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.

  He withdrew $7,900 and went to find his bookie. For a man who lived in the shadows, sipped beer until midnight, and locked the doors to his nightclubs until almost noon, Chub was not an early bird. He stumbled forth around ten and made his way to a greasy spoon on the edge of town. It was a working-class joint with a menu dominated by bleached flour and lard. Chub needed grease every morning of his life. If you wanted to see him before noon, head on over to Bobby’s Biscuits.

  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.”

  Chapter 22

  When Eleanor finally turned off the engine, her Lincoln was straddling two clearly marked parking spaces in a small lot just off Maple Street. She got out and made her way slowly, somewhat reluctantly, to the row of buildings with awnings over the sidewalk next to Main Street. She stopped at the door of Walter F. Thackerman, Attorney at Law, and seemed to hesitate. Then she pushed it and went inside.

  Simon watched intently from a dark second-floor window across the street. When the door closed behind her and she disappeared, he shut his eyes and wondered what might transpire over there in the next hour. At times she was so easily influenced that he could see Wally getting under her skin and rattling her to the point of blurting out the truth. Everything could blow up. He waited for the phone to ring, waited for Wally to call yelling and threatening.

  Simon and Netty had tried to rehearse the day before but she couldn’t concentrate. The efforts convinced him that she was not that reliable.

  Fran greeted her with unusual warmth. She declined coffee, tea, and water, and had little to say about the weather. Because she could not dare to do so herself, Fran was hoping Eleanor would bring up the subject of Clyde Korsak’s rather memorable visit a few weeks earlier. Fran had told the story to virtually anyone who would listen, and for a while it was a hot topic around town. But with time, the story ran out of gas. Wally warned her not to discuss the incident with their prized client.

  Eleanor waited only a few minutes while Mr. Thackerman was “completing a conference call with a federal judge.” Fran stood and said, “Please follow me.” As they walked down the narrow hallway, Fran said in a whisper, “He’s been terribly busy since the shooting.” Eleanor gave her a blank look.

  Wally met her at the door and led her to a cushioned chair near a coffee table. When Fran left, she stepped into the hallway, where she could hear every word. Wally wanted her to listen. They would debrief after Eleanor left and discuss her mental soundness.

  The last will and testament she had typed for Ms. Barnett was signed last January. Wally had instructed Fran to include the language gifting him $485,000, and his story was that the up-front money would serve as some sort of a retainer that he would whittle down in fees once the estate was up and running. In her fifteen years with Wally, Fran had never seen such a clause, or a retainer, and she knew immediately it was a scam. When he knew she was unconvinced, he offered to give her a cash bonus of $50,000, and that made Fran happy. They had a marvelous time divvying up Eleanor’s estate before she even signed the will.

  Wally decided to deal with the unpleasant matter first. “I’ve been puzzled by something, Eleanor.” She allowed Simon to call her Netty, but not Wally. “How did Clyde Korsak know that I’m your lawyer?”

  “You’ve already asked me that.”

  “Well, I’m asking again. I’m really curious.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I really don’t. That has puzzled me too, to be honest.”

  “He’s never lived here, knows no one as far as I can tell. Yet, he somehow picked me as your lawyer. How’d that happen?”

  “I just don’t know.”

  “Well, did he ask who your lawyer is?”

  “I don’t recall. He asked a lot of questions. I finally told him to leave the house. He was never invited in, to be honest. I’ve never liked him or his brother, Jerry.”

  “Did he ask for money?”

  “Of course. First, he wanted to borrow five thousand dollars. I said no. Then he got arrested and demanded twenty-five thousand to make his bail. I said no again. I don’t like these questions.”

  Wally knew it was time to back off, but he had one more: “Do Clyde and Jerry know about the Coke and Wal-Mart stock?”

  She took a deep breath and thought for a moment. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. Many, many years ago, Harry and I were discussing the boys and how much trouble they were causing, and he said something suggesting that he had mistakenly told them about the stock. But I can hardly remember our conversation and I do not know what he told them. It must have been twenty years ago.”

  Wally took a sip of coffee and frowned as if it was time to get down to business. “Have you read our will, your will, lately?”

  “No.” Which was partly true. The day before, at a coffee shop, Simon had pulled out the will and summarized it. He showed her the long, dense paragraph where Wally had added the words “four-hundred-and-eighty-five thousand dollars.” It was to be paid to him “as soon as practical” upon probating the will. To deflect attention away from the amount, Wally had chosen to use no numerals or dollar signs. Simon was of the opinion that such greed and trickery would lead to serious problems with the bar association if anyone complained.

  However, she and Simon had not read the entire will; thus, her answer was sort of true.

  “Is there anything in your will you would like to change, or to discuss?”

  Other than the money you’re raking off? “No, I don’t think so.” Simon had coached her to say as little as possible. Don’t volunteer, don’t agree to anything new, pretend as though everything is okay.

  She didn’t like the pretending. Lawyers and their games!

  She did have a trace of sympathy for the poor guy, though. What a shock it would be when he got to the courthouse with her “old” will, only to learn that Simon had just left after probating her “new” one.

  Though it was not yet 11 A.M., Wally suggested they have lunch together, with Fran of course. He knew just the right place, a new sushi restaurant that opened early and was getting rave reviews.

  Eleanor thanked him politely. She was caught off guard by the suggestion, but managed to decline with grace, said she had a bit of a stomach bug.

  She and Simon had eaten there and had not been too impressed.

  They wrapped things up in under thirty minutes. Eleanor thanked Wally for his time, and he thanked her as well. He walked her out of the office and onto the sidewalk, where Simon could see them from across the street.

  * * *

  With 30,000 people, Braxton’s exotic dining options were limited. So far, their culinary adventure had led them to sampling dishes from Asia, Latin and South America, Europe, Afghanistan, and India. Nine restaurants and Simon was looking forward to the end of the project. His usual lunch was a cheap sandwich at his desk, often one he brought from home, back when he had a place he could call home.

  When Netty called hinting about lunch, he wanted to discuss perhaps taking a break. He knew of no other ethnic places in or close to Braxton. There were thousands in D.C., but that was at least an hour away.

  She said, “Let’s go back to Tan Lu’s. I think that’s my favorite.”

  A victory lap was not something he had considered. “Sure, sounds great.”

  It was a Vietnamese place with exceptional food, and it was usually packed by 12:15, six days a week.

  They arrived at 11:30 and found a table. Tan Lu’s did not bother with reservations. The waitress was the teenage daughter of the owners, a star student who had been born in Braxton and was headed for college. She took their orders for pho, the traditional noodle soup with fish and onions in a thick broth. They started with a goi salad and ordered shrimp spring rolls as a side.

  “And of course the ginger cookies,” Netty added with a laugh. The Saigon ginger cookies were so popular that the owners sold them by the box for carryout.

  As she prattled on about playing cards with Doris and the girls, Simon was once again hit with the anxiety of being played for a fool. Her assets had not been verified. She refused to show him her bank records and brokerage statements. Was Simon so eager to believe her, and so covetous of her money, that he was willfully missing the red flags?

  The waitress served them a plate of colorful raw vegetables with a cucumber dip, and she poured hot spiced tea from a small pot.

  Netty said, “We haven’t talked about that mess in city court, have we Sy?”

  He snapped out of his fog and replied, “No, but things are coming together. I’ve negotiated with the prosecutor and the city will basically dismiss everything but one speeding ticket. Cost you about forty bucks and nothing will go on your permanent record. I’ll go to court around the first of December and take care of it all.”

  “Do I have to go to court?”

  “Oh no, Netty, I’ve arranged things so you don’t have to show up again.”

  She sighed dramatically and looked as if she might tear up. “Oh, thank you, Sy. I absolutely despised being in that courtroom with all those other people.”

  “The riffraff?”

  “I didn’t say that. You know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Thanks for keeping me out of court, Sy.”

  “Sure, that’s my job.” A job he apparently wasn’t getting paid for at the present time, though he had plans to recoup every single expense one day. “But slow down, Netty. Slow down and be careful. Follow the traffic signs. Another ticket and I may not be able to work my magic.”