Джон Гришэм - The Rooster Bar

Todd said, “Hey, I was going to ask.”

Zola said, “Sorry, no more white boys. Far too much trouble. I’m going to find a nice African dude I can boss around.”

“You’ve been bossing us around for three years,” Mark said.

“Yeah, but you talk back and you lie a lot. I want a guy who never speaks unless spoken to and always tells the truth.”

“Good luck,” Todd said.

A waitress stopped by and they ordered drinks. Beers for the boys, tea for Zola. They asked about her family. They were safe and happy. After the initial jail scare, things settled down. They had not seen the police nor had they heard from other authorities. She and Bo were thinking about renting a small apartment near their parents; they needed some space. Abdou was back home in Senegal, in Muslim territory, and was reasserting his dominance. But he and Fanta were already bored because they were not working. After four months of idleness in detention, they needed to get busy. All in all, their lives were good, if a bit unsettled. Their lawyer was working to revive their citizenship and secure documentation.

Zola wanted the details of the last two weeks, beginning with their arrests, their escape to Brooklyn, then on to Barbados. Mark and Todd alternated stories and everything was funny. The waitress returned with the drinks, and Zola insisted they order chicken yassa, a traditional Senegalese dish of roasted chicken and onion sauce. When the waitress left, Todd and Mark resumed their storytelling. The scene in Judge Abbott’s courtroom — when half the spectators seemed ready to rush the bar and grab them — required both of their efforts because all three were laughing so hard.

They got some looks from the other tables and tried to keep a lid on things. They enjoyed the chicken yassa and passed on dessert. Over strong coffee, their voices got lower as the conversation became serious. Mark said, “Our problem is obvious. We are here on vacation for a few days and we’re traveling with fake passports. If we got busted, they’d haul us off to the same jail where they took your father and Bo. Two little white boys in a really bad jail.”

Zola was shaking her head. “No, you’re fine here. You can stay as long as you want and no one will say anything. Just stay where the white folks are and don’t venture away from the beaches. Don’t do anything to attract attention.”

Todd asked, “How do these folks feel about homosexuals?”

She frowned and said, “Well, I haven’t really asked. You guys gay now? I leave you for two weeks and—”

“No, but we got some looks when we checked in last night. We’re a pair. Folks make assumptions.”

Mark said, “I’ve read that the gay life is frowned upon in most African countries, especially the Muslim areas.”

“It’s not as accepted as in the U.S., but no one is going to harass you. There are dozens of Western-style hotels along the beach here and lots of pale-skinned tourists, mostly from Europe. You’ll fit in.”

“I read something about the cops being pretty tough,” Todd said.

“Not around the beaches. Tourism is too important. But keep in mind that here they can stop you for any reason and ask to see some ID. A couple of white guys in the wrong part of town could attract their attention.”

“Sounds like racial profiling,” Mark said.

“Oh, yes, but the shoe is on the other foot.”

They had been talking for almost two hours. After a lull in the conversation, Zola leaned in a bit closer and asked, “So, how much trouble are we really in?”

Mark and Todd looked at each other. Todd spoke first: “Depends on the settlement. If it’s completed and no one gets suspicious, then perhaps we’ve pulled off the perfect crime. We’ll hang around here for a couple of weeks, maybe wire over the rest of the money from Barbados, make sure it’s all safely tucked away.”

Mark added, “Then we’ll ease back home, stay away from D.C. and New York, and spend a lot of time watching and listening. If the Swift story eventually goes away, then we’re free and clear.”

Todd said, “On the other hand, if somebody gets suspicious, we might be forced to go to plan B.”

“Which is?”

“Still working on it.”

“And the mess in D.C.?” she asked. “I gotta tell you boys, I don’t like the fact that I’ve been indicted, even if it is for something as trivial as unauthorized practice.”

Mark said, “We haven’t been indicted yet. And keep in mind we paid a lawyer a fat retainer to delay the case and work a deal. I’m not worried about D.C.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

Mark mulled it over for a moment and said, “Cohen-Cutler. They’ve delayed the disbursement for the attorneys’ fees. That could be a red flag.”

After lunch Zola left and they napped and swam and drank by the pool. As the afternoon went on, the pool scene improved dramatically with the arrival of some young couples from Belgium. The music picked up, the crowd continued to grow, and Mark and Todd were on the fringes, enjoying the show.

At seven, Zola was back with two large bags filled with goodies — new laptops and new prepaid cell phones. Each of the three set up several e-mail accounts. They walked through different scenarios involving security, and talked about the money, but made no serious decisions. Jet lag hit hard and Mark and Todd needed to sleep. Zola left them just after nine and returned to her apartment.

The call came in on Todd’s third phone, the first of his prepaid variety, the one he’d purchased in D.C. the day Zola left for Senegal. Now that he had a fourth phone, he and his two partners were wondering how they might consolidate devices and live with only one. That did not appear likely.

The third phone number was the one he’d given to Mr. Rudolph Richard, and the call was devastating. Mr. Richard said he was using the phone because he did not want to leave an e-mail trail. The FBI had just contacted him with questions about the wire transfer sent from the Lucero & Frazier account with Citibank in Brooklyn. He, of course, answered none of their questions and did not confirm the existence of the York & Orange account with his bank. He gave them nothing, as usual, and under the laws of Barbados the FBI could not obtain information about the account. However, he, Mr. Richard, felt duty bound to inform his client that the FBI was on the way.

Todd thanked him, then ruined Mark’s day. Mark’s first thought was to contact Jenny Valdez and fish for information, but that was quickly dismissed as a rather stupid idea. If the FBI was using a full-court press, then any phone call to Cohen-Cutler would be recorded and traced.

It took Zola an hour to get to the hotel. They sat under an umbrella on a terrace and admired the ocean, though pleasant thoughts were impossible. Their worst nightmare was unfolding, and though they had often considered what might happen if things went off track, they were stunned by the reality. The FBI was on their trail. Which meant, of course, that their class action scam had been discovered, and that would lead to indictments, arrest warrants, travel alerts. Given the importance of fighting terrorism and narco-traffickers, it was impossible to know how seriously the FBI would pursue a little class action mischief, but they were assuming the worst.

Zola was particularly terrified, and with good reason. She had used her valid American passport to travel to Senegal, thus leaving a trail that any blind investigator could follow. The FBI could easily track her movements. And, to make bad matters worse, she had registered with the U.S. embassy in Dakar upon her arrival two weeks earlier.

Decisions were necessary. Since they had no idea what the FBI was up to, or how deep they were digging, or how close they might actually be in pursuit, the three decided to make plans. Todd would contact Mr. Richard in Barbados and transfer the remaining balance to the bank in Senegal. Zola would confide in Bo and tell him everything, but not her parents; maybe later, but not now. She would see Idina Sanga first thing the next morning and push along the process of becoming naturalized. If she were a proper Senegalese, extradition to the U.S. would be almost impossible. And she would gently explore the possibility of obtaining new documentation for a couple of friends.