Despite the clear skies, Howie’s got the top up, and from Carr’s vantage he’s no more than a ghost at the wheel. He leaves a parking space between his car and the Jeep and kills the engine. And then he sits. And sits. Unmoving, with his white hands on the wheel, as if at any moment he might drive off again. Lamp is as puzzled as Carr, and after a while he holds his wristwatch out toward Howie’s car and taps the face with his finger. Howie gets the point.
He opens the door slowly and cringes like a vampire in the midday sun. Lamp looks Howie up and down and shakes his head. Howie leans against the Jeep and starts talking, and Carr curses another conversation he isn’t going to hear.
Whatever Howie’s saying, he’s saying it fast, and Lamp holds up a hand and looks irritated. Howie pauses, rubs a hand over his face, and starts again, more slowly this time. Lamp listens and begins to shake his head, and the look of irritation is replaced by one of vague disgust. Carr’s phone vibrates.
“Me and Mike are in the van,” Bobby says. “You see this?”
“I see it,” Carr answers, “but I have no idea what he’s saying.”
“Whatever it is, Lamp’s not crazy for it. You’d figure a guy like him has heard it all before.”
Lamp is still shaking his head, and Bessemer is still talking, leaning more heavily now against the Jeep. Finally Lamp holds up a hand and points at Howie’s car. Howie begins to speak again, but Lamp points once more and pulls a cell phone from the pocket of his shorts. He waits until Howie is back in his car, and then he makes his call.
“Who do you think he’s calling?” Bobby asks.
“Wish I knew,” Carr says.
Lamp talks for a while, glancing now and then at Bessemer. Then he nods his head and punches off. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, rolls his shoulders, and punches in another number.
This conversation is longer, and Lamp walks around while he has it. He circles his Jeep slowly, inspecting bumpers and kicking tires. Finally Lamp pockets his phone and walks over to Bessemer’s car. He raps on the window and Bessemer runs it down. Lamp leans over, props his forearms on the sill, and starts talking.
“Put this on speaker,” Carr says into his phone.
And Bobby does. Lamp’s voice comes on, hollow, choppy, but the New Orleans accent clear.
“You on for Friday night,” Lamp says, “but don’t let’s make this a regular thing. This kinda product’s not for me-too many problems. Too much fucking risk. Your pal want something like this again, you gotta go elsewhere, you get me, bro?”
Howie nods.
“And the folks that bring her, you pay them up front-in cash-or she don’t get out of the car.”
Howie nods again.
“And best not to fuck with these folks, Howie, you know? Or even talk to them too much.”
Lamp doesn’t wait for another nod, but climbs into his Jeep and drives away. A cloud of dust hangs over the asphalt, and Bessemer rests his forehead on his steering wheel. He sits this way for five minutes, and then he too leaves.
17
Bobby and Mike follow Bessemer from the Brazilian restaurant, and when it’s clear he’s headed home, they call Carr, who drives with Dennis to the workhouse. They open one of Dennis’s laptops and bring up the mics and cameras in Bessemer’s cottage. They watch Bessemer fumble ice into a glass, hold a bottle above the tumbler, and pour for a long time. Then they watch him wander to his office and drop heavily into a chair.
They both start when Bessemer’s landline rings. Howie doesn’t move, but lets the machine answer. It’s Willis Stearn, nervous but excited.
“Just calling to see if you’d worked things out-if we’re on for Friday, and if she’s… if everything is per our discussion. Call me back.”
Howie mutters to himself after Stearn hangs up, and finally he speaks out loud. “ Fuck!”
Then he hauls himself from his chair, digs in a desk drawer, and comes out with a cell phone. He finds a number in its memory, presses a key, and sets the phone on the desk. A woman answers, her voice thin through the phone speaker, and Bessemer asks for Curtis Prager. And gets him.
It is the first time Carr has heard Prager’s voice, and it’s deeper than he expects, and calmer. It’s an oddly denatured voice too, lacking any regional accent or twang-an anchorman’s voice, but without the practiced affability. His pleasantries are mechanical and distracted, lacking any actual warmth-a sociable shell over an icy core.
“What can I do you for, Bess? I understand you’ve been burning up the phone lines.”
Bessemer hems and haws for a while, and Carr hears him swallow hard. Finally, he comes out with it. “It’s my money, Curt-I need my money back.”
There is a long pause from Prager. “Where are you calling from?” he asks.
“Don’t worry, I follow the rules-I’m on a prepaid cell, just like you said. It’s been a very long time, Curt-years, for chrissakes-and I really need my money.”
Prager chuckles patronizingly. “I heard you the first time. We’ve talked about this before, Bess. Often. You know it’s not a simple matter.”
Bessemer’s voice is nervous but determined. “I know you always make it sound complicated, but I’m still not clear why that should be.”
Again, the chuckle. “We’ve been over it again and again.”
“A simple wire transfer-I’m not sure why it’s more involved than that.”
Another sigh, longer, more impatient. “How many ways can I say it?” Prager asks. “Transferring the money is the easy part. Provenance is the problem.”
“But that’s… isn’t that my problem?”
“The hell it is,” Prager says brusquely. “Who do you think will be the second person the feds want to talk to, as soon as they’ve eaten you for lunch?”
“We could break it into several transfers, in smaller amounts. I know you know how to-”
Prager’s voice turns colder. “That’s called structuring, Bess, or maybe you’ve forgotten. And the feds are always thrilled to find it. It tells them they’re on the right track. I know they’d especially love to see it in your bank account.”
“They’re not still watching me,” Bessemer says, with more hope than conviction.
“Really? Is that what all your security people tell you? Because my security people tell me something different. They say that the feds are still fascinated by what flows through your accounts, and that Tracy and her fucking lawyers do their best to keep them interested.”
Dennis looks at Carr, puzzled. Carr shakes his head. When Bessemer speaks again, his voice is a white flag. “I need money, Curt,” he says softly.
“I know,” Prager says. “And believe me, I’m working on getting it to you. In the meantime, if you need something to tide you over, I’m sure we can work it out. We can do what we’ve done before: package it as a consulting fee, for client referrals. As long as we give it documentation, and keep it to small amounts, it should be fine.”
Prager’s reassurances are met with silence. A skeptical silence, Carr thinks, and maybe Prager thinks so too, because his next words are lower and somehow more threatening. “What’s the matter, Bess-after everything we’ve been through, you suddenly decide you don’t trust me? All these years, and I still haven’t proven I can keep my word?”
Bessemer coughs and sputters, but his declarations of trust come too late: Prager has already hung up.
“What was all that about the feds?” Dennis asks. “We’re the only ones following Howie around. And who the hell is Tracy?”
“She’s Bessemer’s ex,” Carr says. “I don’t know what the rest of that shit was about.” Carr is still rubbing his chin when Bessemer makes a second call-this one to Willis Stearn.