He figured his chances of being recognized were nil. He used the name Marco with the owner and the other bartenders.
Within days, Marco was quietly taking over the bar, primarily because he would actually show up on time, work hard when things were busy, stay late if needed, and didn’t steal from the cash register. He worked circles around the other bartenders, mostly students, and enjoyed the friendly banter with the customers. Marco had learned to mix everything working in a beach bar in Costa Rica. With the owner’s permission, he added some colorful tropical drinks laced with cheap rum and the coeds went crazy over them. He expanded happy hours, found calypso and reggae bands for the weekends, jazzed up the menu with spicy finger foods, and the Varsity became an even more popular hangout.
Mack moved into a two-room apartment above a garage that was attached to an old house in central Memphis. The owner of the Varsity knew of the place and referred Mack there. It was a dump, but at $200 a month, with utilities, he expected little. It was temporary and there were no records anywhere.
His routine was to rise early, in spite of the late nights, and most mornings drive south ninety minutes through the Delta to Greenwood and have breakfast with his mother. They still had ground to cover but they were catching up nicely. After an hour or so with her, he enjoyed little excursions deeper into the state as he dropped in on old pals from his law school and lawyering days. He never called ahead. If they were busy, he left without leaving a name. If he caught them at the right time, then he drank their coffee and answered their questions. All were delighted to see him and all confessed they at times had found themselves jealous of his getaway. After a few laughs and as much conversation as their schedules allowed, he left with promises to keep in touch.
By noon, he was back at the Varsity, ordering beer and booze, restocking the coolers, premixing the fruit juices, prepping the bar, and taking inventory of mugs, glasses, and stemware. Several were broken every night. After two weeks on the job, the owner gave Marco the green light to overhaul the menu.
The current chef was on his way out the door, though he didn’t know it yet. Marco had him in his sights. The chef was stealing food out the back door, and when Marco had enough proof he would have a chat with the owner.
（25）
Freda was not too keen on having another drink with Buddy Hockner. She had not really enjoyed the first one, and besides, she had told him everything she could remember about Mack’s final days.
But on the phone Buddy was persistent, and the deal was closed when he informed her that the FBI wanted to have a chat. Most citizens, especially law-abiding ones, are startled to hear such ominous news and immediately resist. Buddy went on to explain that either the FBI could barge into the law firm where she worked and disrupt things, or they could meet secretly someplace where no one would know.
Nick Lenzini had wisely decided to use Buddy Hockner to facilitate the meeting. He spoke the local language and he had met Freda. If Nick had gone in flashing his badge and talking the way they do on Long Island, Freda would have reacted badly.
And so they met at a hotel bar on the outskirts of Tupelo. Buddy and Freda ordered drinks with alcohol. Lenzini abstained because he was on duty. He was all charm as he thanked her and assured her the FBI had no interest in her as a suspect.
Buddy listened wide-eyed, enthralled to be working with an FBI agent and in the middle of the case.
Nick was saying, “So I went to New York last week and met with the lawyers, big firm, and pressed them with a subpoena. They came around and gave us copies of all the paperwork.” He tapped a neat stack of documents about an inch thick. “Care to take a look?”
Freda shrugged, took a drink. Buddy smiled at her.
Nick lifted the first settlement agreement and said, “This is for Odell Grove, plaintiff number one. He was supposed to receive sixty thousand dollars. Back here on the last page is his signature and your notarization. Please take a look.”
Before she looked at anything, Freda said, “Well, I can assure you I never notarized a signature for Odell Grove. Never met the man.”
They went through all four settlement agreements. Freda admitted that whoever signed her name, and they were assuming it was Mack Stafford simply because there was no other suspect even remotely connected to the matter, had done a passable job of forgery. All four notarizations were done with an outdated stamp and seal, and certified with Freda’s forged signature.
She said, “When I left I took my current stamp and seal, still have it. I had a couple of old ones in a drawer in the file room. Looks like Mack just used one of them and nobody in New York caught it.”