by David Hosp
“You okay in there?”
The voice belonged to Devon’s lawyer—her benefactor, for the moment. He seemed like a decent sort, at least on first impression. But she knew that first impressions could be misleading. She’d been around men enough to know to be careful. She was small for her age; that played to her advantage. She dressed in loose T-shirts and baggy pants. Better not to draw attention; attention could be dangerous. In a just and reasonable world, her youth alone would have been sufficient protection from unwanted advances, but she had learned that the world was neither just nor reasonable.
She’d been ten the first time one of her mother’s “boyfriends” tried something. He and her mother had been out for most of the night and her mother had passed out cold upon their return to the apartment. Frustrated, angry, and high, he had come into Sally’s room and stood over her bed. She’d been petrified as she lay there, pretending to be asleep, praying that he would go away. He hadn’t, though. She heard him pulling his clothes off. Shirt first; then pants; finally his underwear. He stood there a few moments longer, staring at her, before he pulled up the blanket and climbed into bed with her. She could smell the booze on his breath and oozing from his pores as he inched toward her. When he put out his hand and pulled her toward him, she hadn’t fought. She rolled over toward him and opened her eyes. His pupils were wide and glassy, and a serpentine smile crept across his face as he looked at her. Then he reached for her again and she closed her eyes and kicked out with all the force she could muster, her shin driving home between his legs.
He screamed and she ran into the bathroom where her mother lay unconscious with her head against the sweating base of the porcelain toilet. She locked the door and curled up beside her mother as the boyfriend, wounded both in body and in ego, beat on the door and screamed curses at them both. The next morning, after Sally told her mother what had happened, the boyfriend was sent away. Her mother cried for days and begged forgiveness from Sally, promising that she’d gotten high for the last time. She was convincing enough that Sally even believed her, giving in to a flicker of hope.
A week later her mother came home, stoned again, with another man. That was when Sally realized fully for the first time that no one would ever really protect her. After that, she learned how to protect herself at all costs, and few people messed with her more than once.
The knock on the door came again. “Everything okay in there?” the lawyer called once more, an edge of concern in the voice.
“Fine,” she responded. She was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants that doubled as pajamas.
“Can I open the door?” he asked.
“It’s your door.”
The door slid open slowly and every muscle in her body went tight, the fight-or-flight response well conditioned. He looked nervous as he stuck his head in the room, keeping his feet in the hallway. He stood there for a moment, leaning awkwardly. “I have a TV,” he finally offered.
“Cutting-edge,” she replied.
“I don’t watch it much, but you’re welcome to watch whatever you want.”
She shook her head. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
He nodded. “Do you have everything you need? You want a glass of water or something?”
She shook her head again.
“Okay. If you need anything, give a shout.” He looked at her again for another moment, as if waiting for a response. Then, clearly realizing that the conversation was over, he pulled his head back and closed the door.
She waited a couple of seconds before she got up and walked quietly over to the door, pushing in the small round button on the knob until she heard the lock engage. It wouldn’t keep him out if he was determined to get in, but it might buy her a little time if necessary.
She walked back over to the bed, shaking the blanket out of its folds and pulling it over her. She didn’t sleep under covers—they made her feel trapped.
She turned off the light and lay back, staring up at the ceiling, running through all her options in her head. It didn’t take long for her to conclude that she didn’t have any.
Chapter Six
Devon Malley lay on the cot in his cell. It had been two decades since he’d spent real time in jail, but the rhythms came back to him quickly. In some ways, they’d never left him. There was a certain comfort to it all. There were few decisions to make in jail. They told you when to get up, when to eat, when to shower, when to shit. If you knew how to protect yourself, it was a simple existence. The trick was keeping your sanity.
Prison was the safest place for him now. He wasn’t one of those saps who couldn’t survive on the outside—he valued his freedom. But the streets held dangers over which he had no control. In jail, he could keep his back to the wall and his mouth shut. That would be enough to keep him alive. In the meantime, he had Finn on the outside, looking into things for him. It would only be a few days, and then he’d know for sure what he was facing. He could handle the jail time until then.
The only thing he missed from the outside was Sally. When her mother had brought her to his apartment over a year ago, Devon nearly panicked. He couldn’t imagine living his lifestyle with a kid hanging around. He’d hated the idea. But after a while, he came to see that she was smart and tough—everything he would have hoped for her to be. He took pride in that; pride in her. Were it not for the fact that he missed her now, jail would be a breeze. Still, he knew he had no choice. It was better for her, too.
As he lay there, the sounds of the jail filled his ears. Those around him rustled in their cages. Some slept soundly, snoring or talking through their dreams. Others were grunting openly as they relieved their sexual frustrations. There was no etiquette about that in jail—men did what they had to do. He didn’t mind. The only sound that haunted him was the crying. There was always one, a first-timer usually, new to the system. Sometimes it was on their first night; other times they managed to hold themselves together until after there was a trial and a verdict—or a plea bargain that sealed the fate just as tightly—and all hope was destroyed. Then the fear and the pain seeped out in low sobs. It made Devon’s skin crawl. The criers would be taught a lesson the next day; the other prisoners would see to that. For now, though, the dismal sound had to be endured.
Devon did everything he could to block it out. He hummed softly to himself, he focused on the ceiling, he thought about the women he’d slept with in the past. Nothing worked. The sobbing cut through everything else. It wasn’t until he lost himself in memory that it disappeared.
Devon got the call in February, in the dead of winter, years before. It was Murphy. “We’ve got a job for you, Devon,” he said.
“What sort of a job?” Devon asked.
“Your sort. Meet me at the Body Shop tomorrow morning at ten.” Devon asked no more questions. Murphy wasn’t the type to be questioned. Devon showed up the next morning fifteen minutes early.
There were four of them in the room, not including himself. Devon had worked for Murphy and Ballick before. They were sitting on chairs against the wall. The third he’d never seen before: a thin man with jet-black hair and dark, angry eyes sitting in front of Murphy’s desk. At the desk on that day was a fit man in his early sixties with silver-white hair pulled back from the crown. He was leaning back in the chair, but had an aggressive energy about him, as if he was coiled and ready to attack.
“Devon, this is Jimmy Bulger,” Murphy said.
It was an unnecessary introduction; everyone knew Bulger. Many knew him better as “Whitey,” though he hated the nickname. It had been given to him as a boy with bright blond hair. Those who valued their lives at all called him Jimmy. Those who valued their lives more called him Mr. Bulger.
Devon nodded. “Mr. Bulger,” he said.
“Vinny tells me you been doin’ good work for him. That right?”
“Vinny doesn’t lie.” It was a stupid thing to say and he was smiling when he said it, which was a mistake. Bulger didn’t like people smiling unless he told them
to.
Bulger’s eyes went dead. He looked as if he was going to put a knife in Devon’s heart. “Wipe that fuckin’ smile off your face or I’ll cut your fuckin’ lips off and stick ’em up your ass,” he said. “I didn’t ask you if Vinny lies; I already know Vinny fuckin’ lies. I know he lies, because I tell him to lie. I asked you if you do good fuckin’ work.”
“Yeah,” Devon said. He tried to sound as if he weren’t scared, but he wasn’t smiling anymore. “Yeah, I do.”
Bulger looked at him for a little while. Then he turned to the man Devon didn’t recognize. “This is a friend from Belfast. The two of you are gonna do a job together. You piss him off, and I’m gonna fuckin’ hear about it. Okay?”
“Yeah,” Devon said. “Okay.”
Bulger looked at the Irish guy. “Okay?”
The man stood up and walked over to Devon, stood right in his face, so their noses were almost touching. Devon was taller, but the man had a crazy look to him—not the manic, uncontrolled crazy that so many in the game had, but a quiet crazy; a dangerous crazy. He was wiry in the way Devon didn’t mess with. “Is he Irish?” the man asked Bulger in a thick accent.
“Born and raised in Southie,” Bulger said. “Makes him more of a fuckin’ mick than you.” Murphy and Ballick laughed at that. Everyone laughed at Bulger’s jokes.
The Irish guy didn’t laugh. He just looked at Devon. Finally he said, “Okay.”
“I expect you to do good work for me,” Bulger said to Devon. “You think you can do that? Keep doin’ good work? ’Cause if not…” Bulger’s voice trailed off.
“I can do good work, Mr. Bulger,” Devon said. “What place we talkin’ about?”
“We’ll come to that, don’t worry,” Bulger said.
“Okay.” Devon looked at the Irish guy, his new partner. “You got a name?”
“No names,” the man replied.
Devon looked at Murphy. “What am I supposed to call him, he doesn’t got a name?”
“Who the fuck cares,” Bulger said. “Call him ‘Irish’ for all it fuckin’ matters.”
Devon looked at the guy. “That work for you?”
The man said nothing.
“Good,” Bulger said. “Irish it is.” Everyone just sat there, saying nothing. “Understand your role in this,” Bulger said after a moment. “Your job is to get Irish here into the place. That’s it, got it?”
“What place?”
“Don’t you get fuckin’ smart with me!” Bulger screamed. For a moment, Devon thought he was dead. Then Bulger cleared his throat and calmed down. “You get this done, and I’ll take care of you. You fuck this up, and I’ll only see you once again. You understand?”
“Yeah, Mr. Bulger, I understand.”
Bulger looked at Devon as if he were something to be scraped off his shoe. Then he gave a carnivorous smile; the kind of a smile that shows more teeth than necessary. “Call me Jimmy,” he said.
Chapter Seven
“Don’t mess with me.”
Those were the first words Lissa Krantz spoke to Sally Malley. Finn brought Sally into the office at seven-thirty the next morning. He, Koz, and Lissa were all early risers, and the office was usually busy for a couple of hours before most lawyers at other firms got to their desks. Lissa was already sitting at her computer when Finn ushered the bleary-eyed girl through the front door.
“I have to drive her to school over in Southie,” Finn said by way of greeting. “I figured Koz and I could head over and talk to Vinny Murphy, as long as I was going in that direction anyway.” He looked down at the girl as though he’d forgotten for a moment that she was still with him. “This is Sally,” he said. “Sally, this is Lissa.”
Lissa nodded.
Sally said nothing, plopped down in one of the uncomfortable chairs against the wall. The tiny firm was thriving financially, but Finn hadn’t yet plowed any of his profits back into the office décor. An architect had drawn up ambitious plans, but Finn hadn’t had time to follow through. The office still consisted of one large open space where both Finn and Lissa had desks. Kozlowski’s office was in the back.
“Koz in?” Finn asked.
“His office,” Lissa responded.
“I’ll be right back.”
Lissa wasn’t sure whether Finn was speaking to her or the girl. In either case, he disappeared into the back without another word. Lissa looked over at Sally. She wore thick black work boots, a black skirt over leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. Nothing about her demeanor or her wardrobe invited interaction. She was looking back at Lissa, scowling slightly. Neither of them said anything for a few moments; they just stared at each other, seeing who would crack first. In the end, it was the girl.
“You’re pretty,” she said to Lissa. “Is that how you got the job, or can you type, too?”
“Don’t mess with me,” Lissa replied.
“You’re tough, then?” Sally asked.
“Only compared to some. And only when pushed.”
The girl said nothing.
“I’m sorry about your father,” Lissa said.
“Why? He’s not dead.”
“I know.”
“So, why are you sorry?”
Lissa considered the girl and the question in equal measure. She liked both, she decided. They both seemed brutally honest—a quality, in Lissa’s experience, that was hard to come by. “I don’t know,” Lissa said. “I guess I was just assuming his arrest might be hard on you. I was trying to offer some sympathy. You can take it if you want. Or not. Up to you.”
“You gonna tell me it’s all gonna be all right now?”
“No.”
“Good. I hate it when people say shit like that.”
“So do I.”
They lapsed into silence again, the girl slouching down deep into the chair, her brow furrowed, looking stymied by Lissa’s refusal to play the traditional establishment role of coddling adult.
“So, what do you do around here?” Sally asked after a moment.
“I’m a lawyer,” Lissa replied. “I work with Finn.”
“Really?” The girl seemed both impressed and skeptical.
“Yeah, really.”
Finn and Kozlowski came in from the back room. Lissa was amused by Sally’s reaction to seeing Kozlowski for the first time. His size was imposing, and while his features hinted at a time when he might have been handsome, the long, deep scar on the side of his face gave him a distinctly menacing appearance.
“Sally, this is Tom Kozlowski,” Finn said.
She sat up a little straighter but didn’t respond, trying to dispel any impression that she was intimidated. Lissa could tell it was an act, though. Kozlowski said nothing.
“Right,” Finn said. “We have to drop you off at school, and then Mr. Kozlowski and I have some business we have to deal with together. My car’s a little small for the three of us, so I figure we can take Koz’s car.”
Lissa could see the girl go a shade paler at the thought of riding with Kozlowski. She stood. “You two have a lot to deal with today. I have a doctor’s appointment later, but other than that I’m not that busy, so why don’t I take Sally to school?” She wasn’t sure who looked more relieved, the men or the girl.
“Really?” Finn said. “That’d be great. I want to get over to the Body Shop as early as possible.”
“No problem,” Lissa said. “You ready?” she asked Sally.
The girl got up and picked up her bag. She walked over to the door and looked back at Lissa. Lissa started toward the door, then turned and walked back to Kozlowski, lifting herself up on her toes and giving him a kiss that lasted longer than necessary. Kozlowski was taken by surprise, but she didn’t care. She turned and walked past Sally, whose mouth was open wide enough to count teeth. “C’mon,” she said. “Let’s go.” With that, Lissa opened the door and walked out, a broad, amused smile breaking over her face as Sally followed her out to the car.
Detective Stone crouched near the spot where Vinny Mur
phy’s body had been found. He stared down at the rough outline traced around what had been left of the man before they poured it into a body bag, rolled it on a stretcher, loaded it into a van, and drove it to the morgue to be deposited in a refrigerated drawer. The autopsy had revealed little that wasn’t apparent from a visual inspection. The injuries that preceded the fatal shot to the head had been inflicted carefully, to maximize pain while keeping Murphy alive and conscious.
It was still an hour before Stone’s shift started at nine o’clock, and he’d already been at the Body Shop for half an hour, considering the entire scene in the glint of the morning. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was there. It was unlikely that the teams of forensic specialists that had been there the day before had missed anything. And yet there he was, squatting by the dark stain that was the last impression Murphy would leave on the world.
It was because he wanted to gain Sanchez’s approval, he recognized. There was no getting around it. He hoped to gain some additional insight he might share with Sanchez at the start of their shift to earn her respect. It was foolish, probably. He was a damned good cop, and if she couldn’t see that already, she would likely not be convinced. They had gone back to the station house the previous day and she had gotten on her computer and tapped away at the keyboard for more than an hour. He’d asked twice what she was researching, but she hadn’t responded. He could see why she lost partners.
He stood up, taking one last look around the garage before walking back out to the parking lot. As he approached his car, a tiny, battered convertible pulled into the driveway, rolling over the line of yellow police tape Stone had left on the ground.
Stone waved his arms and yelled, “You can’t come in here! This is a police investigation scene!” Ultimately it mattered little—the forensics team had swept the entire property for anything that might be helpful to them. They had taken plaster molds of tire tracks and sifted through the dirt of the driveway for anything they could find, like archeologists on a dig, bagging and tagging every cigarette butt and every piece of trash. Nevertheless, Stone had no intention of letting civilians into the crime scene area while the investigation was continued. It would open the door for a defense lawyer to argue that the evidence was tainted if they ever caught the bastards. He waved his arms again as he pulled out his badge and held it up for the driver to see.