"You'll think of something, Nat. You got a month. Get rid of them and don't hire any new boys. Lazarov wants a tight little unit where everyone can be trusted. He's scared, Nat. Scared and mad. I don't have to tell you what could happen if one of your boys spilled his guts."
"No, you don't have to tell me. What does he plan to do with McDeere?"
"Right now, nothing but the same. We're listening twenty-four hours a day, and the kid has never mentioned a word to his wife or anyone else. Not a word! He's been corralled twice by Tarrance, and he reported both incidents to you. I still think the second meeting was somewhat suspicious, so we're being very careful. Lazarov, on the other hand, insists there was a meeting in Washington. He's trying to confirm. He said his sources knew little, but they were digging. If in fact McDeere met with the Fibbies up there and failed to report it, then I'm sure Lazarov will instruct me to move quickly. That's why he wants preliminary plans to take McDeere out."
"How do you plan to do it?"
"It's too early. I haven't given it much thought."
"You know he and his wife are going to the Caymans in two weeks for a vacation. They'll stay in one of our condos, the usual."
"We wouldn't do it there again. Too suspicious. Lazarov instructed me to get her pregnant."
"McDeere's wife?"
"Yep. He wants them to have a baby, a little leverage. She's on the pill, so we gotta break in, take her little box, match up the pills and replace them with placebos."
At this, the great black eyes saddened just a touch and looked through the window. "What the hell's going on, DeVasher?" he asked softly.
"This place is about to change, Nat. It appears as though the feds are extremely interested, and they keep pecking away. One day, who knows, one of your boys may take the bait, and you'll all leave town in the middle of the night."
"I don't believe that, DeVasher. A lawyer here would be a fool to risk his life and his family for a few promises from the feds. I just don't believe it will happen. These boys are too smart and they're making too much money."
"I hope you're right."
Chapter 22
The leasing agent leaned against the rear of the elevator and admired the black leather miniskirt from behind. He followed it down almost to the knees, where it ended and the seams in the black silk stockings began and snaked downward to black heels. Kinky heels, with little red bows across the toes. He slowly worked his way back up the seams, past the leather, pausing to admire the roundness of her rear, then upward to the red cashmere sweater, which from his vantage point revealed little but from the other side was quite impressive, as he had noticed in the lobby. The hair landed just below the shoulder blades and contrasted nicely with the red. He knew it was bleached, but add the bleach to the leather mini and the seams and the kinky heels and the tight sweater hugging those things around the front, add all that together and he knew this was a woman he could have. He would like to have her in the building. She just wanted a small office. The rent was negotiable.
The elevator stopped. The door opened, and he followed her into the narrow hall. "This way" - he pointed, flipping on a light switch. In the corner, he moved in front of her and stuck a key in a badly aged wooden door.
"It's just two rooms," he said, nipping on another switch. "About two hundred square feet."
She walked straight to the window. "The view is okay," Tammy said, staring into the distance.
"Yes, a nice view. The carpet is new. Painted last fall. Rest room's down the hall. It's a nice place. The entire building's been renovated within the past eight years." He stared at the black seams as he spoke.
"It's not bad," Tammy said, not in response to anything he had mentioned. She continued to stare out the window. "What's the name of this place?"
"The Cotton Exchange Building. One of the oldest in Memphis. It's really a prestigious address."
"How prestigious is the rent?"
He cleared his throat and held a file before him. He did not look at the file. He was gaping at the heels now. "Well, it's such a small office. What did you say you needed it for?"
"Secretarial work. Free-lance secretarial." She moved to the other window, ignoring him. He followed every move.
"I see. How long will you need it?"
"Six months, with an option for a year."
"Okay, for six months we can lease it for three-fifty a month."
She did not flinch or look from the window. She slid her right foot out of the shoe and rubbed the left calf with it. The seam continued, he observed, under the heel and along the bottom of the foot. The toenails were... red! She cocked her rear to the left and leaned on the windowsill. His file was shaking.
"I'll pay two-fifty a month," she said with authority.
He cleared his throat. There was no sense being greedy. The tiny rooms were dead space, useless to anyone else, and had not been occupied in years. The building could use a free-lance secretary. Hell, he might even need a free-lance secretary.
"Three hundred, but no less. This building is in demand.
Ninety percent occupied right now. Three hundred a month, and that's too low. We're barely covering costs at that."
She turned suddenly, and there they were. Staring at him. The cashmere was stretched tightly around them. "The ad said there were furnished offices available," she said.
"We can furnish this one," he said, eager to cooperate. "What do you need?"
She looked around the office. "I would like a secretarial desk with credenza in here. Several file cabinets. A couple of chairs for clients. Nothing fancy. The other room does not have to be furnished. I'll put a copier in there,"
"No problem," he said with a smile.
"And I'll pay three hundred a month, furnished."
"Good," he said as he opened a file and withdrew a blank lease. He laid it on a folding table and began writing.
"Your name?"
"Doris Greenwood." Her mother was Doris Greenwood, and she had been Tammy Inez Greenwood before she ran up on Buster Hemphill, who later became (legally) Elvis Aaron Hemphill, and life had pretty much been downhill since. Her mother lived in Effingham, Illinois.
"Okay, Doris," he said with an effort at suaveness, as if they were now on a first-name basis and growing closer by the moment. "Home address?"
"Why do you need that?" she asked with irritation.
"Well, uh, we just need that information."
"It's none of your business."
"Okay, okay. No problem." He dramatically scratched out that portion of the lease. He hovered above it. "Let's see. We'll run it from today, March 2, for six months until September 2. Is that okay?"
She nodded and lit a cigarette.
He read the next paragraph. "Okay, we require a three-hundred-dollar deposit and the first month's rent in advance."
From a pocket in the tight black leather skirt, she produced a roll of cash. She counted six one-hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the table. "Receipt, please," she demanded.
"Certainly." He continued writing.
"What floor are we on?" she asked, returning to the windows.
"Ninth. There's a ten percent late charge past the fifteenth of the month. We have the right to enter at any reasonable time to inspect. Premises cannot be used for any illegal purpose. You pay all utilities and insurance on contents. You get one parking space in the lot across the street, and here are two keys. Any questions?"