Bill Reichert was pouting. Morgan Hannah knew that, but she was making no move to solve his problem. He called three days in succession, and each time logistics made it impossible for them to connect. She hadn’t heard from him since Wednesday. It was his problem. They decided at the outset of their relationship that there would be no demands; demands were not a part of what they wanted from each other. It was becoming apparent, however, that she could more easily accept that arrangement than he.
At three o’clock she walked across the dunes path to the beach. The wind had died, which made it even warmer than it had been earlier in the day. She ran her tongue along her upper lip and tasted the salt of her perspiration. It was too early in the season for the pink and purple gerardia to color the dunes, but the sea oats, pennywort and other plants she could not name, were greening up and creating a quilt of earth colors.
Walking along the water’s edge, she reminisced about her first meeting with Bill Reichert. She had been alone for more than a year when he came into her life. They met at the bar at a charity auction. Neither of them wanted to purchase anything they saw displayed, and the bar seemed like a good refuge. The physical attraction was immediate. Reichert knew who she was, but since she didn’t do business with his bank, he was a complete stranger to her. He had to introduce himself, which, she later decided, must have been a huge blow to his ego.
He didn’t lie to her. Told her he was in an unhappy marriage that hadn’t been a real marriage for a number of years. After asking around among the few lady friends she knew in the area, she substantiated his story. It was no secret. After several weeks of his telephone calls, she invited him to dinner. They chatted over drinks and hors d’oeuvres and went to bed. The rack of lamb she prepared went uneaten. It had been a long time for her. They were insatiable and met at every opportunity for weeks. Now the mind-fucking was beginning, and, for the first time, she considered the possibility that it might be ending. It would be her call.
The beach wasn’t crowded; it was too early for most tourists. Even in the height of summer, it was barren compared to other beaches. She saw two men walking toward her—one, average height, medium build, a little thick around the middle, but not bad; the other was six two or three, lean, extremely tan with brown, sun-bleached hair. As they got closer, Morgan recognized Charles Clay, the attorney, but the other man was a stranger. She didn’t really know Clay, just who he was. When they approached, she had difficulty averting her eyes from Clay’s companion.
“You’re Morgan Hannah.” the lawyer said when they came face to face.
“Yes, and you’re Charles Clay.” She put on her most promising smile.
“I’m flattered that you know who I am.”
“Most everyone does,” she said, looking at the man standing next to Clay.
“Hardly,” he said with a laugh. “We’ve been neighbors for some time, but I haven’t been out here much in the last couple of years.”
“I’m sure it must be difficult for you to come out here,” Morgan said. “I was sorry to hear about your wife. I didn’t really know her, but we did speak on the beach a couple of times.”
“Oh, you must forgive me. This is my friend, Brad Coleman. Brad, Morgan Hannah.” Brad
Coleman’s smile was iridescent. The white teeth against the deep tan along with the lightest golden brown eyes she had ever seen—yellow ochre she would have said—created a striking picture that demanded attention.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said and extended her hand.
“And I‘m pleased to meet you.” His voice was smooth, southern and gentle. He gave her hand a squeeze that was neither intimidating nor condescending.
“Are you from Covington? I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”
“No. Just visiting.”
“Are you here for long?” she asked.
“I’m afraid only for another couple of hours. Just a quick business trip to see Charles. I will be back though, I’m sure. You have a beautiful island. Must be like living on a cruise ship.”
“That’s a good description,” she said.
“Well, much as I hate to say it, we have to get along,” Charley Clay said. “I’ve got to get him to Charleston to catch a plane. I hope I’ll see you again, Morgan.”
“I do, too, Charles.” She nodded. “Mr. Coleman.”
“Pleased to have met you,” he said as he turned and continued down the beach with his friend.
“Wow,” Morgan whispered to herself as she picked up her walk.
The Oyster Creek Inn was not a frequent lunch stop for Bill Reichert. He much preferred going to The Covington House, an upscale, decidedly southern bed and breakfast, one block off Main Street on Jackson. It was only a few blocks from the bank. The food was better and served more graciously than any other place in the city. It was a meeting place for the community’s movers and shakers, of which Bill Reichert considered himself a member in good standing. This was not a day for The Covington House, however. It was time to lock Charley Clay into a conversation. He had been unable to reach the attorney for a week, and his concerns about the upcoming operation were becoming serious, if not paranoid.
Reichert’s research into international banking left his head spinning with cross-purposed laws and restrictions. Off-shore, blind corporations were obviously the easiest places to deal with large amounts of cash, and, to the unaware, they appeared to be the safest, but—always the inevitable “but”—there were also some very scary traps to fall into.
He knew Charley would gently scoff at his fears, simplify his concerns and leave him wondering who the naive one really was. Not this time. Reichert had made up his mind that if he were going to turn over more millions of dollars than he ever imagined, in cash, to a foreign entity, he wanted to go to the place and meet the people he would be dealing with. Find a friend of his own that he could trust. Someone to protect his own interests if the shit hit the fan. That was the way it would have to be.
Charley Clay was tending bar himself, as he often did during the lunch hours. It was relaxing, allowed him to bask in the pride of ownership, talk to old friends and new, and to have a drink or so himself. It was a great place to pick up information about what was going on in town. He was surprised when Bill Reichert walked through the door.
“Bill, surprised to see you all the way out here on a Monday,” he said as Reichert took a seat.
“Slummin’,” the banker said.
“What can I get for you? You havin’ lunch?”
“That’s what I came out here for. I’ll have a beer first though. Give me a Corona for a change.”
“Comin’ up,” Clay said as he bent into the stainless steel cooler and withdrew an icy, clear-glass bottle. “Maybe I’ll join you for lunch, if you don’t mind the company. Roger’s supposed to relieve me at one.”
“I’d like that,” Reichert said.
Thirty minutes later, sitting at a dockside table, Reichert’s demeanor changed from the casual appearance he had displayed at the bar.
“Charley, how well have you thought through this next venture?” Reichert asked. “I mean ever since I was out here Sunday a week ago, I keep asking myself the same question: why change things when everything is going smoothly? It just doesn’t make sense to me. How much money can we want?”
Charley looked at him carefully, trying to perceive any hidden agenda in his face.
“Let me ask you a question, Bill. How much longer do you want to keep doin’ this?”
Reichert sat back. “I don’t know.”
“Well, see, that’s the point. I don’t really know either. I mean it’s fun and all. I like the risk, and I don’t think we’re hurtin’ anybody, except maybe the other people who would be doin’ it if we weren’t, but I really think the time for me to be bailin’ out might be gettin’ close. Despite all the positives, I think I’d like to get back to a normal life sometime soon. Have it all behind me, be out safe and secure. Maybe retire. I been thinkin’ about that. One venture like this, and we can all decide when we want to quit.”
“Damn, Charley, how much money are you going to need?” Reichert asked.
“It’s not the money, Bill. I’ve got enough of that, but I want to make sure everyone else does. It’ll only be safe if all of us get out at the same time. I don’t want any of our group to try to carry on; leaves us like sittin’ ducks if they get caught.”
“Okay, say we do it. How am I going to move that kind of cash? What are we talking about? Six, eight million?” A satisfied grin crossed Charley Clay’s face.
“Top dollar? Ten to fourteen. Somewhere in there.” Bill Reichert looked stunned.
“How am I going to handle that? Think about it, Charley.”
“Sounds pretty don’t it? I thought money was your area of expertise. I’m just a poor ol’ country lawyer.” He smiled.
“Oh, yeah, Charley. You are that.” Reichert sighed. “Okay. I’ve been doing some research, and I came up with a couple of options, but working with these kinds of figures is new to me. I’m not sure which is the best way to go. It’s going to take some thought. And, I’d want to meet the people I’m working with, no matter what we decide.”
“That’s no problem. You can go anywhere you want, see anybody you choose. We can afford it,” he said, amused. “I do have a guy comin’ in a week or so that I want you to meet, and I have a foreign banker I’ve been in contact with who I think may be of help.”
“Who’s that?”
“Let’s wait and see if this whole thing has a chance of working out. I’ll let you know.”
“I think we’re getting too many people involved. I worry about that.”
“Who are you worried about?”
“Nobody specific. Well, yes. Jerry Salyer. I just don’t see—” Charley cut him off.
“I explained that. Or at least I thought I did,” Clay said calmly. “Look, I’ve known the guy for twenty years. I’ve handled a lot of legal work for him. He studied law, too. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t, but—” Charley held up his hands.
“Trust me, Bill. Hell, I don’t want to go to jail.”
“I couldn’t,” Reichert said. “No way.” Just the thought created a chilling sweat on his skin.
“We need his position. His company is a perfect conduit for most of the big stuff we have to have. Hell, a company as big as his—building fifty miles of highway over the next five years? Pretty hard to keep up with all that equipment and storage. And, come to think of it, money. You might give that some thought.”
“That’s my point exactly. Why would he want to get involved? He’s not a sixty-thousand-dollar-a-year banker. He’s already got more money than he can spend.”
“Two reasons: greed and fun.” Clay looked at Bill Reichert steadily. “Ever ask yourself why I’m involved? I’m not a sixty-thousand-dollar-a-year banker either.” Reichert was silent. “Neither are you, as I see it. Not now anyway. How many millions have you got that nobody knows anything about? Even I don’t know how much you have, but I don’t see you gettin’ out, sayin’, ‘I’ve got enough’. Enough is a hell of a big word, and I’ve never heard anyone who could define it accurately.
“And do you know what I’ve come to realize? The addiction to money is probably the greatest addiction of all. I don’t mean greed. Hell, I don’t even mean spendin’ it. I mean the money itself. The makin’ of it, seein’ it, feelin’ the power it gives you. Lemme ask you somethin’. You ever ride around for a day with a quarter of a million dollars in the trunk of your car and only you know it’s there? Hell of a feelin’. Somethin’ I never figured on. You ought to try it sometime.
“Jerry Salyer? Don’t give him a thought. Bill, you know construction people; they’re rich one day and broker than a field hand the next. Let me worry about the employees. You just keep doin’ your research and find us a nice, safe place to hide our booty.” Clay laughed. “You hear that? ‘Booty’. I’m even starting to talk like a pirate.”
“I’ll do my best.” Reichert said and looked at his watch. “Looks like I’m going to have to be heading back. Monday’s a busy day at the bank, and I’ve got some function to attend tonight. I’m not even sure what it is. It’s just on my calendar.”
Charley Clay gave him a knowing smile. “Isabel goin’ with you?”
“I don’t know,” he lied.
“Just wondered how you all are gettin’ along.”
“We get along necessarily, Charley,” he said, as he got up and pushed the chair back under the table.
“What’s that?”
“When it’s necessary, we get along.” Charley Clay laughed and gave him a wave as he turned to leave.
Reichert was still upset. Charley Clay, with all his wise platitudes, did not resolve his concerns. Fears? Like Charley said: it was the thrill of risk that got him involved in the beginning. That and the money. He never dreamed of the sums of money they were making, the cash that had passed through his hands. It was like collecting rent on Park Place and Boardwalk, and so far no one had gotten a “Go to Jail” card. Monopoly money. It was euphoric, but the euphoria had turned to worry. Maybe because he felt his position changing.
With each new person’s involvement, his role appeared to become less critical. Now with this “mystery man or men” Charley mentioned, he was beginning to wonder where he stood in The Company. It was time for Bill Reichert to start looking out for Bill Reichert.
Morgan Hannah was also on his mind. He didn’t know what was going on there. That was another blow that interrupted his focus. It had been more than a week since he had seen her. Every time he called and said he was coming out, there was some reason she wasn’t going to be there. She knew he wasn’t able to arrange his schedule to fit hers, knew that from the beginning, and the idea that she might expect it burned him. At the time they met, their agreement to make no demands on each other, no commitments, seemed appropriate to the situation, but he found himself rethinking that arrangement. Even the thought of getting a divorce crossed his mind. There was certainly nothing scandalous about divorce in Covington, and he could afford it. It now appeared, however, that Isabel would make it more difficult. He couldn’t understand why their fractured marriage suddenly wasn’t acceptable to her; she had put up with it for years. He wondered if it was the onset of menopause.