The Racketeer Page 0,61

furnished, with a kitchen-den combo, nice sofa and chairs, nothing luxurious but not cheap either. After he's gone, I stand on my small balcony and stare at the moon over the ocean. I breathe the salty air and listen to the waves gently roll ashore.

Freedom is exhilarating, and indescribable.

I forgot to close the curtains, and I wake up to a blinding sun. It is my first true morning as a liberated and unwatched person, and I can't wait to feel sand between my toes. There are a few early birds on the beach, and I hustle down there, my face partially hidden behind a cap and sunglasses. No one notices; no one cares. People who roam aimlessly up and down beaches are lost in their own worlds, and I am quickly getting lost in mine. I have no family, no job, no responsibilities, and no past. Max is starting a brand-new life.

Pat Surhoff retrieves me around noon, and we have a sandwich for lunch. Then he drives me to the Mayport Naval Station, where I have an appointment with a doctor who knows the code. The surgery is progressing nicely, no complications whatsoever. I'll return in two weeks for another exam.

Next, we go to the SunCoast Bank branch near the condo, and as we get close, Pat preps me for what's coming. He will not go inside, because it's important for me to establish the account myself. No one in the bank knows the code; it's strictly aboveboard. For the time being, Max Baldwin is semiretired, not working, and pondering a move to the area. He wants to open a standard checking account, no frills, and so on, and will put down $1,000 cash as the initial deposit. Once the account is opened, Max will return to the bank and get the proper wiring instructions. Inside the bank, I am routed to the lovely Gretchen Hiler, a fortyish bleached blonde who's spent far too much time in the sun. She has a small desk in a tight cubicle and no wedding ring. She has no way of knowing that she is the first woman I've been truly alone with in over five years. Try as I do, I cannot stop a lot of improper thoughts. Or maybe they're just natural. Gretchen is a chatterbox, and at this moment so am I. We go through the paperwork quickly, with me proudly giving a real address. I put down a thousand in cash. She fetches some temporary checks and promises more in the mail later. When all business has ended, we keep talking. She gives me her card and is willing to help in any way. I promise to call when I get a cell phone; the bank needs a phone number. I almost ask her to dinner, primarily because I'm convinced she might say yes, but I wisely let it pass. There will be plenty of time for that later, after I'm more comfortable and my face is easier to look at, hopefully.

I proposed to Dionne when I was twenty-four years old, and from that moment until the day I was sentenced and taken into custody, I was never unfaithful. There was one near miss, with the wife of an acquaintance, but we both realized things would end badly. As a small-town lawyer, I saw a lot of divorces, and I was constantly amazed at the awful ways men could screw up their lives and families simply because they couldn't resist temptation. A quickie, then a casual fling, then something more serious, and before long they were in court getting their eyeballs clawed out and losing their kids, along with their money. The truth was I adored my wife and I was getting all the sex I wanted at home. The other part of the truth was that I never fancied myself as a ladies' man.

Before Dionne, I had girlfriends and enjoyed my single days, but I never hopped blindly from one bed to another. Now, forty-three and single, I have a hunch there are a lot of women around my age who are looking for companionship. I can feel the urge, but at the same time all movements must be calculated.

As I walk out of the bank, I feel a sense of accomplishment. I just pulled off the first little mission of my secret existence. Pat has been waiting in the car, and when I get in he says, "Well?"

"No problem."

"What took so long?"

"The account manager is a cute girl