said, and the two of them left.

Charley Fox turned up early the next morning and started going through his desk, cleaning out drawers and putting what he wanted to take away in his briefcase. He downloaded the cache of documents he had been saving onto a pair of thumb drives, numbered one and two, and tossed them into his briefcase. He deleted all his computer files and reformatted the hard drive. Finally, he disconnected the little amplifier hooked to the bug in Macher’s office and tossed them into his briefcase, as well, along with the two burner cell phones in his drawer. That done, he typed up a letter of resignation, put it into his briefcase and locked it.

“Charles,” a woman’s voice said.

He turned to find Agnes, the group secretary, standing in his doorway. “Yes, Agnes?”

“Mr. Macher would like to see you in his office.”

“I’ll be there shortly, thanks.”

“He said, now .”

“All right.” He got into his jacket, grabbed his briefcase, removed the resignation letter, put it into his jacket pocket, and walked upstairs. In the outer office, he set his briefcase down next to Macher’s secretary’s desk. “I’ll pick this up in a few minutes,” he said to her.

“Fine,” she replied.

He knocked on the door and heard Macher shout, “Come!” He found Macher sitting at his desk and Jake Herman standing behind him, leaning against a bookcase. This did not look good.

“Sit down, Charles,” Macher said.

Charley did. “Good morning, Mr. Macher, Jake.”

“Charles, have you heard anything about the company yacht being stopped by the Coast Guard last weekend?”

“Nope, not a thing,” he replied. “They do equipment checks on yachts all the time, though. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because the checks are routine. They probably didn’t single you out.”

Herman spoke up. “You ever had any telephone conversations with the Coast Guard, Fox?”

Charley shook his head. “Nope. I’ve never needed their help at sea.”

“You sail?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“Not everybody,” Herman replied.

“Come on, Jake, what is this about?”

“Somebody tipped the Coast Guard to search the company yacht,” Herman replied.

“What for?”

“Drugs.”

“Did they find any?”

“Unlikely.”

“Then what’s the problem, and what do I have to do with it?”

Jake left the room and came back a moment later with Charley’s briefcase. “Let’s have a look in here,” Herman said.

Charley leaned over as he passed and snatched the case out of Herman’s hand. “Let’s not.” One of his burner phones would have the Coast Guard number in it.

“Charles, let Jake open the case,” Macher said.

“For what purpose?”

“For whatever purpose I wish.”

The secretary knocked, came into the room, and set some things on Macher’s desk. “Your mail, sir,” she said. “And there’s one from the Coast Guard. You asked me to watch for it.”

Macher picked up the envelope, ripped it open, and removed a letter. “Well, let’s see what they have to say,” he said, unfolding the letterhead and reading aloud. “‘Dear Mr. Macher. Further to the search of your company’s yacht on Saturday last, I wish to inform you that our laboratory has analyzed the white powder found in the owner’s suite. The powder turned out to be an over-the-counter laxative called SuperLax. I wish to apologize for any inconvenience caused by our search and to thank you for your cooperation.’”

“Anything else?” Charley asked.

“That doesn’t mean that you didn’t call the Coast Guard,” Herman said. He moved toward where Charley sat, reaching for the briefcase.

Charley stood up and kicked him hard in the knee, and Herman cried out and collapsed, clutching his knee. Charley turned to Macher. “Mr. Macher,” he said, “I don’t like working here anymore, so I’m resigning as of this moment. I got paid yesterday, so you don’t owe me anything.” He picked up his briefcase and started for the door.

“Now, Charles,” Macher said placatingly, “let’s talk about this.”

“I’ve nothing to talk about,” Charley replied, opening the door. “Good day.” He closed the door behind him and started for the outer door, then he stopped, reached into his pocket for the resignation letter, and tossed it onto the secretary’s desk. “I forgot to give this to Mr. Macher,” he said. “Please give it to him for me.”

“Of course, Charley,” she replied.

A moment later, Charley was on the street, hailing a cab.

“The Lombardy Hotel,” he said to the driver. “Fifty-sixth Street, east of Park.”

At the hotel he got out, went upstairs to his room, packed his things, and called down for a bellman. When the man came, he said, “Put these into a cab for me, going to JFK Airport, while I check out.”