by Ace Atkins
“A lot of them on Cape Cod,” I said. “Very preppy.”
“Haw.”
We killed the next three hours cruising around Tampa and the bayfront, ate Cuban sandwiches at a place called Brocato’s, and Hawk bought a box of cigars at a place called King Corona. He was smoking a Partagas Black when Special Agent Jamal Whitehead walked out onto the open deck of Jackson’s on Harbor Island. Hawk had also finished off a half bottle of Moët & Chandon Imperial while I had just started my second Yuengling.
We shook hands all around and introduced ourselves. Whitehead was a few years younger than us, a medium-sized guy with a strong handshake and a good smile. He wore a gray suit with blue ticking stripes, a light blue shirt, and a navy tie. As with most Feds, his lace-up dress shoes gleamed. When he sat down, Whitehead let out a lot of air, all but saying it had been a hell of a day.
“Epstein says if you two are here, I better watch my ass.”
“He’s such a sweet guy,” I said.
Hawk blew out some smoke and reached over to pour some more champagne. “Maybe we just on vacation.”
“Epstein says you two don’t take vacations,” he said. “He said something about you checking into the DeMarco family interests?”
I shrugged and offered my empty palms. Guilty as charged. I asked Whitehead if he’d like a drink, but he declined. He said he had to get home and let his dog out.
“What kind of dog?” I said.
“Would you believe a Yorkie?”
Hawk raised his eyebrows. I shook my head. “Secret’s safe with us.”
“I will take one of those sticks,” he said to Hawk. “If you have another.”
Hawk produced another cigar from inside his coat pocket and handed it over to Whitehead. Whitehead stood for a moment, removed his suit coat, loosened his tie, and undid his top button. He had his own punch built into his lighter. Soon I felt like I was seated at the table of Cuban revolutionaries.
“So you know the DeMarcos?” I said.
“We’re not on a first-name basis,” he said, cigar in his teeth. “But I know them and they know me. ’Specially Jackie.”
“He’s active down here?” I said.
Whitehead looked to Hawk and then to me. He gave a slow, delicate nod. From where we sat we had a nice view of the sunset where the river and channel met. A few boats puttered past the wide brick patio. The downtown reflected the sun’s orange glow in mirrored glass.
“What got you into the DeMarcos?” he said.
There were other tables near us. But no one who looked connected with organized crime. Most looked like business professionals who’d walked over from the convention center. Some wore nametags.
“We ran into the DeMarcos,” I said. “I was looking into a corrupt judge out of Blackburn, Mass. He sentenced the son of my client to nearly a year in juvie.”
“What’d the kid do?”
“Set up a Twitter account for his vice principal,” I said. “Announced the guy had gotten his dick trapped in a VCR.”
Whitehead laughed loud. Hawk laughed, too, although he’d already heard the story.
“What’s the judge’s name?” Whitehead said.
“Joe Scali.”
Whitehead puffed on his cigar as he thought. I probably would have seemed more thoughtful with a smoke in my hand, too. Somehow a cold bottle of beer did not produce the same effect. He nodded a bit to himself. “Epstein said I can trust you.”
“What about me?” Hawk said.
“Epstein wasn’t so sure,” Whitehead said. “Said it depends on the company you keep.”
Hawk sipped his champagne. “Fair enough.”
“But since he’s in such excellent company,” I said, “perhaps you might lead us in the right direction.”
“I don’t know Scali,” he said. “But I do know of a judge from Massachusetts named Gavin Callahan.”
“Bingo,” I said.
Whitehead stared at me.
“Sorry. Sometimes I’m judicious about using the term.”
The federal man checked his watch and then looked back to us, enjoying the fine weather, the sunset, the smoke.
“Why Callahan?” I said.
“He and the DeMarcos are in cahoots,” Whitehead said. “You must know that since you tossed a few of their people around in Ybor City.”
“You saw that?”
“Some of our people did.”
“You wouldn’t have special agents in bikinis,” I said. “Serving hot wings.”
Whitehead grinned and removed the cigar from his lips. He just smiled and shrugged a bit. A soft breeze passed over us. The sun was going fast; boaters were coming from the bay and back into the channel. “Callahan and the DeMarcos are old family friends,” Whitehead said. “Callahan was friendly with the old man, and apparently that extends to the new generation in Boston.”
“Classic,” Hawk said.
“Kind of missed those guys,” I said.
“Yeah, that guy Broz kind of shut down the old Mob,” he said. “But the new ones, the younger ones, might even be worse. I used to work out of the New Orleans field office and got to know the old guard down there. This may not make a lot of sense, but some of them had a code about them. Does that make any sense?”
I nodded. Hawk didn’t speak or make a gesture.
“These new guys,” Whitehead said. “They have to be tougher and meaner, worse than the Asians or the Mexicans. You get soft with the Mexicans and you’ll end up with your heart on a plate of enchiladas.”
“Ouch.”
Hawk finished off the champagne and plunged the empty bottle into an ice bucket. The sunset reflected off his sunglasses.
“Besides being in cahoots,” I said.
Whitehead shrugged. “They operate some seemingly legitimate businesses together,” he said. “If you believe it’s ethical to have a judge into strip clubs and bars.”
“But of course.”
“We’re pretty sure he’s on the take,” Whitehead said. “Besides the businesses we know about, Callahan receives huge payments for renting out his condo through a local attorney.”
“That wouldn’t happen to be Ziggy Swatek, Esquire.”
Whitehead nodded, puffing on the cigar.
“Is this the condo that hasn’t been built yet?” I said.
“Say,” Whitehead said, grinning. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”
“What if I were to tell you that I don’t think that money is coming from the DeMarcos but through one of Zig’s other clients,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to be interested in some major money laundering, racketeering, and bribes? All across several state lines.”
“That would definitely up the ante,” Whitehead said. “Fill up more pages on the indictment.”
“We should probably keep in touch,” I said. “I’m not sure how the DeMarcos fit into the scheme. But we’re pretty sure about a guy named Talos sending kickbacks through Zig’s office.”
Whitehead nodded, leaned forward, and ashed his cigar. In a low voice over the table, he said, “I might know someone who can help us make that connection.”
I nodded.
“A contract killer who worked a bit with Jackie,” he said. “He’s sort of a nutjob trying to work out a plea deal. Not the kind of guy we want on the stand. But some of what he tells us deals with work he did in Boston. Interested?”
I looked to Hawk and nodded. “All ears.”
“Okay,” Whitehead said. “He’s at Coleman. That’s not far from Orlando. I can set you up for tomorrow.”
We all shook hands and he left just as the sun disappeared behind us. I ordered another beer to clear my mind. “Champagne?”
“You buying?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not? Neither of us is getting paid.”
There wasn’t much to For
tune Island. It wasn’t that big, really only large enough to hold the three pod buildings, a cafeteria, and administrative offices. There was the West Shore with the beach, a couple acres of newly planted trees to the south, and a few mounds that the kids called the hills to the east. The hills had really just been trash mounds when the island was used as a landfill. Now it sprouted brown grass over the shit they shipped out of Boston. Someone had staked signs along the peaks saying it was now a natural habitat. Mainly the little mounds served as buffers from the wind. No one liked the wind out on the island.
The winter sun had set early. The boy sat with Dillon Yates on a bench watching a pickup game of basketball. They had already eaten dinner. This was supposed to be their rec period under the blaze of some hot lights set in the middle of the pods.
“Robocop make you swim today?” Dillon said.
The boy shook his head.
“I wondered where you were,” Dillon said. “They cut you from our beach crew.”
“I got to unload shit from the boats,” he said. “I did that all day.”
“He mess with you?”
The boy nodded. He didn’t want to tell Dillon, or anyone else, about the things said and implied by Robocop. The man had some serious mental-health issues.
“Don’t ever be alone with him,” Dillon said. “I told you when you got here.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“I think he messed with Tony Ponessa just like that,” Dillon said. “When Tony first got here. Now he is, or was, his favorite son.”
“I don’t speak to him.”
“Don’t let him touch you.”
“It’s not like that.”
The wind blew hard across the harbor and through the three block buildings and up and over the hills into the Atlantic. The boy pushed his hands deep into his pockets, feeling a little food he’d taken from the cafeteria. He wasn’t supposed to take extra food, but he needed it. The fever had drained a lot of energy from him and made him weak.
“Everyone is talking about you,” Dillon said. “They think you’re the new Tony Ponessa.”
“What happened to the old Tony?”
“They got him cleaning shit off the south part of the shore,” Dillon said. “Or that’s what I heard anyway. People aren’t afraid of him anymore. They know he’s no longer top dog for Robocop.”
“What’s wrong with that guy, anyway?”
Dillon turned to look at the boy. He shrugged. “What’s wrong with all these people?” he said. “They all know it’s wrong. They just want to punch the clock and leave this place. You see the look on their faces? All the guards and the people who serve that shitty food? They look like freakin’ zombies. No one will look you in the eye. You notice that? They can’t stand what they’re doing.”
“I’ve gone long past caring.”
“You don’t talk like that,” Dillon said. “You talk like that and they own you.”
“What do you know?”
“I know I’m getting out of here.”
“Same as you came?”
The wind came up hard again and Dillon pulled his jacket up higher onto his neck. He wore a knit winter hat that read MCC. Both boys had on a pair of cheap work boots made in China. Dillon spit on the ground. “I’m freakin’ gone.”
“When?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” he said. “I don’t know. They pulled me aside today.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I don’t know,” Dillon said. “Not something you want to brag about.”
“Are you shitting me?” he said. “I’d be jumping up and down if they said I could go. Shit, I’d swim across the freakin’ bay to the aquarium and walk naked out onto Atlantic Avenue. Good for you.”
“My mom,” Dillon said. “My mom did it.”
“Good for you,” the boy said. His voice sounded weak.
“I’ll try and help.”
The boy watched the kids in heavy winter clothes playing a rough game. There were a lot of elbows and head butts before the ball would zing into the goal. The ball ricocheted off the backboard with a heavy, dull thud. The work boots on the concrete pounded loud and hard.
“Just don’t come back,” the boy said. “Promise me that. Don’t ever come back.”
Dillon looked to the boy. He nodded.
“Maybe I can help.”
“Nah,” the boy said. “I’ll see it out.”
“My mom, she’s smart,” Dillon said. “If she can do it for me, she can do it for you.”
“All this is fucked up,” the boy said. “I’ll look you up when I get back.”
“I’ll be gone.”
The boy smiled. Dillon offered an open hand and they shook as the guards called for final lineup before heading back to the pod.
42
Whitehead arranged for me to meet a convict by the name of Ray-Ray Barboza at nine the next morning. The Coleman state pen was about an hour and a half from St. Pete, and I left early, driving north on I-75 with a cup of weak coffee and a cold bagel. Hawk was meeting the woman in the purple bathing suit for a leisurely brunch at the Vinoy. He mentioned omelets and fresh-squeezed juice.
I had the feeling, but no proof, they’d had dessert the night before.
The prison, like all maximum-security prisons, was a maze of many checkpoints. I checked in at the front gate, the front office, and through a few more posts before a guard ushered me to a meeting room. The room looked the same as they did in the movies, cinder-block walls, Plexiglas barriers, and an old-fashioned handset to communicate with the prisoner.
I left my gun locked in the rental. I came armed with only a smile and my winning personality.
I took a seat. In a couple minutes, a very unattractive middle-aged man sat across from me. He had longish, unruly black hair pulled into a ponytail, jug ears, and a busted nose. There was a big bruise on his forehead and scratches across his cheeks. Under his split lips, he kept the tiniest tuft of hair, which he stroked several times. When he looked directly at me, through the Plexi, I noticed he had both a brown eye and a black eye, giving him an almost canine appearance. I was relieved this wasn’t my first experience with speed dating.
I picked up the phone.
He did the same.
I told him Jamal Whitehead had sent me to him.
He shrugged and picked his nose. We were off to a famous start.
“I understand you used to work with Jackie DeMarco?” He met my eyes again. The two colors gave me a slight case of the creeps. He nodded. I continued. “And I heard you’re from Boston?”
“Revere,” he said. “I grew up in Revere.”
If he hadn’t said it, I might have guessed it by the accent. “You miss Kelly’s?”
He smiled, the effort of the broken lips seeming to hurt a little. “I’d freakin’ kill for one of those sandwiches about now,” Ray-Ray said.
I smiled back at the assassin. I couldn’t help myself.
“Maybe that’s a bad choice of words,” he said. Ray-Ray was no longer smiling, and sat stoop-shouldered and watching me from under a pair of bushy eyebrows.
I shrugged. “But you were down here doing some work for up there.”
He shrugged. Maybe we didn’t need the phone. Maybe we could communicate in a series of shrugs and nods, maybe a shake of the head. I could even tap out the Morse code I’d learned in the Army on the glass.
“Jackie set you up?” I said, already knowing the answer.
He nodded. “Flushed me down the freakin’ toilet.”
“Ever hear of him working with a guy named Gavin Callahan?” I said.
He shook his head.
“Joe Scali?” I said into the mouthpiece.
He again shook his head. I nodded. “How about a rich guy named Bobby Talos?” I said. “He’s a developer back home.”
I thought the back home was a particularly good touch to build a rapport. After Kelly’s, I planned to talk to him about how much the Sox were going to suck this year. Maybe tell him about the new indigo line on the T. A hundred years from now, it should be running smooth and on time. Someone could push his wheelchair up onto the platform.
“I don’t know those guys,” he said. “Sorry. What’s this about anyway?”
“Your old pal Jackie,” I said. “And two corrupt judges.”
He nodded. “Is there any other kind?”
“I thought you pled out,” I said. “To get out of . . . you know.”
“The death penalty?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That.”
Ray-Ray nodded in agreement. “I only did those two of the four they say,” he said. “But I was just the instrument, man. I wasn’t calling the shots.”
“And DeMarco is walking free.”
“Never so much as a Christmas card or a ‘Hey, how you doing?’ You know? He washed me off like I was shit on his Guccis.”
“Self-preservation,” I said.
“That’s why I agreed to help the Feds,” he said. “They don’t think I’ll be good on the stand because of things I done. And some lies I may have told. But they can make my life easier inside. If it puts the screws to Jackie down here? That works.”
I nodded. “What kind of stuff are they into down here?” I said.
“Making money,” he said. “Jackie owns six strip clubs, a few restaurants, and a bunch a boats. He takes people out on dolphin cruises and shit. Does some deep-sea fishing. He gets pills brought in off the twelve-mile limit. I don’t know why, but it’s easier to slip through down here. Like I said, if it’s about money, he’s interested. I seen him one time buy a cargo hold of bootleg Barbie dolls from China.”
“A true entrepreneur,” I said.
“Yep,” he said. “And a real asshole.”
“Do you know if he had much interest in Blackburn?”
“Blackburn, Mass.?”
No, Blackburn, Oklahoma. “Yeah, back in Mass.”
“Not much,” he said. “Like I said, he’s into money, and there ain’t a lot of money in Blackburn. Probably some drugs. But I really don’t know. I can’t remember.”