They intended to give it a week, then write another letter to Mr. Al Konyers in Chevy Chase. They weren't sure how to smuggle it out, but they would think of something. Link, the guard up front whom Trevor had been bribing for months, was their first prospect.
Argrow's phone presented an option. "If he'll let us use it;" Spicer said, "then we can call Lake, call his campaign office, his congressional office, call every damned number we can get from directory assistance. Leave the message that Ricky in rehab really needs to see Mr. Lake. That'll scare the hell out of him."
"But Argrow will have a record of our calls, or at least his brother will,"Yarber said.
"So? We'll pay him for the calls, and so what if they know we're trying to call Aaron Lake. Right now, half the country is trying to call him. Argrow won't have a clue why we're doing it."
A brilliant idea, one they pondered for a long time. Ricky in rehab could make the calls and leave the messages. Spicer in Trumble could do the same. Poor Lake would get hounded.
Poor Lake. The man had money pouring in so fast he couldn't count it.
After an hour, Argrow emerged from the chamber and announced he was making progress, "I need to wait an hour, then make a few more calls," he said. "What about lunch?"
They were anxious to continue their discussion, and they did so over sloppy joes and coleslaw.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Pursuant to Mr. Lake's precise instructions, Jayne drove alone to Chevy Chase. She found the shopping center on Western Avenue, and parked in front of Mailbox America. With Mr. Lake's key, she opened the box, removed eight pieces of junk mail, and placed them in a folder. There were no personal letters. She walked to the counter and informed the clerk that she wished to close the box on behalf of her employer, Mr. Al Konyers.
The clerk pecked a few times on a keyboard. The records indicated that a man named Aaron L. Lake had rented the box in the name of Al Konyers about seven months earlier. The rental had been paid for twelve months, so nothing was owed.
"That guy running for President?" the clerk asked as she slid a form across the counter.
"Yes;" Jayne said, signing where indicated.
"No forwarding address?" No.
She left with the folder and headed south, back into the city. She had not stopped to question Lake's storyabout renting the box in a clandestine effort to expose fraud at the Pentagon. It didn't matter to her, nor did she have time to ask a lot of questions. Lake had them sprinting eighteen hours a day, and she had far more important things to worry about.
He was waiting in his campaign office, alone for the moment. The offices and hallways around him were choked with assistants of a dozen varieties, all running back and forth as if war were imminent. But Lake was enjoying a lull in the action. She gave him the folder and left.
Lake counted eight pieces of junk mail-taco delivery, long-distance service, a car wash, coupons for this and for that. And nothing from Ricky. The box was closed, there was no forwarding address. The poor boy would have to find someone else to help him through his new life. Lake fed the junk mail and the cancellation agreement through a small shredder under his desk, then paused a moment to count his blessings. He carried little baggage in life, and he'd made few mistakes. Writing to Ricky had been a stupid thing to do, yet he was walking away unscathed. What a lucky man!
He smiled and almost giggled to himself, then he bounced from his chair, grabbed his jacket, and rounded up his entourage.The candidate had meetings to attend, then a lunch with defense contractors.
Oh what a lucky man!
Back in the corner of the law library, with his three new friends guarding the perimeter like sleepy sentries, Argrow fiddled with the phone long enough to convince them he'd pulled strings all through the dark and murky world of offshore banking. Two hours of pacing and mumbling and holding the phone to his head like a frantic stockbroker, and he finally came out of the room.
"Good news, gentlemen;" he said with a tired smile.
They huddled around, eager for the results.
"It's still there;" he said.
Then the great question, the one they'd been planning, the one that would verify whether Argrow was a fraud or a player.
"How much?" asked Spicer.
"A hundred and ninety thousand, and small change;" he said, and they exhaled in unison. Spicer smiled. Beech looked away. Yarber looked at Argrow with a quizzical frown, but a rather pleasant one.
According to their figures, the balance was $189,000, plus whatever paltry rate of interest the bank was paying.
"He didn't steal it;' Beech mumbled, and they shared a pleasant memory of their dead lawyer, who suddenly was not the devil they'd made him out to be.
"I wonder why not," Spicer mused, almost to himself.
"Well, it's still there;" Argrow said. "That's a lot of legal work:"
It certainly appeared to be, and since neither of the three could think of a quick fib, they just let it pass.
"I suggest you move it, if you don't mind my saying so," Argrow said. "This bank is known for its leaks."
"Move it where?" Beech asked.
"If the money were mine, I'd move it to Panama immediately"
This was a new issue, a train of thought they had not pursued because they had been obsessed with Trevor and his certain theft. But they weighed it carefully anyway, as if the matter had been discussed many times.
"Why would you move it?" Beech asked. "It's safe, isn't it?"
"I guess;" Argrow answered, quick with a response. He knew where he was going, they did not. "But you see how loose the confidentiality can be. I wouldn't use banks in the Bahamas these days, especially this one."
"And we don't know if Trevor told anyone about it," Spicer said, always anxious to nail the lawyer.
"If you want the money protected, move it;" Argrow said. "It takes less than a day and you won't have to worry about it. And put the money to work. This account is just sitting there, drawing a few pennies in interest. Put it with a fund manager and let it earn fifteen or twenty percent. You're not gonna be using it any time soon."
That's what you think, pal, they thought. But he made perfect sense.
"And I assume you can move it?" Yarber said.
"Of course I can. Do you doubt me now?"
All three shook their heads. No sir, they did not doubt him.
"I have some nice contacts in Panama. Think about it." Argrow glanced at his watch as if he had lost interest in their account and had a hundred pressing matters elsewhere. A punch line was coming, and he didn't want to push.
"We've thought about it," Spicer said. "Let's move it now.
He looked at three sets of eyes, all looking back at him. "There's a fee involved;" he said, like a seasoned money launderer.
"What kinda fee?" Spicer asked.
"Ten percent, for the transfer."
"Who gets ten percent?"
"I do."
"That's rather steep;" said Beech.
"It's a sliding scale. Anything under a million pays ten percent. Anything over a hundred million pays one percent. It's pretty common in the business, and it's exactly the reason I'm wearing an olive prison shirt and not a thousand-dollar suit."
"That's pretty sleazy;" said Spicer, the man who'd skimmed bingo profits from a charity.
"Let's not preach, okay We're talking about a small cut from money that's already tainted, both here and there. Take it or leave it." His tone was aloof, an icy veteran who'd cut much larger deals.