by Ace Atkins
“He’ll go for the max.”
“Can’t you pay it?”
“I’ll have to sell my Sandy Koufax and Ernie Banks,” I said.
“And then what?”
“Maybe the Harmon Killebrew rookie card,” I said.
“Don’t run to Sotheby’s yet,” she said. “Let’s see what he says. All of this is just to scare you.”
“My hands won’t quit trembling.”
“I bet.”
“I don’t think they’ve thought any of this out.”
“Who’s this girl again?” she said. “Megan says you knew her.”
“I thought I did,” I said. “Maybe I still do.”
“You think she’s being coerced?”
“She came to me for help,” I said. “Her name is Beth Golnick. She’s been introducing me to some teens who’ve gone before Scali. As you know, some cops planted drugs on her. And then yesterday the cops played a tape for me where she accuses me of asking for sex.”
“Wonderful,” Rita said.
“I think she’s been threatened, or at least strongly coerced.”
“Well, I can’t cross-examine her today,” Rita said. “Today is only about getting you sprung and out of that ridiculous suit.”
“How would you rather see me?”
Rita appraised me, tapping her chin with her forefinger. “In nothing but a nice red ribbon.”
“I’ll borrow one of Susan’s.”
“Susan will never have to know.”
“But I’d know.”
Rita crossed her legs, sat up straighter, and grinned at me. Like Susan, she had a very wicked grin. We had known each other a very long time and in the small space it was a great comfort she’d come to help. I reached for her hand and squeezed.
“I sure know how to pick ’em,” she said.
The guard opened the door and let her out. I was led back to the court with the other prisoners. Rita found a spot in the courtroom. I got to sit on a long, hard bench waiting for Callahan. He did not seem to be in any hurry, looking down from on high, shuffling through the docket. He was a pig-faced Irishman with a high-pink complexion and white hair swept back from his forehead. He had a thick, bloated neck and looked to be wearing a size-XXL black robe. He held a big cup of coffee on the bench with him and took an audible slurp between his pronouncements. At the moment, he was talking to a skinny young woman who’d been busted for possession of heroin.
“Not my problem,” he said. “The court ordered you to rehab and you left early. How long has it been since your last appearance?”
The skinny woman mumbled something I could not hear.
“Two weeks?” Callahan said before slurping his coffee. “Well, Jiminy Cricket on a stick. What? Okay. Okay. Sorry, sweetheart. Off you go.”
Bond was set for ten thousand bucks. The woman cried very loudly. Callahan slurped some coffee and launched into a coughing fit. Four cases later, my name was called. Rita joined me at the lectern. Callahan had not glanced up once, reading the charges and then taking a long pause. The lectern had a microphone. Perhaps some “Volare”?
The bailiff told the courtroom I’d been charged with sexual misconduct with a minor. Perhaps not. I looked to Rita and Rita back to me. She spent the next four minutes telling the judge that I was actually a pretty swell guy.
Callahan stared down at me and smiled. The smile was quick, but it was there. He slurped his coffee a final time and set bail at a quarter million.
Under her breath, Rita accused Callahan of being intimate with his mother.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“You want me to call Susan?”
“She knew what would happen.”
“And what’s she going to do?”
“It’s been taken care of.”
27
Hawk met me in the lobby of the city jail. Back in street clothes, I was in need of a hot shower and something edible. We did not speak while we walked from the jail and down the steps to the parking lot. It was a dark morning and snowing. Snowplows were out scraping clean the potholed streets of Blackburn.
Hawk hit the locks on his Jaguar and I slid into the passenger seat. The car smelled of new leather and civilization. He had his stereo on low. I recognized the guttural voice of Howlin’ Wolf from the original Chess sessions. He sang a song called “Smokestack Lightning.”
“They sure want to fuck you hard, babe.”
“Yep.”
“Coming at you from all sides,” he said. “The creeps and the law. Got to believe you hit a raw nerve.”
“Would you believe this all started because a kid said his vice principal liked to garden in the nude?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“The man didn’t have a sense of humor.”
“And what happened to the kid?”
“Cooling his heels in a juvie facility out on Fortune Island.”
“I was nine years old first time I was arrested,” Hawk said. “Stealing a bottle of whiskey for my uncle.”
“What happened?”
“A big fat white cop whipped my ass with his gun belt,” he said. “Second time was much worse. Didn’t get out of that place for nearly a year. Those guards sho’ did love to watch us niggers kill each other.”
We drove out of the downtown, following a snowplow, until Hawk passed, and led us away and over the old metal bridge. He wore a long navy coat and a snug-fitting cashmere cap to match. His sunglasses had the Chanel insignia at the hinges. Big snowflakes hit the windshield before the wipers knocked them away.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Chump change,” Hawk said. “Unless you’re guilty.”
“Got to cost something.”
“I invest wisely.”
“Might take some time,” I said.
“You know where it’s all coming from?”
“I do.”
“But the bitch of it is in the proving.”
“Yep.”
Hawk turned south onto I-93 and we drove back toward Boston. Not long into the drive, Hawk stopped off at Dempsey’s at Medford. I ordered Irish eggs Benedict, home fries, and a pot of coffee as fast as anyone could.
Hawk had Texas French toast and fresh squeezed orange juice. “Susan said you had three sluggers stop by your office.”
I shrugged and cut off a bit of hash. The food was so good I could feel it in my toes. I wiggled them inside my boots as I chewed.
“You know who paid their bill?”
I shook my head. It was rude to talk with your mouth full.
“Any idea?”
I swallowed. “One of them recognized me,” I said. “Said he used to work for Broz.”
“And the other two?”
I described the older guy, Baldy, and the redheaded kid. Hawk cut up his French toast like a surgeon. An attractive waitress in a form-fitting uniform stopped by to refill our cups. Hawk thanked her and smiled as the wolf must’ve at Little Red Riding Hood.
“What sharp teeth you have,” I said.
Hawk smiled bigger. He ate a little more and then wiped his mouth with his napkin. “The older gentleman is Arty Leblanc,” he said.
“Arty Leblanc?”
“Yeah,” Hawk said. “Sound nicer than he is.”
“How bad?”
“Stupid and bad,” Hawk said. “He once gave a man an enema with a garden hose ’cause he late on his vig.”
“Inventive,” I said. The Irish eggs Benedict was excellent. I speared a bit of bread with a runny poached egg and a little hash. “How’s the Texas French toast?”
“Giddyup.”
“You had a run-in with Leblanc?”
“Worked two jobs with him,” Hawk said. “Never will again.”
�
��Can you find out who holds his leash?”
Hawk took another bite and thoughtfully chewed. Outside the plate-glass windows, the snow scattered and twirled in the bluing of the late morning. I hadn’t been in jail long but felt an ease in my back and shoulders with the freedom.
“I know a guy who can help,” he said. “But you won’t like it.”
I drank some more coffee and started into the last of the Benedict. “Like what?”
“The man in the know.”
“Ming the Merciless?”
“Only with more hair and a better suit.”
“Vinnie Morris.”
“Yep,” Hawk said. “Vinnie will know who Leblanc working for. You think he’s still pissed at you?”
28
Since he’d split with Gino Fish, Vinnie Morris had kept an office on the second floor of a bowling alley on the Concord Turnpike. When we walked in, a fat guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt and shiny shoes nodded us to an open staircase. I’d been there before. The alley hadn’t changed its décor since the Beatles appeared on Ed Sullivan. The upstairs promised an exciting lounge with nightly entertainment. Now it was a storage area filled floor-to-ceiling with boxes. I didn’t know what was inside the boxes, nor would I ask.
Vinnie waited for us at the landing.
He didn’t look pleased to see me. We’d had a falling-out the year before over a hidden interest in a casino slated for Revere. He nodded to me. I nodded back. Civil.
Vinnie looked good. He’d given up the baggy tracksuits for his preppy look of old. His salt-and-pepper hair had been expertly trimmed. He wore a three-piece gray suit and black tie that made him look more Beacon Hill than North End. A smile crept on his face as he tossed a half-dollar into the air and nodded.
“I thought George Raft was dead,” I said.
“Heard you were dead, too,” Vinnie said. “Some Puerto Rican gangbangers after you.”
“Cape Verdean,” I said.
“Whatever,” Vinnie said. “Hello, Hawk.”
“Vinnie.”
They shook hands. Vinnie didn’t offer to shake my hand. He turned his back and walked to an old-fashioned U-shaped bar. Stools had been put up upside down. The beer taps didn’t have handles. Neon signs for cheap beer flickered with delight.
“What time is the show?” I said.
“Up here?” Vinnie said.
“Yeah.”
“Nineteen sixty-five.”
“So noted.”
Vinnie reached up and pulled down three bar stools and righted them on the floor. The only light upstairs shone from the strategically placed neon beer signs. There was a painted mural on the far wall of a ball hitting a strike, pins flying in the air.
“I guess you ain’t here to talk about the old days.”
Hawk and I sat. Hawk on my right. Vinnie on my left.
“Arty Leblanc,” Hawk said.
“Oh, shit.”
“Is that a nickname or an alias?” I said.
“What the fuck are you guys doing with Arty Leblanc? He’s a freakin’ head case. Did you hear about the garden-hose thing?”
“His reputation has preceded him,” I said.
“Stuck it right up this guy’s keister and turned up the water pressure,” Vinnie said. “He’s nuts.”
“So he’s not your employee,” I said.
“Employee?” he said. “What kind of business am I running? The menswear department at Sears?”
“Not in that suit,” Hawk said.
“You like it?” Vinnie said, looking down at his sleeve, admiring the fabric.
Hawk shrugged. “Needs a better tie,” he said. “To make it pop.”
Vinnie walked behind the bar and uncorked a bottle of grappa.He pulled out three small glasses and lined them on top of the dusty bar.
“Feeling nostalgic?” I said.
Vinnie shrugged. “It’s a gesture,” he said. “Remember when that meant something?”
I nodded. Vinnie poured. He raised his glass. We did the same.
“Doesn’t mean we’re good,” Vinnie said, giving me the eye. “Unnerstand?”
“Arty,” I said. “Leblanc.”
Vinnie drank down the grappa. I sipped mine. It tasted like licorice-infused rocket fuel. I drank half and attempted to smile. Hawk downed the whole glass and set it down with a thud.
“He make a run at you?” Vinnie said.
“He made a request,” I said.
“Arty Leblanc doesn’t make no requests,” he said. “He insists.”
“I showed him and his two pals my .357 and insisted they leave.”
Vinnie nodded. The old lounge had a wide and sprawling dance floor made of parquet tiles. The tiles were old and scuffed and in need of a good waxing. I rested my elbows along the old bar. Someone had started a game downstairs. You could hear the roll of the ball and the explosion of pins. There was a nice rhythm to it all.
“You know the DeMarco family?” Vinnie said.
I nodded. Hawk did not respond. He stood completely still, relaxed, as he rolled the shot glass between the fingers of his right hand.
“They’re taking on new territory,” he said. “They’ve overrun Gino, squeezing out Fast Eddie Lee. They’re in tight with Providence.”
“The old gang is getting back together.”
“Everything was busted up before Joe Broz disappeared,” Vinnie said. “It’s not the same. But it’s a lot of the same people. Or their kids. You know.”
I nodded.
“You ever heard of a judge named Joe Scali?” I said.
Vinnie shook his head.
“Callahan?” I said.
Vinnie shook his head some more.
“Bobby Talos?” I said.
Vinnie didn’t shake his head this time. He reached for the bottle, poured out a little more grappa. God help him. He sipped it slowly. The ball rolled again downstairs. More pins were knocked down and scattered.
“He on the same team?” I said.
“Don’t know,” Vinnie said. “Depends on the money. I’ve done business with him before. Mainly just to make sure things run smooth.”
“No union issues.”
Vinnie sipped some of the grappa. His eyes were hooded and withdrawn. Hawk picked up the bottle and examined the label.
“Nice to know if the DeMarcos are in with Bobby Talos,” I said.
“I bet.”
“It would help me,” I said.
Vinnie shrugged again.
“I’d consider it a favor,” I said.
Vinnie didn’t speak. He examined the color of the grappa refracting in the neon light. It looked to be the most interesting liquid on the planet.
Hawk stared at Vinnie. And Vinnie looked to Hawk and then back to me. He shook his head with disappointment.
“Goddamn, Vinnie,” Hawk said. “History is a bitch.”
Vinnie put down the glass. He righted his tie. He looked to both of us and shook his head some more. “For crissake,” he said. “I’d really like it if you didn’t get me killed.”
29
Two days later, Iris Milford showed up at my office. She looked bright and pretty, holding a smile that hid some terrific secret.
“You look like a woman who knows things.”
“You have no idea.”
“Perhaps some things you’d like to share?”
“Just the secrets of the world, baby.”
“In that case, take a seat.”
I’d just returned from a lunchtime workout at the Harbor Health Club. I was properly tired, four miles on the treadmill at a nice clip and a few rounds on the heavy bag and shadowboxing. The knee was coming along. My right punch was like the kick of a frisky mule.
“You’re not too busy?” she said.
“Gisele is stopping
by later for fashion tips,” I said. “Later, I plan to rearrange the bullets in my gun.”
“Thought it best to drive to the city,” she said. “Of course, I look for any excuse to leave Blackburn.”
“Have they put up the wanted posters yet?”
“Of you?”
“Yeah.”
“Just a few,” she said. “You look better in person.”
“Hard to capture the nose,” I said, touching the flattened end.
“Looks like too many people captured that nose.”
I winked at her and pulled a clients’ chair from the wall. She sat and I returned to my desk. After the time off, my legs felt like Jell-O.
“I had to write about your arrest,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“You had to do your job.”
“I quoted several people who called the claims outrageous,” she said. “You have a lot of friends in high places. A lot of cops. Even more called after the arrest.”
“You don’t know where you truly stand until you’re accused of propositioning a teenybopper.”
“They’ve gone way too far.”
“I think that started a while back.”
“How’s the boy?” she said. “Dillon?”
“Still on Fortune Island,” I said. “It’s out of Scali’s hands now. He’ll be free in a few days.”
“How about the girl, Beth Golnick?”
“I tried to call her, but her cell number is no good. Wasn’t too keen at stopping by her house unannounced.”
“You do know her mother works in the courthouse?”
“Nope.”
“Probate,” she said. “Along with the bogus drug arrest to scare her, they probably scared her mom to get to her. Ain’t easy being a single woman in Blackburn. Jobs are hard to find. Lots of connected families and friends.”
I nodded. “Did you at least use a good photo of me?”
She tossed down a small scanned mug shot. It wasn’t pretty. “Figure you might want to hold on to this,” she said. “You know. One day we’ll all laugh.”
“Tell me when that day comes.”
Iris shook her head. She crossed her legs, a stylish boot swinging back and forth. She wore a white cashmere sweater under a high-necked black coat. Bracelet-sized gold hoops dangled in her ears. She peered around my office, checking out my place of work with a reporter’s eye. Her eyes lingered on framed pictures on the wall.