Gloomily JoLayne thought: If only the lottery paid the jackpots in one lump sum, I could afford to buy Simmons Wood outright. I could match Squires dollar for dollar until the sweat trickled down his pink midwestern cheeks.
“Excuse me, Clara, may I—”
“Three point seven!” Bernard Squires piped, from reflex.
“—borrow your phone?”
Clara Markham pretended not to have heard Squires. As she slid the telephone toward JoLayne, it rang. Clara simultaneously lifted the receiver and twirled her chair, so she could not be seen. Her voice dropped to a murmur.
JoLayne snuck a glance at Bernard Squires, who was flicking invisible dust off his briefcase. They both looked up inquisitively when they heard Clara Markham say: “No problem. Send him in.”
She hung up and swiveled to face them. “I’m afraid this is rather important,” she said.
Bernard Squires frowned. “Not another bidder?”
“Oh my, no.” The real estate agent chuckled.
When the door opened, she waved the visitor inside—a strong-looking black man wearing round glasses and a business suit tailored even more exquisitely than Squires’ own.
“Oh Lord,” said JoLayne Lucks. “I should’ve known.”
Moffitt pecked her on the crown of her cap. “Nice to see you, Jo.” Then, affably, to Squires: “Don’t get up.”
“Who’re you?”
Moffitt flipped out his badge. Bernard’s reaction, Clara Markham would tell her colleagues later, was so priceless that it was almost worth losing the extra commission.
When he hadn’t heard from JoLayne, Moffitt had driven to Grange, jimmied the back door of her house and (during a neat but thorough search) listened to the voice messages on her answering machine. That’s how he’d come across Clara Markham, a woman who (unlike some Florida real estate salespersons) wholeheartedly believed in cooperating with law enforcement authorities. Clara had informed Moffitt of JoLayne’s interest in Simmons Wood and brought him up to speed on the negotiations. Something ticked in the agent’s memory when he learned the competing buyer was the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Dry-wallers International. Moffitt had spent the early part of the morning talking to the people in his business who talked to the computers. They were exceptionally helpful.
Clara Markham invited him to sit. Moffitt declined. His hovering made Bernard Squires anxious, which was for Moffitt’s purpose a desirable thing.
Squires examined the agent’s identification. He said: “Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms? I don’t understand.” Then, for added smoothness: “I hope you didn’t come all this way on government business, Mr. Moffitt, because I don’t drink, smoke or carry a gun.”
The agent laughed. “In Florida,” he said, “that puts you in a definite minority.”
Bernard Squires was compelled to laugh, too—brittle and unpersuasive. Already he could feel his undershirt clinging to the small of his back.
Moffitt said, “Do you know a man named Richard Tarbone?”
“I know who he is,” Squires said—the same answer he’d given to three separate grand juries.
“Do you know him as Richard or ‘Icepick’?”
“I know of him,” Squires replied carefully, “as Richard Tarbone. He is a legitimate businessman in the Chicago area.”
“Sure he is,” Moffitt said, “and I’m Little Richard’s love child.”
JoLayne Lucks covered her mouth to keep from exploding. Clara Markham pretended to be reading the fine print of the union’s purchase offer. When Moffitt asked to speak to Mr. Squires privately, the two women did not object. JoLayne vowed to hunt down some doughnuts.
Once he and Squires were alone in the office, Moffitt said: “You don’t really want to buy this property. Trust me.”
“The pension fund is very interested.”
“The pension fund, as we both know, is a front for the Tarbone family. So cut the crap, Bernie.”
Squires moved his jaws as if he was working on a wad of taffy. He heard the door being locked. The agent was standing behind him now.
“That’s slander, Mr. Moffitt, unless you can prove it—which you cannot.”
He waited for a response: Nothing.
“What’s your interest in this?” Squires pressed. He couldn’t understand why the ATF was snooping around a commercial land deal that had no connection to illegal guns or booze. Gangsters bought and sold real estate in Florida every day. On the infrequent occasions when the government took notice, it was the FBI and Internal Revenue who came calling.