Mitch sat in the corner of the bar, drinking coffee and watching the front door. He was early, and had planned it that way. He had called her three hours earlier and asked if he could have a date for seven. She asked why, and he said he would explain later. Since the Caymans he had known someone was following, watching, listening. For the past month he had spoken carefully on the phone, had caught himself watching the rearview mirror, had even chosen his words around the house. Someone was watching and listening, he was sure.
Abby rushed in from the cold and glanced around the parlor for her husband. He met her in the front of the bar and pecked her on the cheek. She removed her coat, and they followed the maitre d' to a small table in a row of small tables which were all full with people within earshot. Mitch glanced around for another table, but there were none. He thanked him and sat across from his wife.
"What's the occasion?" she asked suspiciously.
"Do I need a reason to have dinner with my wife?"
"Yes. It's seven o'clock on Monday night, and you're not at the office. This is indeed a special occasion."
A waiter squeezed between their table and the next, and asked if they wanted a drink. Two white wines, please. Mitch glanced around the dining room again and caught a glimpse of a gentleman sitting alone five tables away. The face looked familiar. When Mitch looked again, the face slid behind a menu.
"What's the matter, Mitch?"
He laid his hand on hers and frowned. "Abby, we gotta talk."
Her hand flinched slightly and she stopped smiling. "About what?"
He lowered his voice. "About something very serious."
She exhaled deeply and said, "Can we wait for the wine. I might need it."
Mitch looked again at the face behind the menu. "We can't talk here."
"Then why are we here?"
"Look, Abby, you know where the rest rooms are? Down the hall over there, to your right?"
"Yes, I know."
"There's a rear entrance at the end of the hall. It goes out to the side street behind the restaurant. 1 want you to go to the rest room, then out the door. I'll be waiting next to the street."
She said nothing. Her eyebrows lowered and the eyes narrowed. Her head leaned slightly to the right.
"Trust me, Abby. I can explain later. I'll meet you outside and we'll find another place to eat. I can't talk in here."
"You're scaring me."
"Please," he said firmly, squeezing her hand. "Everything is fine. I'll bring your coat."
She stood with her purse and left the room. Mitch looked over his shoulder at the man with the familiar face, who suddenly stood and welcomed an elderly lady to his table. He did not notice Abby's exit.
In the street behind Paulette's, Mitch draped the coat over Abby's shoulders and pointed eastward. "I can explain," he said more than once. A hundred feet down the street, they walked between two buildings and came to the front entrance of the Bombay Bicycle Club, a singles bar with good food and live blues. Mitch looked at the head-waiter, then surveyed the two dining rooms, then pointed to a table in the rear corner. "That one," he said.
Mitch sat with his back to the wall and his face toward the dining room and the front door. The corner was dark. Candles lit the table. They ordered more wine.
Abby sat motionless, staring at him, watching every move and waiting.
"Do you remember a guy named Rick Acklin from Western Kentucky?"
"No," she said without moving her lips.
"He played baseball, lived in the dorm. I think you may have met him once. A very nice guy, real clean-cut, good student. I think he was from Bowling Green. We weren't good friends, but we knew each other."
She shook her head and waited.
"Well, he finished a year before we did and went to law school at Wake Forest. Now he's with the FBI. And he's working here in Memphis." He watched her closely to see if "FBI" would have an impact. It did not. "And today I'm eating lunch at Obleo's hot-dog place on Main Street, when Rick walks up out of nowhere and says hello. Just like it was a real coincidence. We chat for a few minutes, and another agent, guy by the name of Tarrance, walks up and has a seat. It's the second time Tarrance has chased me down since I passed the bar."
"The second . . . ?"
"Yes. Since August."
"And these are ... FBI agents?"
"Yes, with badges and everything. Tarrance is a veteran agent from New York. Been here about two years. Acklin is a rookie they brought in three months ago."
"What do they want?"
The wine arrived and Mitch looked around the club. A band was tuning up on a small stage in a far corner. The bar was crowded with well-dressed professional types chitting and chatting relentlessly. The waiter pointed to the unopened menus. "Later," Mitch said rudely.
"Abby, I don't know what they want. The first visit was in August, right after my name was printed in the paper for passing the bar." He sipped his wine and detailed play by play the first Tarrance visit at Lansky's Deli on Union, the warnings about whom not to trust and where not to talk, the meeting with Locke and Lambert and the other partners. He explained their version of why the FBI was so interested in and said that he discussed it with Lamar and believed every word Locke and Lambert had said.
Abby hung on every word, but waited to start asking.
"And now, today, while I'm minding my own business, eating a foot-long with onions, this guy I went to college with walks up and tells me that they, the FBI, know for a fact that my phones are bugged, my home is wired and somebody down at Bendini, Lambert & Locke knows when I sneeze and take a crap. Think of it, Abby, Rick Acklin was transferred here after I passed the bar exam. Nice coincidence, huh?"
"But what do they want?"
"They won't say. They can't tell me, yet. They want me to trust them, and all that routine. I don't know, Abby. I have no idea what they're after. But they've chosen me for some reason."
"Did you tell Lamar about this visit?"
"No. I haven't told anyone. Except you. And I don't plan to tell anyone."
She gulped the wine. "Our phones are tapped?"
"According to the FBI. But how do they know?"
"They're not stupid, Mitch. If the FBI told me my phones were tapped, I'd believe them. You don't?"
"I don't know whom to believe. Locke and Lambert were so smooth and believable when they explained how fights with the IRS and the FBI. I want to believe them, but so much of it doesn't add up. Look at it this way-if had a rich client who was shady and worthy of FBI scrutiny, why would the FBI pick me, the rookie, the one who knows the least, and begin following me? What do I know? I work on files someone else hands me. I have no clients of my own. I do as I'm told. Why not go after one of the partners?"
"Maybe they want you to squeal on the clients."
"No way. I'm a lawyer and sworn to secrecy about the affairs of clients. Everything I know about a client is strictly confidential. The feds know that. No one expects a lawyer to talk about his clients."
"Have you seen any illegal deals?"