Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [66]
“I’ll start without you,” she challenged.
“Wait for me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Redbirt went back into the lobby, easily evading the gaze of the wizened security guard. He summoned the elevator and pushed 18. Virginia was as unimportant to him now as his wife.
“Morgan Jones” had called just after lunch. And as usual, he had caught Redbirt off guard.
“I have thought about what you said the last time,” said the voice named Jones, “and you are right. There is too much disorder.”
“It’s not disorder; it’s madness now,” Redbirt wailed. “Nobody understands what’s happening anymore; the whole thing’s crazy. You said it would get better. It’s worse. Deal me out. Whoever you are, deal me out.”
“Just now? When your patience is about to be rewarded?”
“What do you mean?”
“I will explain that when we meet.”
“When we meet?”
“Yes, my friend, I have concluded you were right about that, too. We will meet this afternoon.”
“Where?”
“In your office, after everyone has left. I will come precisely at five-forty, and I will leave at three minutes to six. Wait in your office, and leave the front door unlocked. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
Lane Redbirt was impatient. He swiveled in his black leather chair to stare at the wall clock. It was 5:20. So he was being granted a seventeen-minute audience with the disembodied voice whose sporadic calls over the past two years had changed his whole life. Morgan Jones coming to announce peace in our time, was he? Well, Lane Redbirt would be ready for him. No more messenger boy-distributor. No more dealing by dead of night with spics who smelled of garlic. No more pussying around. No, sir, Your Honor. Whether Morgan Jones realized it or not, he was about to surrender his trump card: his identity. If he wanted Lane Redbirt selling his shit, from now on it would be on Redbirt’s terms.
At 5:22 Redbirt could contain himself no longer. He had popped an upper about three o’clock. It was wearing off. From the bowels of a filing cabinet he withdrew a small plastic bag. One line, Redbirt thought. Just one line now to fire all the cylinders for the good Mr. Jones. Later, with hungry Virginia, he would really quench the thirst.
“Anybody home? Hello. Anybody home?”
The voice came from the reception area, shattering Redbirt’s musings. He looked again at the clock: 5:23. It could not be Jones. If a man announces he is coming for seventeen minutes, he comes on time. Redbirt hurried from his office.
“Thank God somebody’s here. I’ve been wandering all over the building, looking for a lawyer who doesn’t run home at five o’clock.”
The man wore an impeccable seersucker suit and carried a smart attaché case of brown leather. Redbirt knew him instantly.
“Oh, Mr. Bermúdez. Hello, I’m Lane Redbirt.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Redbirt, and I apologize for bursting in on you, but I need a legal opinion, and I need it urgently.”
“I was just leaving, Mr. Bermúdez, I’m sorry. If it can’t wait until Monday…”
“No, it can’t wait. That’s the point. I have people coming to my office upstairs in a few minutes to sign a contract, and there is one phrase I cannot understand. Our attorney has taken it into his head to go golfing. It is a game he will remember for a long time, I promise you.”
“I’m sorry, I have to—”
“Please, it will only take a minute. Look, three hundred dollars for three minutes’ work. I’ll pay cash.”
Redbirt looked at his watch. It was 5:24.
“It will have to be literally three minutes, I’m afraid. Come in, please.” It was a gamble, but a good gamble, Redbirt decided. The executive offices of José Bermúdez’s banking empire occupied the whole twentieth floor. Some people thought the man would be Miami’s next mayor. Lane Redbirt suddenly decided that he himself would make a fine city attorney.
Bermúdez sat in the chair before Redbirt’s desk and laid the attaché case on his lap.
“I can’t tell you how I appreciate this, Mr. Redbirt,” said Bermúdez, extracting a sheaf of papers. “Do you do much corporate work?”
“A fair amount,” Redbirt lied.
“Then this should be child’s play for you.