John Grisham - The Client

He’d never flown before.

Barry paced nervously before the tinted windows in Johnny’s office, and watched the tugs and barges on the river. His nasty eyes were red, but not from booze or partying. He hadn’t slept. He’d waited at the warehouse for the body to be delivered to him, and when Leo and company arrived around one without it, he had called his uncle.

Johnny, on this fine Sunday morning, was wearing neither tie nor suspenders. He paced slowly behind his desk, puffing blue smoke from his third cigar of the day. A thick cloud hung not far above his head.

The screaming and ass chewing had ended hours before. Barry had cursed Leo and Ionucci and the Bull, and Leo had cursed back. But with time, the panic subsided. Throughout the night, Leo had periodically driven by Clifford’s house, always in a different vehicle, and seeing nothing unusual. The body was still there.

Johnny decided to wait twenty-four hours and try again. They would watch the place during the day, and attack with full force after dark. The Bull assured him he could have the body out of the concrete in ten minutes.

Just be cool, Johnny had told everyone. Just be cool.

Roy Foltrigg finished the Sunday paper on the patio of his suburban split-level, and walked barefooted across the wet grass with a cup of cold coffee. He had slept little. He had waited in the darkness on his front porch for the paper to arrive, then ran to fetch it in his pajamas and bathrobe. He had called Trumann, but, strangely, Mrs. Trumann wasn’t sure where her husband had gone.

He inspected his wife’s rosebushes along the back fence, and asked himself for the hundredth time where Mark Sway would run to. There was no doubt, at least in his mind, that Reggie had helped him escape. She’d obviously gone crazy again, and run off with the kid. He smiled to himself. He’d have the pleasure of busting her ass.

The hangar was a quarter of a mile from the main terminal, in a row of identical buildings all drab gray and sitting quietly together. The words Gulf Air were painted in orange letters above the tall double doors, which were opening as the three cars stopped in front of the hangar. The floor was sparkling concrete, painted green without a speck of dirt and covered with nothing but two private jets side by side in a far corner. A few lights were on, and their reflections glowed on the green floor. The building was big enough for a stock car race, Mark thought as he stretched his neck for a glimpse of the two jets.

With the doors out of the way, the entire front of the hangar was now open. Three men walked hurriedly along the back wall as if searching for something. Two more stood by one door. Outside, another half dozen moved slowly about, keeping their distance from the cars that had just parked.

“Who are these people?” Mark asked in the general direction of the front seat.

“They’re with us,” Trumann said.

“They’re FBI agents,” Reggie clarified.

“Why so many?”

“They’re just being careful,” she said. “How much longer, do you think?” she asked Trumann.

He glanced at his watch. “Probably thirty minutes.”

“Let’s walk around,” she said, opening her door. As if on cue, the other eleven doors in the little parade opened and the cars emptied. Mark looked around at the other hangars, and the terminal, and a plane landing on the runway in front of them. This had become terribly exciting. Not three weeks earlier, he’d beaten the crap out of a subdivision kid at school after the kid taunted him because he’d never flown. If they could only see him now. Rushed to the airport by private car, waiting for his private jet to take him anywhere he wanted to go. No more trailers. No more fights with subdivision kids. No more notes to Mom, because now she would be at home. He’d decided, sitting alone in the motel room, that this was a wonderful idea. He’d come to New Orleans and outsmarted the Mafia in its own backyard, and he could do it again.

He caught a few stares from the agents by the door. They cut their eyes quickly at him, then looked away. Just checking him out. Maybe he’d sign some autographs later.

He followed Reggie into the vast hangar, and the two private jets caught his attention. They were like small, shiny toys sitting under the Christmas tree waiting to be played with. One was black, the other silver, and Mark stared at them.

A man in an orange shirt with Gulf Air on a patch above the pocket closed the door to a small office inside the hangar and walked in their direction. K. O. Lewis met him, and they talked quietly. The man waved at the office, and said something about coffee.

Larry Trumann knelt beside Mark, still staring at the jets. “Mark, do you remember me?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes sir. I met you at the hospital.”

“That’s right. My name’s Larry Trumann.” He offered his hand, and Mark shook it slowly. Children are not supposed to shake hands with adults. “I’m an FBI agent here in New Orleans.”

Mark nodded and kept staring at the jets.

“Would you like to look at them?” Trumann asked.

“Can I?” he asked, suddenly friendly to Trumann.

“Sure.” Trumann stood and placed a hand on Mark’s shoulder. They walked slowly across the gleaming concrete, the sounds of Trumann’s steps echoing upward. They stopped in front of the black jet. “Now, this is a Learjet,” Trumann began.

Reggie and K. O. Lewis left the small office with tall cups of steaming coffee. The agents who’d escorted them had slipped into the shadows of the hangar. They sipped what must’ve been their tenth cup of this long morning, and watched as Trumann and the kid inspected the jets.

“He’s a brave kid,” Lewis said.

“He’s remarkable,” Reggie said. “At times he thinks like a terrorist, then he cries like a little child.”

“He is a child.”

“I know. But don’t tell him. It may upset him, and, hell, who knows what he might do.” She took a long sip. “Truly remarkable.”

K. O. blew into his cup, then took a tiny sip. “We’ve pulled some strings. There’s a room waiting for Ricky at Grant’s Clinic in Phoenix. We need to know if that’s the destination. The pilot called five minutes ago. He has to get clearance, file a flight plan, you know.”

“Phoenix it is. Complete confidentiality, okay? Register the kid under another name. Same for the mother and Mark. Keep some of your boys nearby. I want you to pay for his doctor’s trip out there and for a few days of work.”

“No problem. The people in Phoenix have no idea what’s coming. Have you guys talked about a permanent home?”

“A little, not much. Mark says he wants to live in the mountains.”

“Vancouver’s nice. We vacationed there last summer. Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Out of the country?”

“No problem. Director Voyles said they can go anywhere. We’ve placed a few witnesses outside the States, and I think the Sways are perfect candidates. These people will be taken care of, Reggie. You have my word.”

The man in the orange shirt joined Mark and Trumann, and was now in charge of the tour. He lowered the steps to the black Lear, and the three disappeared inside.

“I must confess,” Lewis said after he swallowed another scalding dose of coffee, “I was never convinced the kid knew.”

“Clifford told him everything. He knew exactly where it was.”

“Did you?”

“No. Not until yesterday. When he first came to my office, he told me that he knew, but he didn’t tell me where it was. Thank God for that. He kept it to himself until we were near the body yesterday afternoon.”

“Why’d you come here? Seems awfully risky.”

Reggie nodded at the jets. “You’ll have to ask him. He insisted we find the body. If Clifford lied to him, then he figured he was off the hook.”