He tapped number three twice, which speeded up the message, then he erased it.
Agent Terry was a scrubbed, light-skinned black guy with freckles. Real in-shape. Like Tom was going to be when he became Danny Storey. They were about fifty yards down the beach, making slow progress through driftwood. Tom marveled how fluid his imagination had become. He fantasized Ida Rain’s flawless body, naked and headless, skipping in the cold. Conversationally, he asked, “Hey, Terry, you ever screw an ugly woman?”
Terry quipped, poker-faced, “When I was a little kid I remember seeing a few ugly Negro women. As I got older I might have seen one or two plain black women. But now, THE BIG LAW/143
I know for a fact, there is no such thing as an ugly woman of color-so you must be referring to white women.”
Tom grinned. “But if you wound up with an ugly one-you think making her wear a mask would improve things?” For the rest of the walk, Tom gave Ida back her head-because she gave such great blowjobs-but he made her wear a mask.
After their walk, Tom asked Terry how he stayed in such good shape. So, downstairs, Terry changed to a sweat suit and showed Tom the calisthenics routine he used on the road. It involved stretching, push-ups, crunches, a jump rope and weights. Terry was coaching Tom through the exercises, a little impressed because Tom was taking notes, when cold gravel scattered outside. The agent from Duluth wheeled up to the house with the tape.
26
Lorn, Tom, and Agent Terry gathered before the TV/VCR
in the living room. Front row seats. The others sat in back.
Terry inserted the tape in a Play Pack cassette and pushed it in.
“Okay,” said Lorn. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Terry thumbed the remote. The blinds were pulled. A pack of Red Hot Blues corn chips was open on the coffee table.
Diet Cokes had been set out.
The mosaic of static on the screen transformed into a basement still life featuring a couch, a coffee table and an easy chair. One minute passed. Two. Garrison cleared his throat. Tom began to see himself employed by Prison Industries at Stillwater Prison. As Garrison started to turn to Tom-
Keith Angland walked onto the screen followed by a short older man. Keith sat on the couch against a background of dark paneling. His knobby elbows jutted from a polo shirt and rested on his knees. He smoked a cigar. So did the husky balding man in a cardigan who took the chair across from him. The older man had a scarf thrown shawl fashion around his throat and shoulders. Little white numbers ran in the corner of the screen establishing the time and date.
A bottle and glasses sat on the coffee table between them.
Angland poured two shots of clear liquor and they downed their drinks. The other man set down his glass, leaned forward and placed his hand on Angland’s shoulder. “Fuck ’em. What did they do for you. They never appreciated you. It’s hard, I know, Keith. But you’re doing the smart thing,” he said in a gravel voice.
“Bingo, that’s Kagin,” said Lorn quietly.
On the screen they made small talk. Then they both stood up. Caren’s ghost appeared. Her fixed smile looked like a still photograph pasted in the animated footage. She had on the same fashionably baggy denim jacket she’d worn on the day she died.
Terry shook his head sympathetically. “Goddamn man, goddamn,” he said softly.
“Shhhh,” said Lorn.
Voices bantered, tinny amateur audio.
“I’m going to Hudson. Do you need anything special?” she asked.
“Nah, we’re good,” said Keith.
Caren departed, and they made more small talk, about remodeling basements. A third man entered the frame. He was heavyset, with ringlets of dark hair, and he wheezed when he said, “She’s gone.”
“Bring it in,” said Kagin.
The third man continued to wheeze as he hauled a large suitcase onto the carpet in front of Angland. The same suitcase Tom buried in the woods.
The older guy, Kagin, chided the Wheezer. “Shit, Tony, you’re outa shape, ain’t that fuckin’ heavy.”
“Twenny-five bricks is always heavy,” protested the Wheezer.
“Bricks?” said Tom aloud.
“Shhh,” said Lorn again. But he came forward in his chair and reached for the telephone.
On-screen, the wheezing man popped open the suitcase and proceeded to stack compact bundles on the coffee table. “Your five,” he said to Kagin. “Rest is for you,” he said to Keith. “Now who’s the rat?”
While Kagin stacked the money bundles into a gym bag, Angland reached down and flipped a magazine open on the coffee table. He tossed some papers to Kagin.
A photograph. Stapled sheets of paper.
Angland explained. “Transcript of the wiretap the task force put on your organization.” He tapped the photograph. “I told you not to do any business with this guy on his phone line, or in his living room.”
Kagin picked it up. “Alex, Alex.” He pursed his lips and shook his head sadly.
Lorn was talking on the phone in high spirits. “Sharkey, Yeah. I’m watching it. Forget Angland. Grab your dick, boy.
This is Chicago, big time. I got Kagin and guess who? Only Tony fucking Sporta giving a suitcase full of money to Angland for Gorski’s ID. I shit you not. They are dividing it up before my eyes.”
Tom listened to Lorn with one ear and the tape with the other. On the tape, Kagin studied the picture. “Who are these other guys?”
“FBI agents,” said Angland.
“And they pose for pictures like this, huh. Lookit them. All grins, like they shot a big deer or something?”
“Right. Celebrating after taking down a big score. Except it’s a lot of product, your product they confiscated in Chicago.
Before I threw them some curves.”
“An’ we ‘preciate that, Keith, all you done. Shepherding through those three shipments,” said Tony the Wheezer.
And Kagin, still staring at the picture, shook his head.
“Somebody should tell those guys it’s not real smart to be taking pictures,” he grumbled. Lorn and Terry exchanged incredulous expressions and burst into laughter.
On the screen, Angland said, “They first squeezed him in Brighton Beach. He was stooling on you regular in Chicago and kept doing it when you brought him up here.”
Kagin said, “This is all good stuff here. But before the others will accept you, you gotta take a blood test.” He tapped the THE BIG LAW/147
picture with a stubby finger. “If you’re coming in with us, you gotta whack this creep.”
Angland shrugged. “Understood. I’ll handle it.”
“Bingo,” crowed Lorn. “Tom, buddy, you just swept the Oscars.”
Tom grinned. Best Actor.
On the screen they were now talking about money.
“It’s hunnerd percent pure. No fluorescent, unmarked; it’s all washed through the Red, White, and Green Pizza chain in Illinois, Iowa, and Michigan,” said Tony Sporta.
“They just opened up here,” blurted Tom.
“Yeah,” said Terry. “We think that’s their distribution network for powdered coke. They did it that way in Jersey.”
“Shhhh,” said Lorn.
“You count it all yourself?” asked Angland.
“Shit no,” said Kagin. “We run it through a currency counter and weigh it. Ten bricks is what-Hey, Tony. What is ten bricks?”