Chapter 21
The money provided several options. The first, and the most sensible and obvious, was to write a check to Paula so she would sign the property settlement agreement and get the divorce filed.
The third was to take all the money, pack a bag, book a flight to the Virgin Islands, and disappear.
No more fear of being watched by the FBI, no more worries about debts, no more nitpicking phone calls from disgruntled clients, no more stress from Paula, no more sleeping on a bed with all the comforts of a surplus army cot, and no more scheming of ways to get rich off Eleanor Barnett.
Drinking on the beach seemed like the perfect solution.
That would last for about a month before the money ran out. But what a great month it would be. Reentry would be another nightmare.
Simon saw his truck parked on the street.
Chub was wealthy but lived a modest life, doing nothing to attract the attention of those dreadful people who carried badges.
His truck was a muscled-up late-model Ford with a thick brush guard, huge rims, and tires that could claw up the sides of mountains.
Though built for off-road adventures, it was shined and spotless and gave the impression that it never left the pavement.
Inside, the smell of grease greeted Simon like a blast of tropical air. A thick layer of smoke, not from cigarettes, hung close to the ceiling. Chub was not hard to spot because he wore, as always, one of his red, orange, or yellow jogging suits. Today was orange.
He was alone at his favorite table, readers on the tip of his red, bulbous nose, studying a folded newspaper. “Well, well, what brings a lawyer to this part of town?” he asked with a genuine smile. But he knew immediately that something was amiss.
“Mind if I join?” On the off chance that Chub was being wired these days, Simon had planned this surprise visit at a place they’d never met before. If he had a wire, it was still in his truck or his backpack.
“No, not at all.” Chub put away his newspaper. Simon could see he had circled some horse-racing results. The sparse remains of biscuits, eggs, and country ham were on his plate. “You hungry? Have a seat.”
“No thanks.” Simon’s mild hunger pains of five minutes earlier had dissipated in the fog of smoke and grease.
He sat down as a waitress hustled by and barely stopped long enough to fill the two cups.
Simon quickly handed over the envelope and said, “Seventy-nine hundred, cash. Zeroes out my account.”
As fast as Simon presented the money, Chub took it and stuffed it into one of many hidden pockets. “You sure that’s enough?”
“Positive.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“I’m retiring.”
“Aw, that’s no fun, Latch. You’ve done well.”
“Maybe I broke even, if I was lucky. And I’m spending far too much time breaking even.”
Chub smiled and took another drink from his cup. “You know, Latch, I always thought you were smarter than the others. It’s a fool’s game. Nobody wins but the house. The bookies, casinos, lotteries. There’s a very good reason they keep building more casinos.”
“I’ve always known that, but, like most players, I’ve always thought I could beat the house. But it can’t be done, can it Chub?”
He smiled and wiped egg off his mustache. “I’ve never seen it.”
“Come on, Chub. Surely you’ve seen a few guys who were successful at picking winners.”
“Maybe one, maybe two. The secret is slowing down when you’re ahead and speeding up when you’re behind. It’s counterintuitive. I’ve seen guys have a good run for a year or two, then lose their mojo and give it all back. You’re a smart one, Latch. But don’t tell anyone I said that.”
Simon laughed and said, “I doubt you’ll ever see a drop-off. The experts say just the opposite. Studies show Americans gamble more and more each year.”
“I hope so.”
“Seen Spade lately?”
Chub held his gaze for a moment then looked at his cell phone. “Spade’s in twice a week. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. I like him, a good guy. Kinda shady, like most of your regulars.”
Chub laughed and said, “You’re right about that.”
Simon glanced at his watch and said, “Gotta get to the office.”
“Don’t be a stranger, Latch. Drop in and I’ll buy you a beer.”
“I will, Chub. I promise.”
Two days later, Simon drove an hour south on Interstate 81 through the Shenandoah Valley to the college town of Harrisonburg, a trip he made at least twice a month.
One branch of the federal bankruptcy court was stationed there and Simon gave it a lot of business.
Its docket, a real one, was posted online, so anyone with a computer could follow the court, check the current bankruptcies, and see which lawyers were filing them.
Simon had three discharge hearings in the afternoon and finished at four-thirty. As he was leaving the courthouse, he bumped into a delightful memory from his past. Yolanda, his old flame from law school at George Mason. They had not seen each other since their class’s tenth reunion.
After some slightly nervous chatter, Simon asked, “What brings you here?”
“Chasing crooks, Simon, that’s my job.”
“In Harrisonburg?”
“Oh, they’re everywhere. Including Braxton.”
“I met a colleague of yours the other night.”
“You don’t say. Hanging around Chub’s?”
“That’s my spot.”
“Where you headed?” she asked.
“To a bar to buy you a drink.”
“We shouldn’t be seen together.”
Simon laughed and said, “Wasn’t it that way in law school?”
“At first. Look, there’s a steak house on the edge of town, near a truck stop.”
“I know it. Not much of a bar.”
“I wasn’t planning on drinking all night. It’s dark. Meet you there.”
By the second beer they had finished with their old classmates and moved on to more serious matters. Landy, as everyone called her, said, “I met your wife at the reunion. Very pretty. Is she still around?”
“Yes, for now, but not for long.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. Three kids, tons of bills, a lot of stress. The marriage cracked in slow motion, almost before we realized it was too late. I hate it for my kids, but I can’t wait to get out.”
At some point during their second year of law school, Simon became terrified at the thought of falling in love with Landy.
It was his first serious romance and he simply wasn’t ready for it.
He wanted to finish law school, launch a career in D.C.
, and establish himself. She had been through a couple of bad breakups and was even more cautious, which served them well in the end.
They had never taken time to explore their feelings, primarily because law school was such a grind, but also because sex was a much higher priority.
If they were in bed they damned sure weren’t talking.
With a grin, she asked, “Excuse me, you seem to be drifting. Are you thinking about sex?”
“Yes.”
“Present or past?”
He chuckled because he was guilty, but he knew she was having the same thoughts. “Right now, the past.” The tension was odd and palpable. Two former lovers reminiscing about sexual escapades both had never forgotten, and had no desire to do so.
Simon tried to change the subject with “You haven’t said much about your husband.”
“He’s with the agency, like me. In fact, we’re equals in every way—rank, salary, responsibilities. They warned us in training to be wary of dating each other, and they were right. Most FBI marriages don’t work—too much travel, too many reassignments.”
“Is yours working?”
“No. We’ve grown apart and I’ve missed my window to have kids. I’m kinda sad about that.”
“Kids are overrated. I love mine, but they’re so much trouble.”
Their beer mugs were empty and two was the limit. She glanced at her watch and asked, “Are you staying here tonight?”
In other words, Come on over.
“No, I need to get back. What if we swap phone numbers?”
“Great idea.”
He took a deep breath and waded into trouble. “Am I off the hook?”
“That’s up to my boss, but I’d say probably so. You’re just a minor player, like eighty percent of them.”
“Why don’t you guys leave Chub alone? He’s harmless. He may be the biggest bookie in Braxton, Virginia, but big deal.”
“Again, not my call.”
“And I know you have bigger fish to catch.”
“As in?”
“Oh, I don’t know. As in narcotraffickers, cyberterrorists, Russian hackers, to name a few.”
“Gee, we never hear that.”
“Okay, I won’t say it again. But Chub is not a bad guy.”
“Call me, Simon. And let’s catch up.”