–I was wondering if we could maybe have another coffee.
–Well, I don’t know. Maybe I should ask a lawyer.
–You’re a lawyer, Byron.
–Yeah, but…
–Listen. I’m not playing tricks. I want to lay things out for you. Anything we say will be just between the two of us. Anyway, you can always play the dementia card.
–The what?
–Forget I said that. How about it?
* * *
—
He was sitting in the same place. Table for four in the corner. Room for documents.
He fetched the coffee. And then he sat for a while staring at me as if he wasn’t sure where to begin. One of the older tricks. Nothing like silence to get someone else to break the ice. He took a sip of the coffee.
–So, we’re going to talk man to man here, Byron. We’re going to stick to the meat and potatoes. No more stories about pigs. Okay?
–I never told you the story about Cedric…
He held up a hand.
–I’ve heard it from enough other people. Trust me.
–But can I tell a different one…
–Okay, but make it short…
–This one’s about horseshit.
–Well, I’m used to that.
–Okay. Here goes. In university, there was a professor high up in the business department. Economics and statistics and accounting and the like. He had a PhD from Harvard or MIT or somewhere. Each summer he’d go home to the little place where he grew up. He loved horses, this professor, and there was a track there. And every summer he’d volunteer around the track. One day he’s in the horse barn, shovelling manure. Two guys show up in suits. Shoes-with-tassels kind of guys. They want to know who’s in charge. He tells them everyone’s gone home but him. What can I do for you? he asks. They say they want to see the books. He says he can show them. They produce ID—they’re auditors from some government outfit. He takes them to the office, hauls out the books. Leaves. An hour or so later the two suits are back in the horse barn, where he’s finishing up. We’re done, they say, you might want to put the ledgers back in the safe. That was quick, the professor says. Everything okay? Actually, the books are impressive, they say. Pristine. Do you know who does the books for them? Yes, he says. I do the books. They look him up and down. Rubber boots. Scruffy clothes. Horseshit splattered over everything. He points to the top of his head. Don’t let the ball cap fool youse, he says.
Tom is nodding.
–That’s a good one.
–Whenever I’d be interviewing people to be witnesses or whatnot, I’d always remember that. We never know who we’re talking to, do we, Tom.
He rubbed his hands together. Took another sip of coffee, which was getting cold.
–Okay, Byron, let’s talk turkey.
–But first, Tom, who the hell is Nick?
–Ah, Nick. I can’t tell you too much, Byron. Just that he’s one of us, another cop, which you already know, but he’s an American.
–An American?
–Mob specialist. FBI. Seconded to the RCMP. He has a Russian background. Russian organized crime guy. That should tell you something, Byron.
–Like what?
–You were on the edge of something very big and very tricky, maybe even dangerous, my friend. A word of advice: don’t fuck with Nick.
–But Nick fucked with me. You know about my wife.
–That’s something we might have to deal with down the line, but for now…
–I’m thinking about professionalism, Tom.
–Let’s move on.
–Sure.
–And for the sake of this conversation, all due respect, Byron, I’m going to pretend that you’re just as compos mentis as I am. That might not be saying much, eh?
–For sure. I’m grateful.
–So we agree. No more stories. You’re good with the stories, Byron. Maybe someday over a beer. But for now, meat and potatoes. Got it?
–Got it.
–The focus now is money. You know all about the law regarding proceeds of crime. From our investigation, there is hard evidence of crime—drug smuggling and money laundering. I don’t have to spell it out. So, what’s the bottom line? What do you think?
–Depends on a lot of things. The kind of evidence you have. Accountability, I suppose.
–Byron, trust me, we have evidence. The Americans had been trailing your dead friend for years.
–So why didn’t they bust him years ago?
–Because, in the larger scheme of things, he was small fry. He was, basically, bait. Low end of the food chain. He was more useful out there, so they just let him do his thing. They’d have grabbed him sooner or later, when he was no longer useful. But, of course, he fooled us all, made the great escape.
–Right. So now what?
–He couldn’t take his money with him.
–True enough. And the law is big on confiscation, I know from reading cases.
–It’s called accountability, Byron. Your word. But there’s a relationship between the accountability and the so-called confiscation. People who help with the confiscation tend to avoid much of the accountability.
–That sounds right.
–The guy that’s most accountable here is beyond the law. Our law, anyway. So Allan gets a free pass. The Russians he was mixed up with are another story. But for now, there’s quite a cast of smaller fish.
–Uh huh.
–There’s you.
I sighed. I interlaced my fingers and studied them. I looked him in the eye and said,
–I know, Tom.
–So, Byron. I’m going to spell it out. I’m going to pretend that I don’t like you. I’m going to suggest that you allowed yourself to front a modest criminal operation that happens to be connected to something serious.
–Like how serious?
–Like big-time international-level serious. Like Mexican drug cartel serious. Like Russian mafia serious.
–That does sound serious, Tom. Maybe we shouldn’t be talking at all.
–Maybe. But for now, let’s say we’re on the same side. Okay?
–Whatever.
–And don’t be offended if I say we think you guys are pretty Mickey Mouse, okay? We’re all more interested in what you know than what you’ve done.
–And in Allan’s money.
–Yes, and the money. So, I’m clear?
–I’m going to tell you truthfully, Tom, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.
–You know nothing about dope.
–You already know that when Allan was young, he sold pot like everybody did.
–What do you know about his American years?
I shrugged.
–You didn’t have much contact for quite a while.
–I was for many years a small-time lawyer, working out of my farmhouse and looking after Mom, who had Alzheimer’s. You knew that, about Mom?
–I heard that. I could relate to that, Byron. My dad went the same way.
–I’m sorry to hear that.
He waved a hand.
–So, I can understand. You were pretty well tied up for quite a while. But Peggy was in the picture for a lot of that time. Right?
–I’d want to be precise about that. I could check.
–Where and when did they get married?
–I’m not sure. It was in Mexico, I think.
He laughed.
–Of course it was. Pretty hard getting any information out of that place. You wouldn’t know how much contact Annie had with her sister in those days?
–I don’t think much. Annie was with me on the farm. She had her own business back then and was tied up with Mom the same as I was. She started working for Allan almost casually, doing basic bookkeeping.
–What did you think when he started getting you involved?
–I found it strange. But he made it clear that he only needed me for Canadian stuff. I think Annie was the same. Nothing to do with the States or offshore.
–Offshore. What do you know about offshore?
–I don’t know anything about offshore.
–Let me jog your memory. So, on and off, you’re the lawyer on a series of real estate deals. A dozen or so properties flipped. Allan’s company walks away with about thirty million dollars after the final sale. You with me?
–I don’t remember how much.
–Annie has confirmed the thirty mil.
–She’d know.
–She also confirms that, a couple of years ago, the thirty million was invested in some major projects, jointly owned with Russian financial interests.
–I don’t know about that.
–You were the CEO.
–Okay. But I’m pretty sure that somebody else handled the details.
–Your friend Allan.
–I guess so.
–So. Here’s where the bells go off for us. About a year ago, the big partners, the Russians, they buy you out for about eighteen million. An investment of thirty million shrinks to eighteen. A loss of twelve million for you guys.
–I’d have to check.
–You don’t need to check. Annie has already confirmed that. What’s interesting to us is that these partners who bought your stuff at eighteen million, they flipped it just weeks later to some other people with similar last names for thirty-six million.
–I didn’t know that.
–So, here’s the thing. We smell the fabric softener here.
–You smell what?
–Did you ever do a load of wash, Byron?
–Hah. I get it.
–Either you guys got screwed out of eighteen mil, or you ended up with eighteen mil that, before this, was useless money because it smelled like shit. You follow?
–Whoa.
–Drug money, illegally repatriated and buried in low-profile Canadian real estate. Then flipped and reflipped. Textbook money laundering, Byron. Take some time to think it through. Lots of people figure you and the two women are up to your neck in this. I’m not so sure.
–This is mostly all news to me, Tom.
–And anyway, we’d have a hard time prosecuting a guy with your medical history and prognosis. Plus, I think you’re pretty straight, Byron.
–Thank you. That’s a relief.
–There’s a shady board of directors, though. We’ll be taking a closer look. And there’s Annie.
–Yes. Annie.
–She’s being a good soldier, Byron. The Crown and our guys, they think she’s the cat’s ass. Almost one of us now. She’s one sharp cookie, that wife of yours. And anyway, even if there was a possibility of prosecuting her, I think Nick kind of compromised any possibility of that. But I don’t want to get into that here.
He stared, eyes hard and angry.
–How do you feel about all that, Byron?
–All what?
–Tell you the God’s truth, Byron. I don’t have a lot of time for stick men. I have some personal history. But that’s a story for another day.
–What about Peggy? I asked.
–Peggy. That’s a hard one. You see, she might have the key to the big mystery here, Byron.
–And what’s the big mystery?
He leaned in, eyes narrowed, face about ten inches from mine. I now noticed the dark half moons beneath his eyes; the bristles poking out of ears and nostrils; the smell of coffee on his breath. My heart felt like it had stopped.
–Where the fuck did the eighteen million go, Byron?
* * *
—
I stood at the mantel. I hope you’re enjoying this.
I took him from his place, held him carefully in two hands. Thinking: This is what it all comes down to. Dust to dust.
And money, he replied. They only care about the money, Byron. They let me pile it up for years, knowing that, when I was no longer useful to them, they could take me out and take my money. Proceeds of crime, they call it. I call it deferred taxation.
But you were way ahead of them, weren’t you?
All the way.
Which was why you planned to give it all away. You knew that they’d come after it.
What happens now is up to you, my friend.
I went to sit in the rocking chair, looking out on Lake Ontario. It was a windy day. I could imagine St. Georges Bay, back home. I missed back home. Allan was so right: Why would anybody need more than what I had?
How often I’d heard Mom say: There’s more to life than the life we know. If I didn’t believe that, there would be no point in anything.
Kitchen table wisdom. What if Mom was right?
And then there’s the reality in the black plastic box now sitting on my lap. Dust. Minerals. Plastic.
What about money?
Okay, Al. We have some unfinished business.
I pried the lid off the box. You never told us what we should do with what’s left of you.
Maybe off a boat, when summer comes?
Anything but a cemetery.
I reached into the box. Was about to remove the tiny plastic baggie…
–Are you talking to him?
Peggy?
I jerked around. She was standing near the dining table, looking shocked.
–Byron, for God’s sake.
I jammed the lid back on the box. Stood.
–I didn’t hear you coming in.
–I was here. I was in the kitchen. I heard someone out here talking.
–Sorry.
–Jesus, Byron…
–It’s okay. I was just having a moment. I was wondering what we’re going to do with this. We just can’t keep him here forever.
–That’s the least of our worries, she said.
I returned him to the mantel, made sure of the symmetry between him and the flowers and the photograph.
–Maybe in the summer. We’ll get someone with a boat.
I could sense that she was close behind me. I turned to face her. She folded her arms and stepped back. I jammed my hands into my pockets.
–If you don’t mind me asking, does he ever answer when you talk to him?
–All the time.
She laughed.
–There was a time when he’d answer me too. That was quite a while ago.
–I’m sorry, I said.
–About what?
–About everything.
–Poor Byron, she said.
–No. Not poor me. Poor everyone but me.
Her face was empty. Everything about her, emptied.
–I should have been talking to you, not him, I said.
–To say what?
–Basically, what I just sort of said. I’m sorry? But then I ask, sorry for what? And the answer is, really, I’m sorry that you’re mad at me. That’s kind of like self-pity. Isn’t it?
–I’m not mad at you, Byron.
–I don’t believe that.
–I’m mad at whatever turned you into every man I’ve ever known.
–Yes.
–But that isn’t fair. Why should you not be like everybody else?
–So what’s everybody else like?
–Selfish. Violent. Corrupt. What the world considers normal.
–I thought it was a problem that I wasn’t normal. I thought normal was the thing to be. I guess it doesn’t matter now.
–I tried to tell you. It was a gift to be different from everybody else.
–How was I supposed to know what you were telling me?
–That’s always been our problem, Byron.
She kissed m
y cheek. And walked away.
30.
I waited until I was sure she wasn’t coming back. I went back to the mantel, pried the top off the plastic box, reached inside, found the baggie. I removed the two thumb drives and put them in my pocket, put the baggie in the garbage, making sure that it didn’t have any particles of Allan in the folds.
I locked the office door behind me and plugged the first drive into a USB port on my computer and opened it.
Having talked to Allan over lunch, it was straightforward now. The numbers were definitely all bank accounts. The password and username were now obvious to me. Too weird to make any sense to anyone else, but for me they were brilliant.
It took a bit more work to identify a bank, but I got there. I’ll keep that process to myself. They had a lovely home page, sand and sky and azure water, lithe bodies, of all pigmentations from gold to chocolate, frolicking. Everybody deliriously happy on an island that I’d never heard of. Dominica.
I logged on to the e-mail account that Allan had given me for emergencies. It was easy to remember: [email protected]. I entered the name of the bank and, when prompted, the username and password. And there I was.
I clicked on Banking and was asked to enter another password. And now my mind was blank.
Everything I needed was somewhere in the drives. Obviously, the second password was to be the biggest challenge, but I was meant to find it. It would be something obvious to me. Or maybe not so obvious, but something that I could figure out. Maybe only me. But Allan couldn’t have anticipated my confusion. The strange state that I find descending, or rising up, without warning and, from time to time, cloaking me in a dark mist.
Perhaps not Alzheimer’s, but definitely something out of order in my head. Maybe, like everybody else, I was just being mauled by time.
I could hear voices in the living room. I quickly entered the information that I now had—password, username, name of the bank—and saved it to the first thumb drive. I shut the laptop down.
* * *
—
Annie and Peggy were sitting close together on a sofa. Annie had her arms around her sister, holding her tightly, making soothing sounds as Peggy sobbed on her shoulder. I walked by, close enough to touch, but they didn’t see me. Maybe I have become invisible, the ghost of Byron past. I pinched my hand. I am here. Substantial flesh. I walked to the rocking chair by the large picture window and I sat. The lake was black, lights garlanded around it.
The Winter Wives Page 22
