When the door opened, she waved the visitor inside – a strong-looking black man wearing round glasses and a business suit tailored even more exquisitely than Squires' own.
"Oh Lord," said JoLayne Lucks. "I should've known."
Moffitt pecked her on the crown of her cap. "Nice to see you, Jo." Then, affably, to Squires: "Don't get up."
"Who're you?"
Moffitt flipped out his badge. Bernard's reaction, Clara Markham would tell her colleagues later, was so priceless that it was almost worth losing the extra commission.
When he hadn't heard from JoLayne, Moffitt had driven to Grange, jimmied the back door of her house and (during a neat but thorough search) listened to the voice messages on her answering machine. That's how he'd come across Clara Markham, a woman who (unlike some Florida real estate salespersons) wholeheartedly believed in cooperating with law enforcement authorities. Clara had informed Moffitt of JoLayne's interest in Simmons Wood and brought him up to speed on the negotiations. Something ticked in the agent's memory when he learned the competing buyer was the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Dry-wallers International. Moffitt had spent the early part of the morning talking to the people in his business who talked to the computers. They were exceptionally helpful.
Clara Markham invited him to sit. Moffitt declined. His hovering made Bernard Squires anxious, which was for Moffitt's purpose a desirable thing.
Squires examined the agent's identification. He said: "Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms? I don't understand." Then, for added smoothness: "I hope you didn't come all this way on government business, Mr. Moffitt, because I don't drink, smoke or carry a gun."
The agent laughed. "In Florida," he said, "that puts you in a definite minority."
Bernard Squires was compelled to laugh, too – brittle and unpersuasive. Already he could feel his undershirt clinging to the small of his back.
Moffitt said, "Do you know a man named Richard Tarbone?"
"I know who he is," Squires said – the same answer he'd given to three separate grand juries.
"Do you know him as Richard or 'Icepick'?"
"I know of him," Squires replied carefully, "as Richard Tarbone. He is a legitimate businessman in the Chicago area."
"Sure he is," Moffitt said, "and I'm Little Richard's love child."
JoLayne Lucks covered her mouth to keep from exploding. Clara Markham pretended to be reading the fine print of the union's purchase offer. When Moffitt asked to speak to Mr. Squires privately, the two women did not object. JoLayne vowed to hunt down some doughnuts.
Once he and Squires were alone in the office, Moffitt said: "You don't really want to buy this property. Trust me."
"The pension fund is very interested."
"The pension fund, as we both know, is a front for the Tarbone family. So cut the crap, Bernie."
Squires moved his jaws as if he was working on a wad of taffy. He heard the door being locked. The agent was standing behind him now.
"That's slander, Mr. Moffitt, unless you can prove it – which you cannot."
He waited for a response: Nothing.
"What's your interest in this?" Squires pressed. He couldn't understand why the ATF was snooping around a commercial land deal that had no connection to illegal guns or booze. Gangsters bought and sold real estate in Florida every day. On the infrequent occasions when the government took notice, it was the FBI and Internal Revenue who came calling.
"My interest," Moffitt said, "is purely personal."
The agent sat down and scooted even closer to Bernard Squires. "However," he said, "you should be aware that on May 10, 1993, one Stephen Eugene Tarbone, alias Stevie 'Boy' Wonder, was arrested near Gainesville for interstate transportation of illegal silencers, machine-gun parts and unlicensed firearms. These were found in the trunk of a rented Lincoln Mark IV during a routine traffic stop. Stephen Tarbone was the driver. He was accompanied by a convicted prostitute and another outstanding public citizen named Charles 'The Gerbil' Hindeman. The fact Stephen's conviction was overturned on appeal in no way diminishes my interest in the current firearms trafficking activities of the young man, or of his father, Richard. So officially thatis my jurisdiction, in case I need one. You with me?"
A metallic taste bubbled to Squires' throat from places visceral and ripe. Somehow he mustered a stony-eyed demeanor for the ATF man.
"Nothing you've said interests me in the least or has any relevant bearing on this transaction."
Moffitt jovially cupped his hands and clapped them once, loudly. Sinclair jumped.
"Transaction? Man, here's the transaction," the agent said with a grin. "If you don't pack up your lizard valise and your cash deposit and go home to Chicago, your friend Richard the Icepick is going to be a frontpage headline in the newspaper: 'alleged mob figure tied to local mall deal.' I'm not a writer, Mr. Squires, but you get the gist. The article will be real thorough regarding Mr. Tarbone and his family enterprises, and also his connection to your union. In fact, I'll bet Mr. Tarbone will be amazed at the accuracy of the information in the story. That's because I intend to leak it myself."
Bernard Squires struggled to remain cool and disdainful. "Bluffing is a waste of time," he said.
"I couldn't agree more." From a breast pocket Moffitt took a business card, which he gave to Squires. "That's the reporter who'll be doing the story. He'll probably be calling you in a few days."
Squires' hand was trembling, so he slapped the card flat on the table. It read:
Thomas P. Krome
Staff Writer
The Register
"A real prick," Moffitt added. "You'll like him."
Bernard Squires picked up the reporter's card and tore it in half. The gesture was meant to be contemptuous, but the ATF agent seemed vastly entertained.
"So Mr. Tarbone doesn't mind reading about himself in the press? That's good. Guy like him needs a thick hide." Moffitt rose. "But you might want to warn him, Bernie, about Grange."
"What about it?"
"Very conservative little place. Folks here seem pretty serious about their religion. Everywhere you go there's a shrine to one holy thing or another – haven't you noticed?"
Dismally Squires thought of the gimp with the bloody holes in his hands and the weird couple chanting among the turtles.
"People around here," Moffitt went on, "they do not like sin. Not one damn bit. Which means they won't be too wild about gangsters, Bernie. Gangsters from Chicago or anyplace else. When this story breaks in the paper, don't expect a big ticker-tape parade for your man Richard the Icepick. Just like you shouldn't expect the Grange town fathers to do backflips for your building permits and sewer rights and so forth. You follow what I'm saying?"
Bernard Squires held himself erect by pinching the chairback with both elbows. He sensed the agent shifting here and there behind him, then he heard the doorknob turn.
"Any questions?" came Moffitt's voice.
"No questions."
"Excellent. I'll go find the ladies. It's been nice chatting with you, Bernie."
"Drop dead," said Squires.
He heard the door open, and Moffitt's laughter trailing down the hall.
Without rising, Demencio said: "You're early. Where's the lucky lady?"
"She's got an appointment," said Tom Krome.
"You bring the money?"
"Sure did."
Trish invited him inside. It was a peculiar scene at the kitchen counter: she and her husband in yellow latex gloves, scrubbing the shells of JoLayne's baby turtles.
Krome picked up one the cooters, upon which a bearded face had been painted.
"Don't ask," Demencio said.
"Who's it supposed to be?"