J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Too many people were in his bed. Michael Collins felt it, even before he had opened his eyes.

Michael was in the middle. On one side, Andie Larone was still asleep. On the other side, Kermit Guillardo stared at him. 

“Dude.” Kermit’s eyes bugged out a little wider. “You gotta wake up, man.”

Michael didn’t move.

“Seriously?” Michael’s head was cloudy.

Kermit had never respected the personal boundaries of others, but this was the first time Kermit had snuck into Michael’s bed while he was with a woman.

“I have no choice, mi amigo.” Kermit kept his voice to a whisper. “This is important, yo, like, crazy important.”

Michael turned to him.

“If you tell me we’re out of limes again, and you need some petty cash for the market, then I’m going to have to hurt you.”

Kermit shook his head. He remained focused as his gray dreadlocks bounced.

“No, man. I’m sans humor at the momento.” Kermit rubbed his ratted beard. “This is like, related to the you-know-what, which happened way back you-know-when and got you-know-who all up in your business.”

Kermit waited, but Michael didn’t respond. It wasn’t the first time Michael did not get as excited as Kermit about a new revelation.

Kermit cocked his head to the side.

“So you gonna like hit me or listen to me?” Kermit leaned back. “Looks like you could go either way.”

“I’m listening.” Michael glanced over at Andie.
“But keep your voice down.” She was still asleep, having drunk well past her limit the night before.

Kermit nodded and
moved back into Michael’s personal space, sincere. “Big brother has landed.”

“What?” Michael was confused, so Kermit moved even closer.

Inches away, Kermit whispered. “They invaded the beach, my man. They are here.”

“Who?”

“Government agents, mi amigo.” Kermit’s voice rose, as if it was obvious, and Michael felt his stomach turn.

Michael had known they were getting closer. One of his bankers had tipped him off about a new subpoena. Agent Vatch wasn’t letting the investigation drop and Michael’s residence at the Sunset Resort’s Hut No. 7 was quite possibly the worst kept secret in the history of white-colla
r crime. A few months ago he had even been quoted in the cover article of “High Times” magazine as the manager of one of Mexico’s top ten resorts to get “sun baked.”

While Michael thought about the end, Kermit filled the silence with a chant of synonyms.

“The federales, the men in black, the gestapo,” he said. “The po-po, the man, the pigs, the spooks, the fuzz,  the 5-oh.” Kermit paused for a breath. “The forces of darkness ‘tis upon our humble encampment, sayeth your majesty’s humble servant.”

Kermit nodded, satisfied with his superb communication skills, then concluded, “In summary and as stated earlier, they … are … here … dude-e-o.”

Kermit’s eyes opened wider. “Like now.”

Michael looked at the door. “How do you know this?”

“Not too many tourists come in a helicopter, land on the beach, and then get out wearing dark suits and sunglasses, muchacho.”  Kermit rolled over, got out of the bed, and stood up.

“You want me to light your hut on fire to distract them?”

Michael shook his head. “No.” He closed his eyes trying to figure out his options, but his mind worked too slowly in the morning. It was tarred by alcohol and whatever other abuse he had inflicted upon himself the night before.

Kermit became impatient
. His feet began to tap. “I think I got a little flame thrower in here.” He fished around for a lighter in the pockets of his ripped cargo shorts.

“Please don’t set any fires.” Michael sat up.

This wasn’t how Michael had imagined it. Someday he was probably going to get caught, he figured, but he had gotten away so many times in the past. He had almost allowed himself to believe it was never going to happen.

Michael looked at the door, and then back to Kermit. “When did they get here?”

“A few minutes ago.” Kermit walked over to the window and peeked outside. “I figure you can probably sneak out the back, run to the road, and then I can get the ol’ El Camino and we can make a run to Brazil, maybe Colombia. That wouldn’t be too bad. I could come back here in a few months when the buzz dies down and fetch Andie.”

Kermit clapped his hands, excited. “Then start the whole thing over. Start fresh with a new name on a new beach.” Kermit nodded, agreeing with his plan. “I could call you Roger Smiles. That’s a cool name —Roger Smiles — and I know a doctor who could give you a nose like Barbra Streisand and ears like Dumbo. Nobody would recognize you, bro-ha, like nobody.”

Michael started to respond, but there was a knock at the door.

Kermit finally located his lighter, took it out of his pocket, and pressed the button. A flame flicked out the top.

“Put that away.” Michael swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood up and walked toward the door. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Collins, I’d like to talk with you.”
Michael saw the knob turn a little, but the man on the other side of the door didn’t turn it all the way. He didn’t come in. He was just getting ready.

“Give me a second.” Michael looked back at Kermit who had walked over to the curtains and appeared to be figuring out whether the curtains were flame retardant. Then Michael looked at Andie. She was starting to wake up, but still half asleep.  Michael wondered whether this was the last time he’d see her as a free man.

“Just let me throw on a shirt,” Michael shouted.

He walked over to his dresser. He glanced at the picture of his revolutionary namesake on the wall, and then he forced a sticky drawer open. Michael grabbed a wrinkled Flogging Molly T-shirt and put it on.

“We gonna make a run?” Kermit was now in his ready position. He was crouched low with his arms out wide.

Michael shook his head. “No.” He walked back toward the bed. He grabbed his keys and sunglasses off of his nightstand. Then Michael kissed Andie’s forehead.

“I’m done with running.” Michael had said it softly, more to himself than to anyone else. “No more hiding.” 

CHAPTER THREE

Michael looked at the man. He was in his early-fifties with slicked hair that was graying at the temples. He wore a dark blue, pinstriped suit. His teeth were unnatural, glow-in-the-dark white. He held a large leather briefcase in his hand, but Michael didn’t see a gun. There was no badge attached to his belt. There was no holster for a firearm, either.

A younger version of the
older man stood behind him wearing the same outfit. He was an assistant of some sort, but he wasn’t paying attention. He had an iPhone, and was hypnotized by the screen.

Kermit was right about the two visitors being trouble, Michael thought, but they weren’t government. They smelled more like lawyers.

###

“You can talk, and I’ll listen. Let’s start with that.” 

Michael began walking over to the Sunset’s largest thatch hut. It was the resort’s bar and main office. It was the place where, years earlier, he had arrived with nothing but a backpack, a few paperbacks, and a sheet of paper with the account numbers and passwords for a half-dozen foreign bank accounts. 

Andie Larone had greeted him with a soft smile and an ice-cold Corona (the foundation of any romantic relationship), and soon he had signed an overpriced lease agreement for Hut No. 7. He’d found a home among the losers and drop-outs and he didn’t ever want to leave.

“It’d be nice if the boy wonder stayed behind.” Michael gestured toward the young associate. “He kind of freaks me out with that phone.”

“Any other requests?”

Michael nodded. “If you’re sticking around, I’d like you to change your clothes before the rest of the resort wakes up. White guys in suits are bad for business.” 

Michael thought for a moment. “Or better, yet, I’d rather you just leave as soon as we’re done. Don’t bother changing your clothes.”

Michael walked up three steps to the large, thatch-roofed hut at the end of the path. He found the right key, and then unlocked the door to the bar.

“Follow me.” Michael went inside. “We serve the best Bloody Mary in Mexico.”

There weren’t many early risers at the Sunset Resort and Hostel, and so the beachfront bar didn’t typically open for brunch until eleven. If people got up before then, they made some coffee in their hut and ate a granola bar or biked into San Corana to have breakfast at one of the cafes that lined the small city square.

“Have a seat.” Michael pointed to a chair at a table with a nice view.

It was early and
the sun was still low in the sky. Its light bounced off the blue Caribbean water. Seagulls alternated between chasing the waves and chasing each other above the rocky point that jutted out into the water in front of the resort.

“Want anything to drink? Coffee? I was also serious about the Bloody
Mary. They’re good.” Michael walked toward the back of the bar. He tried to play it cool, but he knew that whatever the lawyer wanted to talk about was going to be bad.

The man shook his head. “I really would just like your full attention for a moment,” he said. “I need to get back as soon as possible.”

“No complaints about that.” Michael opened a small refrigerator under the bar, grabbed a bottle of water, and then walked back over to the man and sat down at the table. “Why don’t you start by introducing yourself?”

The man extended his hand, and they shook. “Tad Garvin.” He smiled, expecting Michael to recognize him or the name. There was an awkward pause, and then Garvin added, “I’m a senior partner at Franklin and Uckley in New York.”

Michael shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve heard of it.” He unscrewed the top of his water bottle. Michael took a sip, continuing to keep an outward appearance of calm. 

Franklin and Uckley merged with two other major international law firms when the housing market crashed and took the global economy into a recession.  The firm
had laid off hundreds of “dead weight” partners as part of the merger, but, despite the layoffs, Franklin and Uckley became the third largest law firm in the world and, more importantly to its remaining partners, Franklin and Uckley was the most profitable law firm.

Size matters, but money matters more.

When Michael had been an associate at Wabash, Kramer and Moore, they had referred to Franklin and Uckley by its nickname: F U 

It was a nickname and attitude that the firm embraced, even going so far as to acquire the domain name www.fu.com from an Eastern European
pornography company in the late 1990s. That’s how they rolled at Franklin and Uckley: F U

CHAPTER FOUR

Garvin leaned back, taking a deep breath to inflate himself.

“In short, my client wants to meet with you.” He smiled, displaying his perfect teeth. An aura of confidence radiated from his orange, fake tan. “But it needs to be done privately. I am not involved, and I, quite frankly, don’t want to be involved any further.”

Michael smiled back at Garvin. “Great,” he said, sarcastically. “Where is he?” Michael looked around the room, feigning eagerness.

“My client is not a ‘he.’ Brea Krane is Joshua Krane’s daughter.” The reference to Joshua Krane hit Michael like a quick jab to his stomach. He winced, but Garvin continued. “She says it’s urgent.”

Michael took a sip of water, trying to recover. He hoped that his discomfort wasn’t obvious.

He thought back to the corrupt businessman and the night that changed his life. Michael’s hand,
reflexively, touched the scar on his cheek.  “I didn’t know Krane had a daughter.”

“He had a daughter and a son,” Garvin said. Michael’s mind raced as Garvin continued to prattle on.

It had been years since Michael had burned his suits and ties in a glorious back alley bonfire. After being shot on the same night that Joshua Krane had been killed, Michael had left New York with no plans other than to never practice law again. It was a plan that was greatly assisted by the funds in Joshua Krane’s off-shore bank accounts. Money didn’t buy happiness, Michael’s mother used to say, but it was a pretty good down payment.

Michael had never thought of Krane as a father. He had never really thought of Krane as a person, much less a family man. Krane was just another billable hour. A rich chump that his law firm was going to charge massive amounts of exorbitant legal fees until the client was either broke or in prison, whichever came first.

Michael took a drink. He put the cap back on the water bottle.

“What does she want to talk about?”

“Like I said earlier,” Garvin lifted his briefcase off the ground, opened it, and removed a large, thin envelope. “I don’t know the details and I do not want to know. Brea Krane has sent me here to make contact with you. She was quite insistent.”

“And the client is always right.”

Garvin smiled. “And the client is always right.” It was every lawyer’s mantra.

Garvin put the briefcase back by his feet and slid the envelope across the table to Michael. He pointed at it.

“Please, take a look. Her contact information is inside.”

Michael looked down at the envelope. Then he pushed it back toward Garvin.

“I’m not interested in anything she has to say.” Michael stood up. “Why don’t you get back in your helicopter or whatever it is and go home. I only came out here because …” Michael’s voice trailed off, but Garvin knew where Michael was going.

“You only came out here because you thought I was going to arrest you.” Garvin smiled.

Michael stared back at Garvin. He already hated the man. Michael had just met him, and yet, he knew that Tad Garvin was more arrogant than all the senior partners at Michael’s old law firm, but dumber.

“You can see yourself out.” Michael turned and started walking toward the door.

“Mr. Collins,” Garvin said. “Did you know that Agent Frank Vatch is testifying in front of a grand jury this morning?”

Michael stopped, but didn’t turn around. So, Garvin continued.

“My client has already testified. Your various bank accounts are already flagged and likely frozen, and the United States Attorney will get the indictment today or tomorrow.”

Garvin paused, letting the information sink in for a moment. Information was power, and Garvin leveraged it.

“You need to be smart.” Garvin tapped the envelope sitting on the table. His voice now carried an edge. “Brea Krane just might be the only person in the world who can get you the one thing that you need.”

“And what’s that, Tad?” Michael said with disdain. “What’s the one thing I need?”

Garvin smiled, smug.

“Your freedom, son. You need freedom from your past.”