'None, except for that small one in the door.'
'All right. What if I go in there, get on the phone, and go to work.You three stay here and watch out for me. If anyone enters the library, come knock on the door.'
The Brethren readily agreed, though they did not believe Argrow could pull it off.
The call went to the white van, parked a mile and a half from Trumble, on a gravel road sometimes maintained by the county. The road was next to a hay field, farmed by a man they'd yet to meet. The property line for the acreage owned by the federal government was a quarter of a mile away, but from where the van was sitting there was no sign of a prison.
Only two technicians were in the van, one fully asleep in the front seat, the other half asleep in the back with a headset on. When Argrow pressed the Send button on his fancy little gadget, a receiver in the van was activated, and both men came to life.
'Hello,' he said. 'This is Argrow'
'Yes, Argrow, Chevy One here, go ahead.' said the technician in the back.
'I'm near the three stooges, going through the motions, supposedly making calls to friends on the outside to verify the existence of their account offshore. So far things are progressing even faster than I'd hoped.'
'Sounds like it.'
'Roger. I'll check in later.' He pushed the End button, but kept the phone at his head and appeared to be deep in conversation. He sat on the edge of the table, then he walked around some, glancing occasionally at the Brethren and beyond.
Spicer couldn't help but sneak a look through the window of the door. 'He's making calls.' he said excitedly.
'What do you expect him to be doing?' asked Yarber, who was actually reading recent court decisions.
'Relax, Joe Roy,' Beech said. 'The money disappeared with Trevor.'
Twenty minutes passed, and things became dull as usual. While Argrow worked the phones,- the judges killed time, waiting at first, then returning to more pressing business. It had been six days since Buster had left with their letter. No word from Buster meant he'd walked away clean, dropped off the note to Mr. Konyers, and was now somewhere far away. Give it three days to travel to Chevy Chase, and the way they had it figured Mr. Aaron Lake should now be scrambling with a plan to deal with them.
Prison had taught them patience. Only one deadline worried them. Lake had the nomination, which meant he would be vulnerable to their blackmail until November. If he won, they would have four years in which to torment him. But if he lost he would fade quickly away, like all the losers. 'Where's Dukakis now?' Beech had asked.
They had no plans to wait until November. Patience was one thing, release was another. Lake was their one fleeting opportunity to walk away with enough money to coast forever.
They intended to give it a week, then write another letter to Mr. Al Konyers in Chevy Chase. They weren't sure how to smuggle it out, but they would think of something. Link, the guard up front whom Trevor had been bribing for months, was their first prospect.
Argrow's phone presented an option. 'If he'll let us use it.' Spicer said, 'then we can call Lake, call his campaign office, his congressional office, call every damned number we can get from directory assistance. Leave the message that Ricky in rehab really needs to see Mr. Lake. That'll scare the hell out of him.'
'But Argrow will have a record of our calls, or at least his brother will,' Yarber said.
'So? We'll pay him for the calls, and so what if they know we're trying to call Aaron Lake. Right now, half the country is trying to call him. Argrow won't have a clue why we're doing it.'
A brilliant idea, one they pondered for a long time. Ricky in rehab could make the calls and leave the messages. Spicer in Trumble could do the same. Poor Lake would get hounded.
Poor Lake. The man had money pouring in so fast he couldn't count it.
After an hour, Argrow emerged from the chamber and announced he was making progress, 'I need to wait an hour, then make a few more calls,' he said. 'What about lunch?'
They were anxious to continue their discussion, and they did so over sloppy joes and coleslaw.
THIRTY-THREE
Pursuant to Mr. Lake's precise instructions, Jayne drove alone to Chevy Chase. She found the shopping center on Western Avenue, and parked in front of Mailbox America. With Mr. Lake's key, she opened the box, removed eight pieces of junk mail, and placed them in a folder. There were no personal letters. She walked to the counter and informed the clerk that she wished to close the box on behalf of her employer, Mr. Al Konyers.
The clerk pecked a few times on a keyboard. The records indicated that a man named Aaron L. Lake had rented the box in the name of Al Konyers about seven months earlier. The rental had been paid for twelve months, so nothing was owed.
'That guy running for President?' the clerk asked as she slid a form across the counter.
'Yes.' Jayne said, signing where indicated.
'No forwarding address?' No.
She left with the folder and headed south, back into the city. She had not stopped to question Lake's storyabout renting the box in a clandestine effort to expose fraud at the Pentagon. It didn't matter to her, nor did she have time to ask a lot of questions. Lake had them sprinting eighteen hours a day, and she had far more important things to worry about.
He was waiting in his campaign office, alone for the moment. The offices and hallways around him were choked with assistants of a dozen varieties, all running back and forth as if war were imminent. But Lake was enjoying a lull in the action. She gave him the folder and left.
Lake counted eight pieces of junk mail-taco delivery, long-distance service, a car wash, coupons for this and for that. And nothing from Ricky. The box was closed, there was no forwarding address. The poor boy would have to find someone else to help him through his new life. Lake fed the junk mail and the cancellation agreement through a small shredder under his desk, then paused a moment to count his blessings. He carried little baggage in life, and he'd made few mistakes. Writing to Ricky had been a stupid thing to do, yet he was walking away unscathed. What a lucky man!
He smiled and almost giggled to himself, then he bounced from his chair, grabbed his jacket, and rounded up his entourage.The candidate had meetings to attend, then a lunch with defense contractors.
Oh what a lucky man!
Back in the corner of the law library, with his three new friends guarding the perimeter like sleepy sentries, Argrow fiddled with the phone long enough to convince them he'd pulled strings all through the dark and murky world of offshore banking. Two hours of pacing and mumbling and holding the phone to his head like a frantic stockbroker, and he finally came out of the room.
'Good news, gentlemen.' he said with a tired smile.
They huddled around, eager for the results.
'It's still there.' he said.
Then the great question, the one they'd been planning, the one that would verify whether Argrow was a fraud or a player.
'How much?' asked Spicer.
'A hundred and ninety thousand, and small change.' he said, and they exhaled in unison. Spicer smiled. Beech looked away. Yarber looked at Argrow with a quizzical frown, but a rather pleasant one.
According to their figures, the balance was $189,000, plus whatever paltry rate of interest the bank was paying.
'He didn't steal it.' Beech mumbled, and they shared a pleasant memory of their dead lawyer, who suddenly was not the devil they'd made him out to be.
'I wonder why not,' Spicer mused, almost to himself.
'Well, it's still there.' Argrow said. 'That's a lot of legal work:'
