"Not over yet. Daniel Denton called to say he needed to speak with me. He should have been here already."
"What's he need to speak with you about?"
"No idea," I say. "It seemed urgent. But then, he's a lawyer. Everything they do is urgent. To them."
Fifteen minutes later, Denton shows up. I ask him if he wants a drink.
"I think not," he says.
He has brought along a manila folder. It sits on the table in front of him. He looks at it. Then he looks at Barbara.
"If you don't mind, Ms. Pickering, I have a matter I'd like to discuss with Mr. Chasteen," he says. "A business matter."
Barbara starts to get up from her chair. I stop her.
"She knows my business, Denton," I say. "Start talking."
Denton swallows. He opens the folder, then closes it. He gives me a smile. His face does not wear it well.
"Well, I suppose I should first begin by offering my most sincere and deepest apologies, along with those of my associate, Mr. Urban, for the reception we gave you when you visited our office the other day. We acted rudely and ungentlemanly, and for that ..."
"Sugar kisses on a cow's ass," I interrupt.
"Excuse me?"
"Something my grandfather used to say. You're just sweet-talking me to set me up for something else. You didn't come here to apologize."
"Why, Mr. Chasteen, I ..."
"What's in the folder?" I say.
Denton takes a deep breath.
He says, "A certain client of ours, who wishes to remain anonymous, has authorized us to make an offer on his behalf for your holdings at Governor's Pointe."
"What's his offer?"
Denton slides the folder to me. I open it, look at the numbers.
"That's exactly what Brewster Trimmingham paid for those units," I say.
"Yes, we thought it was a fair offer, considering ..."
"Considering what?"
"Considering the manner in which you obtained the property."
I turn to Barbara.
"Would you mind doing me a favor?"
"I'd be delighted. What is it?"
"Go find a phone book."
"A phone book?"
"Yes, I want to look up the number of the Bermuda Bar Association. I need to make a call."
"Now, listen here," Denton sputters.
"No, you listen, Denton. I'm no legal eagle, but something tells me it's not exactly kosher for an attorney to represent a client in one matter and then use information obtained through that representation to leverage against the same client in another matter. Am I wrong?"
Denton glares at me.
"I am authorized to negotiate," he says.
"Negotiate away," I say.
Denton pulls a pen from his pocket, takes back the folder. He scribbles something on the papers, then pushes the folder back to me. I look at it.
"That's a little better," I say.
"No, that is considerably better, Mr. Chasteen. I would urge you to ..."
"I'll think about it," I say. "Thanks for dropping by. I'll get back to you in a couple of weeks."
"Really, Mr. Chasteen. I would urge you to take the offer that is on the table. My client has given us an extremely tight timetable under which to ..."
"Anxious, is he?"
"Yes, quite."
"In that case, may I?" I say, pointing to his pen. He hands it to me.
I scribble some numbers of my own. I pass the folder back to him. He looks at it. His mouth drops.
"Let me think out loud here while you're digesting those numbers, Denton. See, I'm thinking that your law firm, while highly reputable and certainly beyond reproach, is, after all, a Bermuda law firm and, therefore, from time to time, does represent certain clients who need to move large amounts of money in very hasty fashion with not a lot of questions asked. That's OK. Comes with the turf. And, you know, I don't really have a problem with that.
"What I do have a problem with, is you coming here with your apologies and your slick smile, thinking that you can lowball me based on knowledge obtained by our previous relationship, then turn around and flip those properties at Governor's Pointe for a hell of a lot more than you are offering to pay me."
Denton doesn't say anything.
I say, "Look at those numbers again, Denton. And tell me the truth, is this client of yours prepared to pay you more than that for those goddamn condos?"
Denton doesn't say anything.
I turn to Barbara.
"I think there's a phone book on that stand in the kitchen," I say.
"No, wait," Denton says. He looks at me. "I think we have some wiggle room."
"Well, wiggle away, Denton. Those are the numbers. Take them or leave them."
I grab the folder. I flip through the papers. I find the bottom line. I hand Denton his pen.
I say, "You need to sign right there."
89.
We've booked a late afternoon flight back to Florida. It gives me plenty of time to do what I need to do.
Boggy goes with me. Barbara doesn't really like the idea of me driving the Morris Minor, but I tell her that working the clutch will be good therapy. I'm going to miss that car.
We go to Richfield Bank. I meet with Mr. Bunson and Mr. Highsmith.
"The funds have arrived from Mr. Denton," Mr. Bunson says.
"Very good," I say. "There will be more after the closing."
"We have done as you instructed," says Mr. Highsmith.
He hands me a cloth money bag. It's pretty hefty. I look inside. I don't bother to count it. I get up.
"Pleasure doing business with you," I say.
Boggy and I don't talk much on the drive to Flatts Village. When we get to Ferreira Grocery, we park near the tree where men play dominoes. Paul Andrade is there. So are some of the others.
Andrade gets up when he sees us.
"Don't bother," I say. "We know the way."
Andrade sits backs down.
We walk into the store. The same middle-aged woman sits behind the counter reading a magazine. She barely gives us a glance.
I knock on the door to the back room, hear Papi Ferreira say: "Yes, come in."
We step inside. Ferreira sits behind his desk, smoking a cigar. Nestor Ferreira sits in a chair across from him. There are plates on the desk, remains of a recent meal. Music plays from the old stereo-fado.
Ferreira opens his arms in greeting, smiles.
"My grandson and I were enjoying a late breakfast together," he says. He looks at Nestor. "The music."
Nestor steps to the stereo, switches it off.
"Please, sit," says Ferreira. There are only two chairs. Boggy and I take them.
Nestor leans against the wall, watching us. He's a good-looking guy, no more than twenty-four or twenty-five. Sad brown eyes, long dark hair.
I take the money bag, put it down in the middle of Ferreira's desk.
"That's yours," I say. "Eighty thousand dollars."
Ferreira looks at it. He leans back in his chair, smokes his cigar. He looks at me.
"You are an honorable man," he says.
"I have my moments," I say.
Ferreira smiles.
"I, too, am an honorable man," Ferreira says. He reaches for the money bag, pushes it across the table to me. "That is why I cannot accept this."
"Why not?"
Ferreira shrugs.
"You have paid your debt to me," he says.
I look at Nestor. His face shows nothing. I look at Ferreira.
"Tell me how it happened," I say.
"It is not necessary," Ferreira says.
"Yeah, it is. It is something I need to know." I look at Nestor. "That was you in the Toyota, wasn't it?"
Nestor says nothing. He looks at his grandfather.
Ferreira says, "When you came here before, you said that if I wanted my money then I should help you. So, I asked Nestor to keep an eye on you, should you require my assistance."
"Go on," I say.
"Nestor is good at keeping an eye on people," Ferreira says.
"Did he keep an eye on Michael Frazer?"
Ferreira puffs on his cigar, flicks ashes on the floor.