The Rooster Bar

by John Grisham

  their Swift clients did not exist.

  —

  LONG AFTER THE SUN set, Todd called Mark for the fourth time that day. The first two calls had been exhilarating as they celebrated the apparent success of their heist. With the third, though, reality was setting in and they began to worry.

  Todd said bluntly, “I think you should leave. Now.”

  “Why?”

  “We have enough money, Mark. And we’ve made mistakes that we don’t even know about. Get out of the country. The attorneys’ fees will be wired tomorrow, icing on the cake, and the bank knows where to send the money. I’d feel better if you were on a plane.”

  “Maybe so. And your new passport worked fine?”

  “As I’ve said, there were no problems. It actually looks more authentic than my real one, which hasn’t been used that much. These things cost us a thousand bucks, if you’ll remember.”

  “Oh yes. How could I forget?”

  “Get on a plane, Mark, and get out of the country.”

  “I’m thinking about it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Mark placed his laptop and some files into a larger briefcase, the one from his street lawyer days, and packed a small carry-on bag with some clothing and a toothbrush. The room was a wreck and he was sick of it. After spending nine nights there he saw no need to check out at the front desk. The room charges were covered for two more days. So he walked away, leaving behind dirty clothing that belonged to both him and Todd, stacks of paperwork, none of which was incriminating, some magazines, discarded toiletries, and the rented printer, from which he had removed the memory chip. He walked a few blocks, hailed a cab, and rode to JFK, where he paid $650 cash for a round-trip ticket to Bridgetown, Barbados. The guard at passport control was half-asleep and hardly looked at his documents. He killed an hour in a lounge, took off at 10:10, and landed in Miami on time at 1:05 a.m. He found a bench in an empty gate and tried to sleep, but it was a long night.

  —

  THREE MILES AWAY, Special Agent Wynne and two colleagues once again entered the offices of Cohen-Cutler. Ian Mayweather and a partner were waiting. Now that the firm was cooperating, albeit by the coercion of court orders, some of the pressure was off and the air was almost cordial. A secretary brought in coffee and they sat around a small table.

  Wynne began with “Well, it was a long night. We went through the list you gave us, made a bunch of phone calls, and compared names with our records from Swift Bank. It appears as though all thirteen hundred are bogus clients. We have a court order freezing all disbursements for forty-eight hours.”

  Mayweather was not surprised. His team of grunts had worked through the night as well and reached the same conclusion. They also had the file on Frazier and Lucero and the charges they were facing in D.C. Mayweather said, “We’re cooperating. Whatever you say. But you’re not going to check all 220,000 of our clients, are you?”

  “No. It appears as though the other firms are legit. Give us some time and we’ll back off when we’re satisfied the fraud is contained to this small group.”

  “Very well. What’s up with Frazier and Lucero?”

  “Don’t know where they are, but we’ll find them. The money you wired to them yesterday was immediately wired to a bank offshore, so they barely managed to get it out of the country. We suspect they’re on the run, but they’ve proven to be, let’s say, unsophisticated.”

  “If the money’s offshore you can’t touch it, right?”

  “Right, but we can certainly touch them. Once we have them in custody and locked up, they’ll be eager to cut a deal. We’ll get the money back.”

  “Great. My problem is the settlement. There’s still a lot of money in play and I’ve got a bunch of lawyers screaming at me. Please hurry.”

  “We’re on it.”

  —

  AT NINE, MARK finished another double espresso and headed for his gate. At a U.S. Postal Service drop box, he placed a small padded envelope into the slot, and kept walking. It was addressed to a reporter at the Washington Post, a tough investigative journalist he had been following for weeks. Inside the envelope was one of Gordy’s thumb drives.

  As he waited in line at his gate, he called his mother and fed her a story about a long trip he and Todd were taking together. They would be gone for months and not available by phone, but he would check in whenever possible. The mess in D.C. was under control and nothing to worry about. Heads up for a FedEx package today. There’s some money in it, to be used at your discretion, but please don’t waste it on a lawyer for Louie. Love you, Mom.

  He boarded without incident and took his seat by a window. He opened his laptop, logged in, and saw an e-mail from Jenny Valdez at Cohen-Cutler. The disbursements for attorneys’ fees were being delayed until further notice due to an “unspecified problem.” He read it again and closed his computer. Surely, with such a massive settlement, problems were bound to occur, so it had nothing to do with them. Right? He closed his eyes and was breathing deeply when a flight attendant announced over the speaker that there would be a slight delay due to a problem with “documentation.” The flight was packed with vacationers headed for the islands, some of whom appeared to have spent time in a bar before boarding. There were groans, but also laughter and shouting.

  The clock ticked slowly as Mark’s blood pressure rose and his heart pounded. The flight attendants brought out the drink carts and the booze was on the house. Mark asked for a double rum punch and drained it in two gulps. He was about to ask for another when something jolted the aircraft, and it started moving back. As it taxied away from the terminal, he texted Todd and said he was about to take off. Minutes later, he watched from his window as Miami disappeared through the clouds.

  43

  Pursuant to Todd’s instruction, Zola went to the Senegal Post Bank early Thursday, and took her lawyer with her. Idina Sanga agreed, for a fee of course, to help facilitate the opening of an account. They had an appointment with a vice president, a pleasant lady who spoke no English. Idina explained in French that her client was an American who was moving to Dakar to be with her family. Zola produced her passport, New Jersey driver’s license, and a copy of the apartment lease. Her story was that her American boyfriend, who was quite wealthy, wished to send her some money for support and also to buy a home. He traveled the world with his ventures and planned to spend time in Senegal. There was even the likelihood that he would open an office there. The story flowed well and convinced the vice president. The fact that Zola was represented by a lawyer with a good reputation helped immensely. Idina stressed the need for extreme privacy and explained that a lot of money would soon arrive by wire. An initial deposit that equaled about $1,000 U.S. was agreed upon, and the paperwork was reviewed by Idina. Bank cards would soon be in the mail. The transaction took less than an hour. Back in the apartment, Zola e-mailed the bank account information to Todd.

  When Mark landed in Bridgetown at 1:20, Todd met him at the gate. “Nice tan,” Mark observed.

  “Thanks, but I’m ready to get out of here.”

  “Talk to me.”

  They ducked into a bar and ordered beers. In a corner, they sat at a small table and took long drinks. Mark wiped his mouth and said, “You seem rather jumpy.”

  “I am. Look, I know you’re thinking about a few days on the beach, but we’re on the run now. I mean, really on the run. The FBI can trace the wire to our bank.”

  “As we’ve discussed about a dozen times.”

  “Yes, and that’s as far as they can go, at least with the money. But when they can’t find us there they might want to look here. There’s nothing to gain by hanging around the island. Zola opened the account this morning in Dakar with no problems. The hang-up with the last disbursement may or may not be related to us, but why take the chance? For all we know, the Feds could be one step behind us. Let’s move on while they’re still scrambling.”

  Mark took another drink and shrugged. “Whatever. I guess I can get some sun in Dakar.�
�

  “There are some fabulous beaches there, with resorts that rival anything here. And it looks like we’ll have plenty of time to play by the pool.”

  They drained their beers, walked outside into a blinding sun, and caught a cab to the Second Royal Bank, where they waited an hour to see Mr. Rudolph Richard. Todd introduced Mark as his partner in York & Orange, and explained that they wished to wire $3 million of their account to a bank in Dakar. Mr. Richard was curious but did not pry. Whatever his clients wished was fine with him. They withdrew $20,000 in cash and left the bank. At the airport, they studied routes and saw that almost all went through Miami or JFK, places they preferred to avoid. They paid $5,200 in cash for two one-way packages, and left Barbados at 5:10 p.m. bound for London Gatwick, forty-two hundred miles and eleven hours away. En route, Mark checked his e-mails, and the one from the account manager at Citibank in Brooklyn informed him that the second wire had not arrived. “We can forget that million for attorneys’ fees,” he mumbled to Todd.

  “Well, we really didn’t earn it,” Todd quipped.

  They drank beers for two hours at Gatwick before boarding a flight for Algeria, a thousand miles away. The layover there was eight hours, an interminable time in a hot and crowded airport. However, as the miles passed and the cultures changed, they became convinced that they were leaving the bad guys farther and farther behind. Two thousand miles and five hours later, they landed in Dakar at 11:30 at night. Though it was late, the airport was bustling with loud music and aggressive vendors offering jewelry, leather goods, and fresh fruits. Outside the main entrance, the beggars flocked to those arrivals with lighter skin—whites and Asians. Mark and Todd were jostled but managed to find a cab. Twenty minutes later they arrived in front of the Radisson Blu Hotel at the Sea Plaza.

  Zola had reserved two poolside rooms in her name and paid for a week’s stay. Evidently, she had schmoozed well because Mark and Todd were greeted like dignitaries. No one asked to see their passports.

  It was their first visit to Africa and neither ventured a guess as to how long it would last. Their pasts were a mess. Their futures were uncertain. So, somewhere along the way they decided to live in the present with no regrets. Life could be worse. They could be studying for the bar exam.

  —

  AROUND NOON SATURDAY, as the midday sun baked the ceramic tile walkways around the pool and along the terraces, Mark staggered out of his room, squinted into the blinding light, rubbed his eyes, walked to the edge of the water, and fell in. Salt water, pleasant and warm. He dog-paddled back and forth for a few laps, then gave up. He sat in the shallow end with the water touching his chin and tried to remember where he was a week ago. Washington. The morning after a drinking session with his law school pals. The day after their appearance in court with Phil Sarrano, and all those angry people after them. The day he was supposed to graduate from Foggy Bottom, then go forth and conquer the world.

  It wasn’t conquered but it was certainly different. Some weeks drag by and nothing happens. Others, like this one, are so tumultuous you can’t keep up with the days. A week ago they were dreaming of the money. Now it was tucked away in a Senegalese bank where no one could find it.

  Because their bodies were tuned to the same clock, Todd soon emerged and made a splash. He gave no thought to swimming laps, but instead waved over a cabana boy and ordered drinks. After two rounds, they took showers and dressed in the clothes they’d been wearing. Shopping was high on their list.

  Their partner, however, wore something they’d never seen before. Zola arrived at the hotel restaurant in a bright red and yellow dress that flowed to the floor. With a necklace of large colorful beads and balls, and a flower in her hair, she looked very African. They hugged and carried on, but were careful not to attract too much attention. The restaurant was half-full of guests, almost all of whom were European.

  As they sat down, Todd said, “You look beautiful.”

  Mark said, “Zola, let’s get married.”

  Todd said, “Hey, I was going to ask.”

  Zola said, “Sorry, no more white boys. Far too much trouble. I’m going to find a nice African dude I can boss around.”

  “You’ve been bossing us around for three years,” Mark said.

  “Yeah, but you talk back and you lie a lot. I want a guy who never speaks unless spoken to and always tells the truth.”

  “Good luck,” Todd said.

  A waitress stopped by and they ordered drinks. Beers for the boys, tea for Zola. They asked about her family. They were safe and happy. After the initial jail scare, things settled down. They had not seen the police nor had they heard from other authorities. She and Bo were thinking about renting a small apartment near their parents; they needed some space. Abdou was back home in Senegal, in Muslim territory, and was reasserting his dominance. But he and Fanta were already bored because they were not working. After four months of idleness in detention, they needed to get busy. All in all, their lives were good, if a bit unsettled. Their lawyer was working to revive their citizenship and secure documentation.

  Zola wanted the details of the last two weeks, beginning with their arrests, their escape to Brooklyn, then on to Barbados. Mark and Todd alternated stories and everything was funny. The waitress returned with the drinks, and Zola insisted they order chicken yassa, a traditional Senegalese dish of roasted chicken and onion sauce. When the waitress left, Todd and Mark resumed their storytelling. The scene in Judge Abbott’s courtroom—when half the spectators seemed ready to rush the bar and grab them—required both of their efforts because all three were laughing so hard.

  They got some looks from the other tables and tried to keep a lid on things. They enjoyed the chicken yassa and passed on dessert. Over strong coffee, their voices got lower as the conversation became serious. Mark said, “Our problem is obvious. We are here on vacation for a few days and we’re traveling with fake passports. If we got busted, they’d haul us off to the same jail where they took your father and Bo. Two little white boys in a really bad jail.”

  Zola was shaking her head. “No, you’re fine here. You can stay as long as you want and no one will say anything. Just stay where the white folks are and don’t venture away from the beaches. Don’t do anything to attract attention.”

  Todd asked, “How do these folks feel about homosexuals?”

  She frowned and said, “Well, I haven’t really asked. You guys gay now? I leave you for two weeks and—”

  “No, but we got some looks when we checked in last night. We’re a pair. Folks make assumptions.”

  Mark said, “I’ve read that the gay life is frowned upon in most African countries, especially the Muslim areas.”

  “It’s not as accepted as in the U.S., but no one is going to harass you. There are dozens of Western-style hotels along the beach here and lots of pale-skinned tourists, mostly from Europe. You’ll fit in.”

  “I read something about the cops being pretty tough,” Todd said.

  “Not around the beaches. Tourism is too important. But keep in mind that here they can stop you for any reason and ask to see some ID. A couple of white guys in the wrong part of town could attract their attention.”

  “Sounds like racial profiling,” Mark said.

  “Oh, yes, but the shoe is on the other foot.”

  They had been talking for almost two hours. After a lull in the conversation, Zola leaned in a bit closer and asked, “So, how much trouble are we really in?”

  Mark and Todd looked at each other. Todd spoke first: “Depends on the settlement. If it’s completed and no one gets suspicious, then perhaps we’ve pulled off the perfect crime. We’ll hang around here for a couple of weeks, maybe wire over the rest of the money from Barbados, make sure it’s all safely tucked away.”

  Mark added, “Then we’ll ease back home, stay away from D.C. and New York, and spend a lot of time watching and listening. If the Swift story eventually goes away, then we’re free and clear.”

  Todd said, “On t
he other hand, if somebody gets suspicious, we might be forced to go to plan B.”

  “Which is?”

  “Still working on it.”

  “And the mess in D.C.?” she asked. “I gotta tell you boys, I don’t like the fact that I’ve been indicted, even if it is for something as trivial as unauthorized practice.”

  Mark said, “We haven’t been indicted yet. And keep in mind we paid a lawyer a fat retainer to delay the case and work a deal. I’m not worried about D.C.”

  “Then what are you worried about?”

  Mark mulled it over for a moment and said, “Cohen-Cutler. They’ve delayed the disbursement for the attorneys’ fees. That could be a red flag.”

  —

  AFTER LUNCH ZOLA left and they napped and swam and drank by the pool. As the afternoon went on, the pool scene improved dramatically with the arrival of some young couples from Belgium. The music picked up, the crowd continued to grow, and Mark and Todd were on the fringes, enjoying the show.

  At seven, Zola was back with two large bags filled with goodies—new laptops and new prepaid cell phones. Each of the three set up several e-mail accounts. They walked through different scenarios involving security, and talked about the money, but made no serious decisions. Jet lag hit hard and Mark and Todd needed to sleep. Zola left them just after nine and returned to her apartment.

  44