The unit from Langley flew to Des Moines, where the agents rented two cars and a van, then drove forty minutes to Bakers, Iowa. They arrived in the quiet, snowbound little town two days before the letter. By the time Quince picked it up at the post office, they knew the names of the postmaster, the mayor, the chief of police, and the short-order cook at the pancake house next to the hardware store. But no one in Bakers knew them.
They watched Quince hurry to the bank after leaving the post office. Thirty minutes later, two agents known only as Chap and Wes found the corner of the bank where Mr. Garbe, Jr., did business, and they presented themselves to his secretary as inspectors from the Federal Reserve. They certainly looked official -dark suits, black shoes, short hair, long overcoats, clipped speech, efficient manners.
Quince was locked inside, and at first seemed unwilling to come out. They impressed upon his secretary the urgency of their visit, and after almost forty minutes the door opened slightly. Mr. Garbe looked as though he'd been crying. He was pale, shaken, unhappy with the prospect of entertaining anyone. But he showed them in anyway, too unnerved to ask for identification. He didn't even catch their names.
He sat across the massive desk, and looked at the twins facing him. "What can we do for you?" he asked, with a very faint smile.
"Is the door locked?" Chap asked.
"Why yes, it is." The twins got the impression that most of Mr. Garbe's day was spent behind locked doors.
"Can anyone hear us?"Wes asked.
"No." Quince was even more rattled now.
"We're not reserve officials, Chap said. "We lied."
Quince wasn't sure if he should be angry or relieved or even more frightened, so he just sat there for a second, mouth open, frozen, waiting to be shot.
"It's a long story;"Wes said.
"You've got five minutes."
"Actually, we have as long as we want."
"This is my office. Get out."
"Not so fast. We know some things."
"I'll call security"
"No you won't."
"We've seen the letter," Chap said. "The one you just got from the post office."
"I picked up several."
"But only one from Ricky."
Quince's shoulders sagged, his eyes closed slowly. Then they opened again and looked at the tormentors in total, absolute defeat. "Who are you?" he mumbled.
"We're not enemies."
"You're working for him, aren't you?" Him.
"Ricky, or whoever the hell he is."
"No," Wes said. "He's our enemy too. Let's just say that we have a client who's in the same boat you're in, more or less.We've been hired to protect him."
Chap pulled a thick envelope from his coat pocket and tossed it on the desk. "There's twenty-five thousand cash. Send it to Ricky"
Quince stared at the envelope, his mouth open wide. His poor brain was choked with so many thoughts he was dizzy. So he closed his eyes again, and squinted fiercely in a vain effort to organize things. Forget the question of who they were. How did they read the letter? Why were they offering him money? How much did they know?
He sure as hell couldn't trust them.
"The money's yours," Wes said. "In return, we need some information."
"Who is Ricky?" Quince asked, his eyes barely open.
",What do you know about him?" Chap asked.
"His name's not Ricky."
"True."
"He's in prison."
"True," Chap said again.
"Says he has a wife and children."
"Partially true. The wife is now an ex-wife. The children are still his."
"Says they're destitute, and that's why he's scamming people:'
"Not exactly. His wife is quite wealthy, and his children have followed the money. We're not sure why he's scamming people."
"But we'd like to stop him," Chap added. "We need your help."
Quince suddenly realized that for the first time in his life, in all of his fifty-one years, he was sitting in the presence of two living, breathing people who knew he was a homosexual. The knowledge terrified him. For a second he wanted to deny it, to concoct some story of how he carne to know Ricky, but invention failed him. He was too scared to be inspired.
Then he realized that these two, whoever they were, could ruin him. They knew his little secret, and they had the power to wreck his life.
And they were offering $25,000 cash?
Poor Quince covered his eyes with his knuckles and said, "What do you want?"
Chap and Wes thought he was about to cry. They didn't particularly care, but there was no need for it. "Here's the deal, Mr. Garbe;' said Chap. "You take the money lying there on your desk, and you tell us everything about Ricky. Show us your letters. Show us everything. If you have a file or a box or some secret place where you've hidden everything, we'd like to see it. Once we've gathered all we need, then we'll leave. We'll disappear as quickly as we've come, and you'll never know who we are or who we're protecting."
"And you'll keep the secrets?"
"Absolutely"
"There's no reason for us to tell anyone about you;" Wes added.
"Can you make him stop?" Quince asked, staring at them.
Chap and Wes paused and glanced at each other. Their responses had been perfect so far, but this question had no clear answer. "We can't promise, Mr. Garbe;" Wes said. "But we'll try our best to put this Ricky character out of business. As we said, he's upsetting our client too."
"You've got to protect me on this."
"We'll do all we can."
Suddenly Quince stood and leaned forward with his palms flat on the desk. "Then I have no choice;" he announced. He didn't touch the money, but walked a few steps to an ancient glass bookcase filled with weathered and peeling volumes. With one key he unlocked the case, and with another he opened a small, hidden safe on the second shelf fiom the floor. Carefully, he withdrew a thin, letter-sized folder, which he delicately placed next to the envelope filled with cash.
Just as he opened the file, an offensive, high-pitched voice squawked through the intercom, "Mr. Garbe, your father would like to see you immediately."
Quince bolted upright in horror, his cheeks instantly pale, his face contorted in panic. "Uh, tell him I'm in a meeting;" he said, trying to sound reassuring but coming off as a hopeless liar.
"You tell him," she said, and the intercom clicked.
"Excuse me;" he said, actually trying to smile. He picked up the receiver, punched three numbers, and turned his back on Wes and Chap so that maybe they wouldn't hear.
"Dad, it's me.What's up?" he said, head law.
A long pause as the old man filled his ear.
Then, "No, no, they're not from the Federal Reserve. They're, uh, they're lawyers from Des Moines. They represent the family of an old college buddy of mine. That's all."
A shorter pause.
"Uh, Franklin Delaney, you wouldn't remember him. He died four months ago, without a will, a big mess. No, Dad, uh, it has nothing to do with the bank."
He hung up. Not a bad piece of lying.The door was locked. That's all that mattered.
Wes and Chap stood and moved in tandem to the edge of the desk, where they leaned forward together as Quince opened the file. The first thing they noticed was the photo, paper-clipped to the inside flap. Wes gently removed it, and said, "Is this supposed to be Ricky?"
"That's him;" Quince said, ashamed but determined to get through it.