EQMM, September-October 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  For his second wife, Angus Doyle had chosen and courted twenty-eight-year-old Vera Kenny, who managed Doyle's escort service, and who was the daughter of a late friend of the younger Angus Doyle, at that time just making his mark in the Irish mob known as The Clan. Doyle, forty when he took his second wife, was twelve years older than Vera Kenny, but the two made a good fit and young Doreen took to her stepmother at once, thus removing a good deal of worry from Doyle's mind. In all, Gus Doyle would have been a man of continuing contentment had it not been for the goddamned Department of Justice.

  "All right, Sol,” Doyle said, turning his attention away from the eight-car garage, “what do we do now?"

  "We have to get you as clean as possible before Quinn, Foley, Dwyer, and Connor are questioned at the grand jury. That means divesting yourself of as much liquid assets as possible. The other assets—real property, cars, the boat—we can put under protective mortgages so that the government can't say that you bought them outright, therefore they can't be used as evidence against you in a tax-evasion case. You see, it's cash—that's what they need. Cash in bank accounts, safe-deposit boxes, certificates of deposit, cash in that vault of yours—how much do you have stacked up down there anyway?"

  "I don't know.” Doyle shrugged self-consciously. “Maybe seven or eight."

  "Seven or eight hundred thousand?"

  "Million."

  "Seven or eight million? For God's sake, Gus."

  "It's money I put away for a rainy day.” Doyle pointed an accusing finger at the lawyer. “You don't know what it's like to grow up dirt poor, Sol. If you did, you'd understand."

  Silverstein stared at his client in astonishment. From an inside coat pocket, he removed a handkerchief and blotted his forehead. He did not want to hear Angus Doyle's poverty-in-the-Chicago-slums story again. “Gus,” he said firmly, “I want to know—exactly—how much money you have—anywhere, Gus—that can be traced to you. How much?"

  Doyle sat back down and drummed his thick fingertips silently on the tablecloth. After a long moment of staring at his attorney with pursed lips, he said, “Twenty-five million."

  "How long will it take to pull it all together—close all the accounts, empty all the safe-deposit boxes, cash in all the certificates of deposit?"

  Another shrug from Doyle. “Three, four days, I guess. But what the hell am I supposed to do with that much cash?"

  "Convert it to bearer bonds, Gus. Convert all of it, along with your ‘rainy day’ cash in that vault of yours."

  "What the hell are bearer bonds?"

  "They are unregistered, negotiable bonds payable to the holder regardless of who they were issued to. They're as good as cash at any bank in the world."

  "So what do we do with these bearer bonds, then?"

  "Get them out of the country. Move them to a Swiss bank in the Cayman Islands, where U.S. officials won't have access to them."

  "How do we do that?"

  "Someone you trust has to take them there. Who do you trust?"

  "You."

  "Me! I'm your attorney, Gus. I can't do anything like that. It wouldn't be ethical. I could be disbarred.” Sol blotted his forehead again. “Who else do you trust?"

  "Quinn, Foley, Dwyer, and Connor."

  "For God's sake, Gus! They're the ones I'm trying to protect you against! You can't ask any of them to help you, because you don't know which one to ask. They're all suspect at the moment. What about Vera? Or Doreen?"

  "Not Doreen.” Doyle shook his head vehemently. “I don't want any of my business touching Doreen. I want her kept out of this completely. Do you understand that, Sol?"

  "Yes, of course,” the attorney said quickly. He recognized Angus Doyle's cold, hard, warning tone, his deadly tone. “I understand. Doreen will be kept out of it entirely, I assure you. That leaves Vera."

  "Yes,” Doyle said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “That leaves Vera."

  * * * *

  After Solomon Silverstein departed, Doyle went inside to his richly appointed, soundproof, and surveillance-protected office and pushed the intercom button for his garage. After three rings it was answered by Harry Sullivan.

  "Sully, will you come up to my office, please."

  "Yessir, Mr. Doyle, be right there,” Harry Sullivan said.

  By the time Doyle had opened a cold bottle of root beer from an executive refrigerator and was back at his desk drinking it, Harry Sullivan was there.

  "Sit down, Sully."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Doyle smiled a slight, pleased smile. “How long have you worked for me now, Sully?"

  "Two years and eight months, sir."

  "Do you know what the first thing was that I liked about you, Sully?"

  "No, sir."

  "You always addressed me as ‘sir.’ Nobody ever did that before—except, of course, waiters and clerks, servants, people like that. But nobody close." He tilted his head slightly. “Why did you do it, Sully? From the very beginning, I mean."

  "I don't know, sir,” the younger man replied. “It just seemed like the natural thing to do. The respectful thing, I guess I mean to say."

  Doyle fell silent for a long moment, studying Harry Sullivan. The driver-bodyguard was more common looking than handsome, with light brown hair and brooding deep blue eyes. He had, Doyle thought, a dependable look about him, a steadiness. He could, Doyle already knew, be dangerous when necessary, as he had proved two years earlier when a drunken college boy at a house party had gone a little too far in his advances toward Doreen, had in fact torn open her blouse in the shadows of a porch, causing Doreen to yell for Sully, who was parked nearby waiting for her. Sully had broken the young man's right eye socket with brass knuckles and ruptured his testicles. Doyle, of course, paid all the medical bills, and reasoned with the parents to convince them not to file criminal charges against Sully, whom he promised to seriously punish himself. Sully's punishment came in the form of a one-thousand-dollar bonus.

  "Do you like your job here, Sully?” Doyle asked.

  "Yessir. Very much."

  "Tell me what you like about it."

  "Well, sir, you pay me very good wages. I have nice living quarters over the garage. The work is easy. Mrs. Vera and Miss Doreen treat me very well; they give me Christmas presents—"

  "I give you Christmas presents too, Sully. Two thousand dollars it was last year, I think."

  "Yessir, I know that, and it was very generous of you. But what I meant was, Mrs. Vera and Miss Doreen give me personal Christmas presents."

  Doyle frowned slightly. This was something he didn't know. “Personal presents like what, Sully?"

  "Well, sir, last Christmas Mrs. Vera gave me a really nice sweater, cashmere. And Miss Doreen gave me a wallet with my initials on it. Here, I'll show you—"

  Sully drew a wallet from his hip pocket and stood to hold it over the desk for Doyle to see.

  "Very nice,” Doyle complimented.

  "That's what I meant by personal, sir. They just treat me real nice, both of them."

  "Good. That's good.” Leaning forward, Doyle clasped his hands on the desk. “Sully, I want to ask you a few questions and I don't want you to be embarrassed by them, or afraid to give me honest answers. You drive for my wife and daughter, but you work for me. You do understand that, don't you?"

  "Definitely, yessir."

  "Good. Very good.” Doyle's icy gray eyes fixed steadily on Sully. “Do you think my daughter is attractive, Sully?"

  "Yessir, very much. She's one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen."

  "You'd never get too, ah—friendly with my daughter, would you, Sully?"

  "Never, Mr. Doyle! I know my place, sir. Miss Doreen is way out of my league. If I have any personal feelings about her at all, it's like she was a little sister to me."

  "Little sister?” Doyle sat back and began drumming his fingers on the desktop while deciding whether he liked that analogy or not. He finally decided that it was all right. “I like that, Sully,” he said,
giving the younger man a genuine smile. “You're doing fine, boyo, fine. Now let me ask you a few things about Mrs. Vera. And remember,” he pointed a finger, “be honest with me."

  "I will be, sir."

  "Tell me about the places she has you drive her to."

  "Ah, let's see, sir. There's the hair salon, the manicure shop, her doctor now and again, the dentist, that big bookstore on Michigan Avenue, a lot of those—what are they called—bow something—?"

  "Boutique shops?"

  "Yessir, that's it."

  "Does she ever have you take her anyplace you think is unusual?"

  "No, sir. Mostly the same places all the time."

  "And what do you and my wife talk about when you're driving her?"

  "Not much at all, sir. Mrs. Vera is usually on her cell phone."

  "Who's she mostly talking to?"

  Sully looked down. “I couldn't say, sir. I try not to listen."

  "Well, if you had to venture a guess, would you say she was talking to men or women?"

  "Women, definitely, sir. I can't help picking up snatches of her end of the conversation, and it sounds like they're talking about clothes and shoe sizes and styles and spa treatments, things like that."

  "I see. Does she ever meet anyone for lunch?"

  "Yessir. Two or three times a week."

  "Any men?"

  "No, sir. Always ladies."

  "Always? Without exception?"

  "Without exception, sir. I've never seen Mrs. Vera even speak to a man anywhere I've ever taken her—"

  Just then there was a brief knock on the office door and Doyle's daughter Doreen stuck her head in. “Daddy, do you know where Sully is? I want to go—oh, he's in here with you. Sorry, Daddy.” She started to back out, but Doyle stopped her.

  "No, no, it's all right, dear, come in. Sully was just reporting on the condition of our cars. Where is it you want to go?"

  "Miranda's Fashions, downtown. Some dresses I ordered came in and I want to try them on."

  Doyle and Sully were both standing now, and Doreen's father came around the desk to give her a kiss on the cheek. Doreen was what most people would describe as cute rather than pretty. She looked younger than her age and had a fleshy figure without exactly being plump. By the look on her father's face, she clearly was adored by him.

  "Sully can run you down right now,” Doyle said. “We were finished anyhow."

  "I'll bring the car right up, Miss Doreen,” Sully said.

  "No, I'll walk down to the garage with you,” Doreen said. “I need the exercise."

  "Do you know where Vera is?” Doyle asked his daughter as they were leaving.

  "Out by the pool, last I saw."

  After they left, Doyle watched them through a big picture window as they walked side by side across the manicured lawn. Little sister, he thought. Good. Very good.

  Grinning to himself, Doyle returned to his desk and called Sol Silverstein on the lawyer's cell phone.

  "I'm going to take your advice, Sol. I'll make up some lists today, then tomorrow I'll have some security people take Vera around to pick up all the cash I have locally. They'll have a backup car follow them for protection. The outside money, bonds and stuff, I'll have one of my brokers wire-transfer to a central bank. I'll have that same bank pick up what I've got in the vault and what Vera collects tomorrow. Then I'll have the bank convert everything to bearer bonds, like you said. I've decided to have Vera take it all by charter jet to the Caymans on Saturday. You make the arrangements down there."

  When he finished the call, Doyle went outside and strolled across the west grounds of his estate to the pool to look for Vera.

  A mile down the road from the Doyle estate, Sully pulled over and stopped to allow Doreen Doyle to move from the rear seat of the Mercedes-Benz McLaren to the front seat with him.

  "What was the big powwow with Daddy all about?” she asked, lighting a forbidden cigarette.

  "He wanted to make sure I wasn't making any moves on you,” Sully said. They leaned together and kissed briefly on the lips.

  "If he had any idea the moves you've already made,” she declared lightly, squeezing the inside of his thigh, “he'd kill us both."

  "Me, anyway,” Sully agreed. “I'm sure he'd find a way to forgive his little princess. Is everything all right between him and Vera?"

  "Far as I know. Why?"

  "He asked me a lot of questions today about where I drove her, who she talked to on her cell phone, whether she ever met any men for lunch."

  "Really! You don't think he thinks she's cheating on him, do you?"

  "I don't know what to think."

  "I wonder. You know Sol Silverstein was up to see him this morning."

  "Yeah, I saw his car."

  "They had a kind of intense talk out on the east patio while Daddy was having breakfast. I watched them from my bedroom window. Sol tossed papers of some kind onto the table. They both seemed very serious. Daddy got up and paced. And he drummed his fingers on the table, you know how he does sometimes. Could he be thinking about divorcing Vera?"

  "I doubt it. Not for cheating, anyway. He knows if she was cheating on him, I'd be suspicious. And he knows I'd tell him."

  "You would?"

  "Sure. I work for him, Dorry."

  "That doesn't keep you from sleeping with his daughter."

  "That's different. I couldn't help myself. You seduced me."

  "I seduced you!" Doreen reached to his thigh again, this time pinching it smartly. “You practically raped me the first time we did it after the party that night when you put poor Freddie Carter in the hospital. God, I will never forget that night!"

  "Me neither. I think we probably raped each other."

  Now she rubbed his thigh a little higher. “Step on it, baby. Let's pick up those damned dresses and get out to the room."

  Sully kept a small kitchenette that he rented by the month at a long-term executive motel in a nearby suburb. Feeling warm from Doreen's touch, he eased down on the accelerator.

  * * * *

  Back at the mansion, Vera Doyle was sitting up on the chaise lounge where her husband had found her, staring at him in uncertainty.

  "This was all Sol's idea?” she asked.

  "Yeah. He said it was the only thing to do. To be on the safe side, you know."

  Doyle had drawn up a deck chair beside Vera's chaise lounge, and was drinking another root beer.

  "What do you think of his theory about Quinn and the others?"

  "I don't know. I've known the four of them since we were all kids together on the Lower West Side. We were all in the West End Dukes together. We were like brothers."

  "People change,” Vera said pragmatically. “Then too, Sol is only guessing. He doesn't know what the Justice Department is planning."

  "Well, Sol is usually right about those things."

  Vera nodded. “I can't argue that.” She took the root beer bottle from him and had a sip herself. “It's the money thing that really bothers me, Gus. That's a lot of money to be moving at one time. And why me? Can't somebody else do it?"

  "Like who?” Doyle shrugged. “Those four guys are the only ones in the whole of my outfit that I've ever trusted. If I only knew which one was about to rat me out, maybe I could have one of the others move the bearer bonds. But that's the snag: I don't know."

  "You've no idea at all who it might be? Not even a suspicion?"

  "None. Ed Quinn and Tom Foley and I grew up together down around Halsted and Van Buren. Mike Dwyer and Dan Connor I met in the reform school out in St. Charles. Charleytown, we called the place.” He grunted quietly. “I can't imagine any of them betraying me. If only one of them limped."

  "What do you mean?"

  "There's an old Irish prayer. My granddad Padric taught it to me when I was a boy. Goes like this:

  'May those that love me, love me.

  And those that don't love me,

  May God turn their hearts.

  And if He doesn't turn thei
r hearts,

  May He turn their ankles,

  So's I'll know them by the way they limp.’”

  "If only that were true,” Vera said.

  Doyle took her hand. “Look, sweetheart, the money isn't going to be that big a deal. After Sol has it all converted into bearer bonds, they'll be packed neatly in a suitcase. You'll fly to the Cayman Islands on a chartered plane. I'll have Sully go with you—"

  "Sully? Why Sully? He's only a driver."

  "And a bodyguard. He's dependable and very loyal to you. Naturally he won't know about the bearer bonds; it'll just be another suitcase. There are several Swiss bank branches in the Caymans; Sol will tell you which one to use. Sully will accompany you to the bank, where a large safe-deposit drawer will already be arranged. Have him wait outside the safe-deposit vault; he won't ask any questions. You'll put the bonds in the drawer, get the key, and that will be that. Sully will fly back the next day with the key and leave you to have a nice carefree vacation. I'll set you up with a suite at the Casuarina; that's the place you like, remember? As soon as I can, I'll join you."

  Doyle lifted her hand and sucked on her forefinger. “Say you'll do this for me, Vera."

  She took her finger out of his mouth and kissed him. “You know I will, Gus. I'd do anything for you, love."

  * * * *

  It took four days to accumulate all the cash into a central downtown bank, and another day for it to be tallied by auditors and the total converted to bearer bonds. The bonds were then moved by a private security firm to Doyle's mansion, where they were put into his underground vault.

  In the interim, Doyle took Sully down to a line of expensive shops on Michigan Avenue and bought him a wardrobe of fashionable vacation wear: sport coats, slacks, shirts—everything he needed to look good with the always elegantly attired Vera.

  When they got back from their shopping trip, Doyle himself driving his prized Rolls-Royce Phantom, Doreen came out to meet them in the porte-cochere. As Doyle got out and Sully came around to put the car away, Doreen said, “Sully, did you happen to see my yellow-tinted sunglasses in the Mercedes? I can't find them anywhere."

  "No, but I'll look for them, Miss Doreen,” Sully said.

  "I'll ride down to the garage with you in case they're there.” She kissed her father on the cheek. “Vera wants to talk to you, Daddy. Something about her trip, I think."