by David Hosp
The man took a half-step back, his hand going to the pocket at the front of his apron. “You ain’t on the job no more, from what I hear.”
“True.”
“So, what the fuck are you doin’ here, Kozlowski?”
“Maybe I’m just checking up on you. Maybe this is how I like to spend my days.”
“Maybe you made a mistake. Maybe you ain’t so fuckin’ tough without a badge.”
“Maybe,” Kozlowski said. He took his weight off the side of the building and secured his footing. He had a good idea what was coming.
“Maybe we’ll see,” the man said. He drew his hand out of the apron pocket, and Kozlowski could see the knife. It was long and thin and covered with blood. Then Sullivan lunged.
“Devon’s in a difficult spot,” Finn said.
“Yeah, so?” Ballick replied. “Fuck’s it got to do with me? Fuck’s it got to do with you, for that matter?”
“He’s my client,” Finn said. “I was wondering if there would be anything anyone could tell me that might help him out. Hypothetically speaking.”
“Hypothetically speaking?”
“Yeah.” Finn decided to tread lightly. “I’m not looking for you to say anything that might implicate yourself in any criminal activity. On the other hand, you may be able to give me some information that I could trade on his behalf.”
“What kind of information?”
“Information about who was involved in setting up the robbery at Gilberacci’s. Devon says there was inside involvement—that Johnny Gilberacci helped plan the whole thing.”
“Don’t know shit about it.”
“I understand,” Finn said. “But let’s just say for a minute—again, hypothetically—that Johnny Gilberacci was involved.”
“Okay, let’s say that.”
“If I had some way of confirming it, I’d have something to trade to the DA to cut a deal for Devon. You see what I’m saying?”
“No.”
Finn took a deep breath and regretted it immediately as the stink of fish swarmed his sinuses. “Well, as it stands now, I’ve got nothing to bargain with. If we had some concrete information it would change things.”
Ballick took another sip from the plastic cup. “And you want me to give you something that would help you prove this thing with Johnny Gilberacci?”
“It wouldn’t have to come directly from you. If there’s some way to do it so that I can get something—anything—to give to the DA, or even just to get him curious, there might be something I could do for Devon.” Ballick leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t be here at all, but Devon only talked to Murphy about the job, and he’s dead now.”
“Hypothetically.” Ballick’s stare was cold.
“No,” Finn said slowly. “That’s not a hypothetical. On the other hand, his death could give us an opportunity. Let’s say that you weren’t involved in the robbery, but you were aware that Murphy and Gilberacci were. If you had anything that would tie the two together—without implicating yourself—that would go a long way toward helping Devon.” Ballick didn’t respond. Finn suddenly felt out of his depth. He cleared his throat. “Maybe there’s nothing you can do,” he said. There was still no response. “I just figured that Devon’s one of yours. He’s made a lot of money for people over the years. I thought, maybe, you’d want to help him if you could.”
“You thought wrong. Devon hasn’t been one of mine for years. Plus, a rat’s a rat, no matter whose cheese he’s eatin’. I ain’t no rat.” In the moment of silence that followed, Finn thought the stench of fish might overwhelm him. “You know why I agreed to talk to you?”
“Because I’m Devon’s lawyer?”
Ballick shook his head. “I don’t give a fuck about Devon. Devon’s done. He’s a loser. He’s a punk. Always has been. I don’t owe him shit. Murphy should never have hired him on this Gilberacci’s thing.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then why did you agree to meet with me?”
Ballick coughed, and Finn could hear the rumble deep down in his chest. “I remember you from twenty years ago. You were a punk back then, too. But you were always straight. Word was you’re still straight today. I wanted to see for myself.”
“I appreciate that.”
“You shouldn’t. You fuckin’ disappoint.”
“Sorry.”
“You want me to roll on a guy you think I’m doing business with. You come in here with your ‘hypotheticals’ and expect me to play rat so you can get a deal for your boy. I don’t live in the hypothetical world; I live in the real fuckin’ world. In my world, a man says what he means and gets shivved if he don’t. Devon got himself where he is today, and there ain’t shit I can do to help him. He’s your problem, not mine.”
The lunge would have been effective had Kozlowski not anticipated it. It was aimed straight at his abdomen, which in most circumstances would have maximized the likelihood of catching him. He’d set his feet, though, and he stepped back and swiveled his torso effectively, twisting just out of the knife’s reach.
Once he was sure he hadn’t been cut, Kozlowski knew the fight was over. The lunge had put Sullivan off balance, weight forward, head down. He was an easy target.
Kozlowski grabbed his wrist with his left hand, just below the knife, and pulled it forward, throwing the man even farther off balance. Then he swung his knee up hard into the outstretched arm, hyperextending the elbow. He was hoping to hear the pop of ligaments and cartilage, but he wasn’t that lucky. It was enough, though, that Sullivan gave out a pained scream and dropped the knife.
Kozlowski raised his right fist and brought it down on the back of Sullivan’s neck. So much of the man’s weight was forward that he fell to the ground on his stomach at Kozlowski’s feet. “Didn’t they teach you to fight any better than this in Walpole?” he asked. “You must’ve gotten your ass kicked up there every day, huh?”
“Fuck you!” Sullivan screamed. He scrabbled toward the knife, which had fallen just a few feet away. Kozlowski cut him off, though, and brought his foot down on the man’s wrist with all his weight just as he was reaching for the weapon. Sullivan screamed out in pain. He recovered quickly, though, and rolled onto his side, swinging his free hand at Kozlowski’s crotch.
The blow glanced off Kozlowski’s thigh, missing its mark. It was close enough, though, that Kozlowski decided it was time to end the matter. Still standing on the man’s arm, he reached into his coat and pulled out his gun. As Sullivan struggled on the ground to free himself, Kozlowski leaned down and put the muzzle against his cheek. Sullivan went still instantly.
“Looks like six years went by too fast for you to learn anything, Mikey,” Kozlowski said. “Shame. All that taxpayer money wasted.”
“Just do it, piece of shit!” the man yelled. “You ain’t even a cop piece of shit no more, so do it! Put a bullet in my fuckin’ head an’ you go off to the fuckin’ MCI! Let’s see how you like it on the inside, I’m sure they’ll love your ass in there! You ain’t shit anymore!”
Kozlowski raised the butt of his gun and drove it into the man’s forehead. The man let out a cackle. “Do it! Muthafucka do it!”
Kozlowski put the barrel of the gun back to the man’s cheek and pulled the hammer back.
“What’s your angle on this?”
Ballick had finished drinking from his thermos, and he lit a cigarette. Finn looked around at the ancient newspapers on the floor and the half-rotted wood in the studs on the walls. He wondered how the place hadn’t burned down. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You’re a hot-shit lawyer. You can pick and choose your clients. Devon’s got no fuckin’ money, so what the fuck you care what happens to him?”
“He’s a friend,” Finn said.
“Bullshit. You two weren’t even friends back in the day. I’d bet ten large you haven’t talked to him in a fuckin’ decade. Besides, Devon’s got no friends. So what’s your interest?”
“He’s got a daug
hter. I’m trying to help him out.”
“You fuckin’ his daughter?”
“She’s fourteen.”
“Makes me more curious about your answer.”
Finn shook his head in disgust. “It’s not like that. Her mother split. If Devon goes in, she’s got no one to take care of her.”
“So what? How’s that your fuckin’ problem?” Finn didn’t answer. “Well, fuck,” Ballick continued, “if it’s the daughter you’re worried about, give her my phone number. I’m sure I could find work for her.”
“Doing what?”
Ballick shrugged. “She’d make more if she was a little younger. The hard-core perverts think of thirteen as some sort of a fuckin’ cutoff. Still, if she’s cute and she looks young enough, she could lie. Girl like that under the right circumstances can make a shitload of money.” He smiled and his eyes grew smaller.
“Don’t talk about her like that.”
“Like what? I didn’t make this fucked-up world, I just work here.” Ballick shook his head in mock pity. “Girl like that, that kind of background and fucked-up parents, she don’t end up with me she’ll end up with someone worse. Why not me?” He chuckled.
Finn leaned in toward the table. “Maybe I need to be clearer. Stay away from the girl. If I find out you’ve been anywhere near her, I swear to God…”
“You swear to God what?” Ballick asked. He’d lost his sense of humor. “You threatening me, Counselor?” He opened the desk’s top drawer and pulled out a revolver, put it down on the desk. “Let me explain something to you: I got a lotta shit to worry about in my life. You ain’t any part of it. You got that? You wanna come in here and tell me what to do? You wanna threaten me? Maybe I should be clearer. I ever see you again and you won’t have to worry about Devon’s kid anymore, ’cause I’ll put a bullet in your fuckin’ brain. That clear enough? You ain’t a part of this world anymore; don’t go playin’ like you are.”
“Stay away from her. I’m serious.”
Ballick stood. “No, I’m fuckin’ serious.” He picked up the gun and pointed it at Finn. “This conversation’s over.”
Kozlowski’s finger trembled, tightening on the trigger. “Get the fuck up.”
Sullivan got to his feet. Kozlowski twisted his arm and faced him toward the side of the building. “Hands on the wall,” Kozlowski said. “You’ve done this before, spread ’em.”
Sullivan assumed the familiar pose, leaning forward on the building. “What the fuck you gonna do? Arrest me?”
Kozlowski kicked at the man’s feet. “Farther apart, asshole.” He stuck the barrel of the gun into the man’s back and bent over as he used his free hand to frisk him. His hand slid over the blood and fish guts that covered the apron.
“You can’t arrest me,” the man taunted. “You’re not a fuckin’ cop no more.”
Kozlowski straightened up and put the gun at the base of the man’s skull. “Who said anything about arresting you, Mikey? You been in twice already. Consider this my own version of the three-strikes rule.” He pushed the gun harder into the man’s head, until his face was rubbing against the building’s raw wood siding.
“You can’t fuckin’ kill me!” the man yelled.
“No? Why not?”
The door banged open and Finn stepped out. Ballick followed him, holding a gun. He looked at Kozlowski. “You see what I mean?” he said to Finn. “Once a cop, always a fuckin’ cop.” He raised his gun and pointed it toward the back of Finn’s head. “Okay, if you’re the cowboy, I guess that makes me the fuckin’ Indian. You wanna play?”
“It’s not my fault,” Mikey pleaded with Ballick.
“Shut up, you worthless piece of shit. What do you think, cop? Should we waste ’em both?”
Kozlowski uncocked his gun and lowered it. Ballick did the same.
“Too bad,” Ballick said. “For a second we both had a chance to do some fuckin’ good here today.”
Kozlowski grabbed Mikey by the back of his shirt and pulled him off the building, then shoved him toward Ballick. “Maybe next time.”
Ballick looked at Mikey. “Thanks for keepin’ an eye on this guy.”
“I’m sorry, Eddie.” Mikey barely got the words out before Ballick whipped the gun around, catching him in the face with the butt. He went down instantly.
“I said shut the fuck up.”
“Let’s go,” Kozlowski said to Finn.
Finn nodded and the two of them started walking toward their car. “Hey lawyer-man!” Ballick called out. Finn turned. “You should get to know your fuckin’ client a little better. He’s playin’ you. Swear to God, he’s playin’ you better than I’m gonna play his little girl when she shows up on my doorstep lookin’ for food.”
Kozlowski looked back and forth between the two men.
“You’re not part of the game no more!” Ballick yelled. “You remember that!”
Finn and Kozlowski got into Finn’s car and Finn pulled out.
Kozlowski looked at him. “So, how’d it go?”
Chapter Twelve
The guard’s voice echoed off the walls of the central area at the jail. “Devon Malley! Phone call!”
Devon knew it had to be Finn. Phone calls only came in to inmates if there was an emergency, or if it was a lawyer. Other than that, calls had to be placed by the inmates themselves during specified times. He headed to the long, narrow corridor off one side of the cell block. A guard was there to open the door for him. “Number three,” he said. Along the wall of the corridor were several phones spaced evenly apart. Devon went to the third one in the line and picked up the handset. “Finn?” he said.
“Yeah,” Finn replied.
“Did you see him?” Devon held his breath waiting for the answer.
“I got nothing,” Finn replied.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it was a waste of time. There’s nothing we’re gonna get from Ballick.”
“Why not? Did you see him?”
“Yeah, I saw him,” Finn said. “He wouldn’t give us anything even if he had something to give.”
“But you saw him? You spoke to him?”
“Yeah.”
“In person?”
“Yeah. What the fuck does it matter? Weren’t you listening? He’s not gonna help us. He wouldn’t give up Gilberacci even if he could. What the fuck is going on?”
“Nothing,” Devon said, smiling to himself. “He say anything else?”
“Yeah, he said that you don’t do any work for him anymore. He told me you’re playing me. You wanna tell me what that’s all about?”
“That’s nothing. Eddie’s always been a hard case, you know that.”
“Yeah, I know,” Finn said. “That wasn’t it, though. There was something else. I need you to be straight with me, Devon, if you want me to keep representing you.”
“You worry too much, Finn. You’ve got to trust me a little more; everything’s gonna be okay. The arraignment’s tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. You get me out, and I’ll get you the money I owe you.”
“I’m not worried about the money,” Finn said.
“Yeah, right. A lawyer not worried about money. Who the fuck you think you’re dealing with, Finn?”
“I saw your apartment when I picked Sally up,” Finn said. “I know you can’t pay me. Not if that’s the shithole you’ve been living in.”
“Don’t ever judge a book by its fuckin’ cover, Finn. I just need you to get me out on bail. I’ll take care of everything else.”
Devon heard Finn sigh on the other end of the line. “We’re in pretty good shape as far as the hearing goes. I’ll get there a little early and we can talk through any questions you have. The most important thing will be for you to keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.”
Devon laughed again. “Right. You’re the boss.”
“I’m serious about that, Devon. Judges don’t like to hear from smartass defendants. Nothing pisses
them off faster,” Finn said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be good,” Devon replied. “And I swear to God, I’ll get you your money when all this is done.”
“Whatever.”
“How’s Sally?”
“She’s fine. She’s fourteen.”
“Yeah, I know. Fucked up as it sounds, though, she’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Will you give her a message?”
“Sure.”
“Tell her I’m getting out tomorrow. Tell her everything’s gonna be fine. Tell her to trust me.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s heard that before,” Finn said.
“She has,” Devon admitted. “This time it’s true, though.” He hung up.
As he walked back to his cell, he took his first deep breath of the day. Ever since he’d heard about Murphy’s murder, his chest had felt constricted. Now he had real hope. Perhaps the past would remain in the past after all.
Devon would have waited a little longer. The St. Patrick’s Day fete in the building next door was winding down, and in a matter of a half hour the risk of being seen would have gone down dramatically. Being seen wasn’t necessarily fatal to the job—undoubtedly the four young men who had passed by them on the street had seen them—but it increased the risk of something going wrong. The Irishman was not going to be restrained anymore, though, so Devon got out of the car.
It was unseasonably warm. It had been down in the thirties the night before, but by midday it was well into the sixties, and by the time the sun went down the temperature had passed seventy degrees. Devon had spent some of the day walking the city, trying to clear his head before the job. Drunk girls were walking around in loose T-shirts, and the bars opened their windows to let the people breathe. The city was so packed you could hardly move on the streets, and the heat brought out the best and the worst in everyone. St. Patrick’s Day was like that in Southie. It was like Christmas and New Year’s all rolled into one with a keg of green beer to top it off. Devon never liked it. It was amateur hour out at the bars, with every rich prick from the colleges or the suburbs with an Irish grandmother or maid walking around screaming “Kiss me, I’m Irish,” like they had any real fucking idea what it meant to be Irish.