“So what’s the problem?”

“Women. You would not believe the Elvis nuts who visit this city. They flock to watch this buffoon act like the King. They throw panties at him, big panties, panties made for heavy, wide lardasses, and he wipes his forehead and throws them back. They give him their room numbers, and we suspect he sneaks around and tries to play the big stud, just like Elvis. I haven’t caught him yet.”

Mitch could not think of any response to all this. He grinned like an idiot, like this was truly an incredible story. Lomax read him well.

“You got trouble with your wife?”

“No. Nothing like that. I need some information about four people. Three are dead, one is alive.”

“Sounds interesting. I’m listening.”

Mitch pulled the notes from a pocket. “I assume this is strictly confidential.”

“Of course it is. As confidential as you are with your client.”

Mitch nodded in agreement, but thought of Tammy and Elvis and wondered why Lomax told him that story.

“It must be confidential.”

“I said it would be. You can trust me.”

“Thirty bucks an hour?”

“Twenty for you. Ray sent you, remember?”

“I appreciate that.”

“Who are these people?”

“The three dead ones were once lawyers in our firm. Robert Lamm was killed in a hunting accident somewhere in Arkansas. Somewhere in the mountains. He was missing for about two weeks and they found him with a bullet in the head. There was an autopsy. That’s all I know. Alice Knauss died in 1977 in a car wreck here in Memphis. Supposedly a drunk driver hit her. John Mickel committed suicide in 1984. His body was found in his office. There was a gun and a note.”

“That’s all you know?”

“That’s it.”

“What’re you looking for?”

“I want to know as much as I can about how these people died. What were the circumstances surrounding each death? Who investigated each death? Any unanswered questions or suspicions.”

“What do you suspect?”

“At this point, nothing. I’m just curious.”

“You’re more than curious.”

“Okay, I’m more than curious. But for now, let’s leave it at that.”

“Fair enough. Who’s the fourth guy?”

“A man named Wayne Tarrance. He’s an FBI agent here in Memphis.”

“FBI!”

“Does that bother you?”

“Yes, it bothers me. I get forty an hour for cops.”

“No problem.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Check him out. How long has he been here? How long has he been an agent? What’s his reputation?”

“That’s easy enough.”

Mitch folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. “How long will this take?”

“About a month.”

“That’s fine.”

“Say, what was the name of your firm?”

“Bendini, Lambert & Locke.”

“Those two guys who got killed last summer—”

“They were members.”

“Any suspicions?”

“No.”

“Just thought I’d ask.”

“Listen, Eddie. You must be very careful with this. Don’t call me at home or the office. I’ll call you in about a month. I suspect I’m being watched very closely.”

“By whom?”

“I wish I knew.”

Avery smiled at the computer printout. “For the month of October you billed an average of sixty-one hours per week.”

“I thought it was sixty-four,” Mitch said.

“Sixty-one is good enough. In fact, we’ve never had a first-year man average so high in one month. Is it legitimate?”

“No padding. In fact, I could’ve pushed it higher.”

“How many hours are you working a week?”

“Between eighty-five and ninety. I could bill seventy-five if I wanted to.”

“I wouldn’t suggest it, at least not now. It could cause a little jealousy around here. The younger associates are watching you very closely.”

“You want me to slow down?”

“Of course not. You and I are a month behind right now. I’m just worried about the long hours. A little worried, that’s all. Most associates start like wildfire—eighty– and ninety-hour weeks—but they burn out after a couple of months. Sixty-five to seventy is about average. But you seem to have unusual stamina.”

“I don’t require much sleep.”

“What does your wife think about it?”

“Why is that important?”

“Does she mind the long hours?”

Mitch glared at Avery, and for a second thought of the argument the previous night when he arrived home for dinner at three minutes before midnight. It was a controlled fight, but the worst one yet, and it promised to be followed by others. No ground was surrendered. Abby said she felt closer to Mr. Rice next door than to her husband.

“She understands. I told her I would make partner in two years and retire before I was thirty.”

“Looks like you’re trying.”

“You’re not complaining, are you? Every hour I billed last month was on one of your files, and you didn’t seem too concerned about overworking me.”

Avery laid the printout on his credenza and frowned at Mitch. “I just don’t want you to burn out or neglect things at home.”

It seemed odd receiving marital advice from a man who had left his wife. He looked at Avery with as much contempt as he could generate. “You don’t need to worry about what happens at my house. As long as I produce around here you should be happy.”

Avery leaned across the desk. “Look, Mitch, I’m not very good at this sort of thing. This is coming from higher up. Lambert and McKnight are worried that maybe you’re pushing a bit too hard. I mean, five o’clock in the morning, every morning, even some Sundays. That’s pretty intense, Mitch.”

“What did they say?”

“Nothing much. Believe it or not, Mitch, those guys really care about you and your family. They want happy lawyers with happy wives. If everything is lovely, then the lawyers are productive. Lambert is especially paternalistic. He’s planning to retire in a couple of years, and he’s trying to relive his glory years through you and the other young guys. If he asks too many questions or gives a few lectures, take it in stride. He’s earned the right to be the grandfather around here.”

“Tell them I’m fine, Abby’s fine, we’re all happy and I’m very productive.”

“Fine, now that that’s out of the way, you and I leave for Grand Cayman a week from tomorrow. I’ve got to meet with some Caymanian bankers on behalf of Sonny Capps and three other clients. Mainly business, but we always manage to work in a little scuba diving and snorkeling. I told Royce McKnight you were needed, and he approved the trip. He said you probably needed the R and R. Do you want to go?”

“Of course. I’m just a little surprised.”

“It’s business, so our wives won’t be going. Lambert was a little concerned that it may cause a problem at home.”

“I think Mr. Lambert worries too much about what happens at my home. Tell him I’m in control. No problems.”

“So you’re going?”

“Sure, I’m going. How long will we be there?”

“Couple of days. We’ll stay in one of The Firm’s condos. Sonny Capps may stay in the other one. I’m trying to get plane, but we may have to fly commercial.”

“No problem with me.”

Only two of the passengers on board the Cayman Airways 727 in Miami wore ties, and after the first round of complimentary rum punch Avery removed his and stuffed it in his coat pocket. The punch was served by beautiful brown Caymanian stewardesses with blue eyes and comely smiles. The women were great down there, Avery said more than once.

Mitch sat by the window and tried to conceal the excitement of his first trip out of the country. He had found a book on the Cayman Islands in a library. There were three islands, Grand Cayman, Little Cayman and Cayman Brae. The two smaller ones were sparsely populated and seldom visited. Grand Cayman had eighteen thousand people, twelve thousand registered corporations and three hundred banks. The population was twenty percent white, twenty percent black, and the other sixty percent wasn’t sure and didn’t care. Georgetown, the capital, in recent years had become an international tax haven with bankers as secretive as the Swiss. There were no income taxes, corporate taxes, capital-gains taxes, estate or gift taxes. Certain companies and investments were given guarantees against taxation for fifty years. The islands were a dependent British territory with an unusually stable government. Revenue from import duties and tourism funded whatever government was necessary. There was no crime or unemployment.