“I actually had a small loss; my basis was more than Keating paid. Did you ever fi nd him?”
“Yep.”
8 3
S t u a r t W o o d s
“Good. You seemed a little stressed about it the last time we talked.”
They played another set, then Stone and Dino went back to the Marquesa and showered. Stone called Tommy Sculley.
“Tommy, do you know a bank in Miami called South Beach Security?”
“That has a familiar ring,” Tommy said, “but I can’t place it. I’ve heard somebody talking about it, though. It’ll come to me. Why do you ask?”
“Some of the hundred and thirty grand Evan Keating paid Chuck Chandler for his boat had South Beach Security bands wrapped around it. The rest had rubber bands.”
“Let me look into it. By the way, I talked to the headmaster’s offi ce at the Groton School, and Evan and Charley Boggs were in the same class there for three years. They were described as inseparable. The office gave me a next-of-kin address for Charley, too. His parents are still alive, and I had to tell them their son was dead.”
“That’s never fun.”
“His old man said he was only mildly surprised; the only news he had had of him in years was that he was still drawing on his trust fund. He didn’t want the body; he said to have it cremated and disposed of and to send him the bill. He also said that Charley’s mother has thought he was dead for a long time, so he’s not going to tell her.”
“I wonder if trust funds make father-son relationships worse?”
Stone asked.
“I guess they make the kids more independent. What is it they call a trust fund?”
“ Fuck-you money?”
“That’s it. Independence means they don’t have to be nice to the folks anymore.”
“Kind of sad, isn’t it?” Stone asked.
“I still talk to my old man a couple of times a week,” Tommy said. 84
L o i t e r i n g w i t h I n t e n t
“He’s in a retirement home in Boca. He comes down here for Christmas, or we go up there. But then I don’t have a trust fund.”
“My folks are gone,” Stone said, “and I miss them.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t have a trust fund, either.”
“Nope.”
“Hang on a minute,” Tommy said. “Hey, Jim, have you ever heard of a bank in Miami called South Beach Security? Pick up the extension, line three.”
“Hello?” another voice said.
“Stone, this is Jim Pierce; he’s the worst kind of fed: an FBI man.”
“Hi, Jim.”
“Hi, Stone. How’d you get tangled up with this reprobate?”
“Beats me.”