Джон Гришэм - The Rooster Bar

He boarded without incident and took his seat by a window. He opened his laptop, logged in, and saw an e-mail from Jenny Valdez at Cohen-Cutler. The disbursements for attorneys’ fees were being delayed until further notice due to an “unspecified problem.” He read it again and closed his computer. Surely, with such a massive settlement, problems were bound to occur, so it had nothing to do with them. Right? He closed his eyes and was breathing deeply when a flight attendant announced over the speaker that there would be a slight delay due to a problem with “documentation.” The flight was packed with vacationers headed for the islands, some of whom appeared to have spent time in a bar before boarding. There were groans, but also laughter and shouting.

The clock ticked slowly as Mark’s blood pressure rose and his heart pounded. The flight attendants brought out the drink carts and the booze was on the house. Mark asked for a double rum punch and drained it in two gulps. He was about to ask for another when something jolted the aircraft, and it started moving back. As it taxied away from the terminal, he texted Todd and said he was about to take off. Minutes later, he watched from his window as Miami disappeared through the clouds.

Pursuant to Todd’s instruction, Zola went to the Senegal Post Bank early Thursday, and took her lawyer with her. Idina Sanga agreed, for a fee of course, to help facilitate the opening of an account. They had an appointment with a vice president, a pleasant lady who spoke no English. Idina explained in French that her client was an American who was moving to Dakar to be with her family. Zola produced her passport, New Jersey driver’s license, and a copy of the apartment lease. Her story was that her American boyfriend, who was quite wealthy, wished to send her some money for support and also to buy a home. He traveled the world with his ventures and planned to spend time in Senegal. There was even the likelihood that he would open an office there. The story flowed well and convinced the vice president. The fact that Zola was represented by a lawyer with a good reputation helped immensely. Idina stressed the need for extreme privacy and explained that a lot of money would soon arrive by wire. An initial deposit that equaled about $1,000 U.S. was agreed upon, and the paperwork was reviewed by Idina. Bank cards would soon be in the mail. The transaction took less than an hour. Back in the apartment, Zola e-mailed the bank account information to Todd.

When Mark landed in Bridgetown at 1:20, Todd met him at the gate. “Nice tan,” Mark observed.

“Thanks, but I’m ready to get out of here.”

“Talk to me.”

They ducked into a bar and ordered beers. In a corner, they sat at a small table and took long drinks. Mark wiped his mouth and said, “You seem rather jumpy.”

“I am. Look, I know you’re thinking about a few days on the beach, but we’re on the run now. I mean, really on the run. The FBI can trace the wire to our bank.”

“As we’ve discussed about a dozen times.”

“Yes, and that’s as far as they can go, at least with the money. But when they can’t find us there they might want to look here. There’s nothing to gain by hanging around the island. Zola opened the account this morning in Dakar with no problems. The hang-up with the last disbursement may or may not be related to us, but why take the chance? For all we know, the Feds could be one step behind us. Let’s move on while they’re still scrambling.”

Mark took another drink and shrugged. “Whatever. I guess I can get some sun in Dakar.”

“There are some fabulous beaches there, with resorts that rival anything here. And it looks like we’ll have plenty of time to play by the pool.”

They drained their beers, walked outside into a blinding sun, and caught a cab to the Second Royal Bank, where they waited an hour to see Mr. Rudolph Richard. Todd introduced Mark as his partner in York & Orange, and explained that they wished to wire $3 million of their account to a bank in Dakar. Mr. Richard was curious but did not pry. Whatever his clients wished was fine with him. They withdrew $20,000 in cash and left the bank. At the airport, they studied routes and saw that almost all went through Miami or JFK, places they preferred to avoid. They paid $5,200 in cash for two one-way packages, and left Barbados at 5:10 p.m. bound for London Gatwick, forty-two hundred miles and eleven hours away. En route, Mark checked his e-mails, and the one from the account manager at Citibank in Brooklyn informed him that the second wire had not arrived. “We can forget that million for attorneys’ fees,” he mumbled to Todd.

“Well, we really didn’t earn it,” Todd quipped.

They drank beers for two hours at Gatwick before boarding a flight for Algeria, a thousand miles away. The layover there was eight hours, an interminable time in a hot and crowded airport. However, as the miles passed and the cultures changed, they became convinced that they were leaving the bad guys farther and farther behind. Two thousand miles and five hours later, they landed in Dakar at 11:30 at night. Though it was late, the airport was bustling with loud music and aggressive vendors offering jewelry, leather goods, and fresh fruits. Outside the main entrance, the beggars flocked to those arrivals with lighter skin — whites and Asians. Mark and Todd were jostled but managed to find a cab. Twenty minutes later they arrived in front of the Radisson Blu Hotel at the Sea Plaza.

Zola had reserved two poolside rooms in her name and paid for a week’s stay. Evidently, she had schmoozed well because Mark and Todd were greeted like dignitaries. No one asked to see their passports.

It was their first visit to Africa and neither ventured a guess as to how long it would last. Their pasts were a mess. Their futures were uncertain. So, somewhere along the way they decided to live in the present with no regrets. Life could be worse. They could be studying for the bar exam.

Around noon Saturday, as the midday sun baked the ceramic tile walkways around the pool and along the terraces, Mark staggered out of his room, squinted into the blinding light, rubbed his eyes, walked to the edge of the water, and fell in. Salt water, pleasant and warm. He dog-paddled back and forth for a few laps, then gave up. He sat in the shallow end with the water touching his chin and tried to remember where he was a week ago. Washington. The morning after a drinking session with his law school pals. The day after their appearance in court with Phil Sarrano, and all those angry people after them. The day he was supposed to graduate from Foggy Bottom, then go forth and conquer the world.

It wasn’t conquered but it was certainly different. Some weeks drag by and nothing happens. Others, like this one, are so tumultuous you can’t keep up with the days. A week ago they were dreaming of the money. Now it was tucked away in a Senegalese bank where no one could find it.

Because their bodies were tuned to the same clock, Todd soon emerged and made a splash. He gave no thought to swimming laps, but instead waved over a cabana boy and ordered drinks. After two rounds, they took showers and dressed in the clothes they’d been wearing. Shopping was high on their list.

Their partner, however, wore something they’d never seen before. Zola arrived at the hotel restaurant in a bright red and yellow dress that flowed to the floor. With a necklace of large colorful beads and balls, and a flower in her hair, she looked very African. They hugged and carried on, but were careful not to attract too much attention. The restaurant was half-full of guests, almost all of whom were European.

As they sat down, Todd said, “You look beautiful.”

Mark said, “Zola, let’s get married.”