Yet the lawyer chose not to edify the young reporter on the end of the line. Turnquist was careful not to lie outright; it wasn't required. Conveniently the young reporter failed to ask Turnquist if he'd spoken to Tom Krome that day, or if he had any reason to believe Tom Krome was not deceased.
Instead the reporter said: "How long had you known each other? What are your fondest memories? How do you think he'd like to be remembered?"
All questions that Dick Turnquist found it easy to answer. He didn't say so, but he was grateful to The Registerfor saving him further aggravation in tracking Mary Andrea Finley Krome. Once she heard the news, she'd naturally assume she could stop running, Tom's dying would get her off the hook, litigation-wise, and she'd have no reason to continue the dodge. Mary Andrea had always been less concerned with saving the marriage than with avoiding the stigma of divorce. The last true Catholic, in her estranged husband's words.
She was also a ham. Dick Turnquist expected Mary Andrea would get the first plane for Florida, to play the irresistible role of grief-stricken widow – sitting for poignant TV interviews, attending weepy candlelight memorials, stoically announcing journalism scholarships in her martyred spouse's name.
And we'll be waiting for her, thought Dick Turnquist.
On the phone, the reporter from The Registerwas winding up the interview. "Thanks for talking with me at such a difficult time. Just one more question: As Tom's close friend, how do you feel about what's happened?"
The lawyer answered, quite truthfully: "Well, it doesn't seem real."
On the morning of December 2, Bernard Squires telephoned Clara Markham in Grange to inquire if his generous purchase offer had been conveyed to the sellers of Simmons Wood.
"But it's only been three days," the broker said.
"You haven't even spoken to them?"
"I've put in a call," Clara fudged. "They said Mr. Simmons is in Las Vegas. His sister is on holiday down in the islands."
Bernard Squires said, "They have telephones in Las Vegas, I know for a fact."
Normally Bernard was not so impatient, but Richard "The Icepick" Tarbone urgently needed to make a covert withdrawal from the union pension accounts. The nature of the family emergency was not confided to Bernard Squires, and he pointedly exhibited a lack of curiosity on the matter. But since the Florida real estate purchase was crucial to the money laundering, The Icepick had taken a personal interest in expediting the deal. None of this could be frankly communicated by Bernard Squires to Clara Markham, who was saying:
"I'll try to reach them again this morning. I promise."
"And there are no other offers?" Bernard asked.
"Nothing on the table," said Clara, which was strictly the truth.
As soon as the man from Chicago hung up, she dialed the number in Coral Gables that JoLayne had given her. A desk clerk at the motel said Miss Lucks and her friend had checked out.
With heavy reluctance Clara Markham then phoned the attorney handling the estate of the late Lighthorse Simmons. She described the pension fund's offer for the forty-four acres on the outskirts of Grange. The attorney said three million sounded like a fair price. He seemed sure the heirs would leap at it.
Clara was sure, too. She felt bad for her friend, but business was business. Unless JoLayne Lucks found a miracle, Simmons Wood was lost.
An hour later, when Bernard Squires' telephone rang, he thought it must be Clara Markham calling with the good news. It wasn't. It was Richard Tarbone.
"I'm sicka this shit," he told Squires. "You get your ass down to Florida."
And Squires went.
They'd checked out of the Comfort Inn shortly after Moffitt's visit. The agent had come straight from the redneck's apartment. His tight-lipped expression told the story: no Lotto ticket.
"Damn," JoLayne had said.
"I think I know where it is."
"Where?"
"He hid it in a rubber. The camo guy."
"A rubber." JoLayne, pressing her knuckles to her forehead, trying not to get grossed out.
"A Trojan," Moffitt had added.
"Thanks. I've got the picture."
"He's carrying it on him somewhere, I'm willing to bet."
"His wallet," Tom Krome had suggested.
"Yeah, probably." Moffitt matter-of-factly told them about the search of Bodean James Gazzer's place – the anti-government posters and bumper stickers, the gun magazines, the vermin, the condoms in the wastebasket.
"What now? How do we find the ticket?" Krome had asked.
"Gimme a week."
"No." JoLayne, shaking her head. "I can't. Time's running out."
Moffitt had promised he'd take care of it as soon as he returned from San Juan. He had to go testify in a seizure case – illegal Chinese machine guns, routed through Haiti.
"When I get back, I'll deal with these guys. Do a traffic stop, pat 'em down real hard. Search the pickup, too."
"But what if – "
"If it's not there, then ... hell, I don't know." Moffitt, working his jaw, stared out the window.
"How long will you be gone?"
"Three days. Four at the most."
Moffitt had handed JoLayne Lucks the lottery tickets from Bodean Gazzer's sock drawer. "For Saturday night," he'd said. "Just in case."
"Very funny."
"Hey, weirder things've happened."
JoLayne had tucked the tickets in her handbag. "By the way, Tom's dead. It'll be in the papers tomorrow."
Moffitt had glanced quizzically at Krome, who'd shrugged and said, "Long story."
"Murdered?"
"Supposedly. I'd prefer to keep it that way for now. You mind?"
"I've never laid eyes on you," Moffitt had said, "and you've never laid eyes on me."
At the door, JoLayne had given the ATF agent a warm hug. "Thanks for everything. I know you stuck your neck out."
"Forget it."
"Nothing happened? You sure?"
"Easy as pie. But the place is trashed – Gazzer'll know it wasn't some chickenshit burglar."
As soon as Moffitt was gone, they'd started to pack. Krome insisted. The robber's address was in Krome's notebook, the one JoLayne said he never used.
The first formal meeting of the White Clarion Aryans was held by lantern light at an empty cockfighting ring. It began with a dispute over titles; Bode Gazzer said military discipline was impossible without strict designations of rank. He declared that henceforth he should be called "Colonel."
Chub objected. "We's equal partners," he said, " 'cept for him." Meaning the kid, Shiner.
Bode offered Chub the rank of major, which he assured him was on a par with colonel. Chub pondered it between swigs of Jack Daniel's, purchased (along with beer, gas, cigarets, T-bone steaks, onion rings and frozen cheesecake) with the cash stolen from the young Colombian stockbroker.
Major Chubdidn't sound particularly distinguished, Chub thought. Major Gillespiewasn't half bad, but Chub wasn't psychologically prepared to revert to the family name.
"Fuck this whole dumb idea," he mumbled.
Shiner raised a hand. "Can I be a sergeant?"
Bode nodded. "Son, you're reading my mind."
Chub raised the liquor bottle. "Can I be a Klingon? Please, Colonel Gazzer, sir. Purty please?"
Bode ignored him. He handed each of the men a booklet distributed by the First Patriot Covenant, an infamously disagreeable cell of supremacists headquartered in western Montana. The First Patriot Covenant lived in concrete pillboxes and believed blacks and Jews were the children of Satan; the Pope was either a first or a second cousin. Simply titled "Starting Up," the group's booklet contained helpful sections about organizing militia wings: fund-raising, tax evasion, rules of order, rules of recruitment, dress codes, press relations and arsenals. Shiner could hardly wait to read it.