Next of Kin

by David Hosp

  ‘I—’

  Finn cut him off. ‘You wanna be smart? Listen; don’t talk. Your father hired me because I’m good at what I do. I know the prosecutors and I can work this to get you the best possible deal. But only if you listen to me.’

  ‘What kind of a deal?’ McDougal seemed interested for the first time.

  Finn shrugged. ‘We’ll have to wait and see. There’s a budget crunch and the prisons are overcrowded. Drugs haven’t been a major priority for law enforcement since Nancy Reagan was first lady, and since 9/11 nobody really cares unless there’s some evidence that it’s tied in to the financing of terrorism. Given all that, and the fact that it’s your first bust, I may be able to get you six months in and probation after. That’s if you’re lucky.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ McDougal barked, slamming his beer down on the table. His two friends at the bar tore their eyes away from their cartoon and looked over toward the table. A glare from Kozlowski was sufficient for them to turn away again. ‘I’m not goin’ in.’

  ‘ To jail? Yes, you are,’ Finn said. ‘The only question is for how long. You listen to me, and it’ll be for a lot less time. You don’t listen to me …’ he shrugged.

  ‘For a first bust? I know plenty of guys got busted first time and got nothin’ but probation. Why can’t you get me that?’

  ‘Two reasons. First, you got busted selling crack to an undercover who looked like she was twelve and who you thought was in the eighth grade. That pisses law enforcement types off. Second, because you’re Eamonn McDougal’s kid.’

  ‘Fuck’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You really are stupid, aren’t you? It’s not like the cops and prosecutors don’t know what your father does for a living, and most of them would give their left nut to put him away. Now they’ve got you – his son – jammed up. There’s gonna be a lot of pressure to put the hammer down. Go for the max. That’d be fifteen-to-thirty when they roll all the charges together. It’s gonna take some serious dealing to push through all that bullshit to get them to be reasonable. I can do it, but you’re not gonna walk for free. You’re gonna have to put in some token time. That’s just the reality.’

  McDougal picked up his beer and went to take a sip, but Finn caught his hand and pushed it back down to the table. ‘You want to work with me, you stay clean and listen to me, got it?’ Finn said.

  McDougal let go of his beer and sat back in the booth. ‘I’m not goin’ to jail. You’re supposed to be such a hot shit lawyer, why not take it to trial? That way I walk.’

  ‘Because at trial we lose. I can get a deal because I can talk a good game with the DA’s office, and I’ve done well enough against them that they’ll get nervous. But in the end that’s nothing but bullshit and bluffing. We get to trial, we lose this case. They’ve got the evidence, and there’s no basis for excluding it. You do what I say, it’s the best chance you’ve got to be back out on the street in time to drink legally.’

  ‘This is bullshit.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Finn said. ‘But it’s your bullshit, not mine. I’m just here to try to clean it up. So the real question is: Are you smart or not?’

  McDougal looked at Finn for a long moment. Then he picked his beer up and took a sip. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

  Finn shook his head. ‘Good. You think about it. Looks like your brain cells need the workout anyway.’ He motioned for Kozlowski to slide out of the booth and they both stood up. ‘You want to do this my way, you let me know,’ he said. ‘If not, I wish you all the luck you deserve.’

  Finn and Kozlowski walked the length of the bar toward the door. As they passed McDougal’s friends sitting at the bar, Kozlowski looked at the bartender. ‘You used to get a better class of customer in here, Jimmy. What happened?’

  ‘Economy’s in the crappa,’ the bartender replied in a thick South Boston accent. ‘We gotta take what we can get.’

  Kozlowski leaned in and spoke quietly to the young man with the handkerchief to his forehead. ‘You boys be good in here, got it? If I hear you’ve been causing Jimmy any problems, I’ll find you. Next time you fall down when I’m around, Kleenex won’t stop the bleeding.’ He stepped back and walked over to Finn, who was waiting at the door. ‘Take care, Jimmy.’

  The bartender nodded. ‘Take care, Koz.’

  Finn pushed the door open and the two of them stepped out into the sunlight.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sally Malley sat on the stone wall near the parking lot in the rear of Brighton School, a private enclave in Cambridge. She could feel the other students looking at her as they walked by, could smell their curiosity and distrust. She didn’t care. She didn’t belong there, but she wouldn’t be intimidated. She’d been at the school for only a month and a half, but it had been enough time for her to understand that she was as smart as they were. School, she’d come to realize, was a game, and she was going to learn to play it better than anyone else. She figured she owed that to herself.

  She looked out at the street, scanning for Finn’s car. She hoped he would get there soon. Idle moments like these were the worst. When she was in class, she felt directed – and therefore protected. When she had no focus, she felt exposed.

  She was looking out to her left when she felt a shadow cross her face. She turned her head and looked up at two girls from her class. She knew who they were; everyone knew who they were. They were the popular girls; the girls who, as sophomores, were dating juniors and seniors and claimed privilege as a result. That was fine with Sally. They had no idea what privilege was. Privilege could only be comprehended if you understood deprivation first. Sally understood deprivation; these girls never would.

  ‘You’re the new girl,’ one of them said. Her name was Tyler, and she was precious. Sally said nothing. She craved a cigarette, but she knew she could get kicked out for lighting up. As far as the school was concerned, tobacco was worse than coke or heroin – a policy that illustrated the school’s naiveté. ‘Where do you get your hair cut?’

  ‘I cut it myself,’ Sally said. It was only partially true, but she enjoyed the shock value. She’d gotten it cut at a place in Charlestown before she started school. She had nice hair, she knew. It was jet black, straight and thick. They’d done a decent job with it. When she got back to the apartment and looked in the mirror, though, it seemed too even for her. She’d taken out scissors and cut the bangs diagonally across her forehead. She wouldn’t go so far as to say that it looked better, but it definitely looked more like her.

  The second girl laughed derisively. Her name was Tiffany, and she played a bit part in her own life. She didn’t have the confidence to lead; she was focused on keeping her grip on an identity that depended on those around her. ‘You cut it yourself?’ she asked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not? It’s my hair.’

  ‘I think it’s cool,’ Tyler said. She was being polite; Sally’s guard went up automatically. ‘I heard you’re from Southie. The projects?’

  Sally eyed her. ‘Grew up there. I live in Charlestown now.’

  ‘Charlestown projects?’

  Sally shook her head.

  ‘Still,’ the girl said. ‘Charlestown …’

  ‘What do you want?’ Sally asked.

  The girl hesitated. ‘I’m having a party this weekend,’ she began. ‘I thought maybe you’d like to come.’

  Sally was too smart to fall for it. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re new in school. Hanging out with us would make it a lot easier to fit in. I thought you might like it.’

  It made little sense. ‘Seriously,’ Sally said. ‘Why?’

  Tiffany looked nervous. Tyler just stared at Sally, studying her; trying to figure out whether or not to be honest. ‘We’ve got booze,’ she said at last. ‘We don’t have other supplies, though. The guy who usually helps us out isn’t around. We thought maybe you could.’

  ‘What sort of supplies?’ Sally asked. She already knew, but she was curious to see how Tyler would respond.

&nbs
p; ‘Specifically?’ Tyler asked.

  ‘Specifically.’

  ‘Blow. Maybe some H if it’s good. I don’t want anyone freaking out on bad shit. That’d suck.’

  Sally said nothing. She felt a distant instinct to punch the girl, but knew it wouldn’t go over very well in her new school. Tyler would lie about their exchange, and the teachers and principal would believe her. Besides, to her surprise, Sally didn’t feel real anger toward her. She felt only pity.

  ‘So?’ Tyler asked. ‘Can you help us?’

  Sally shook her head. ‘I don’t do drugs.’

  Tyler wasn’t easily put off. ‘You don’t have to do them. You just have to buy them. I’ll pay you double. Given where you grew up, you must know someone, and I’m guessing you could use the cash. I don’t want to go cruising the streets to make a buy. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Sally said. ‘Can’t help you.’

  ‘Can’t? Or won’t?’ Tyler was clearly angry. She stepped in closer to Sally. ‘Don’t you understand what I’m offering? You want friends here, don’t you? I can help you with that.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I know a lot of people. I have a lot of friends. You help me with this, and my friends will be your friends.’

  Sally frowned. ‘That sounds kind of pathetic, don’t you think?’ She saw Finn’s car pulling up the street and she stood.

  Tyler grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘I can be a great friend,’ she said. ‘But I can be a totally bitchy enemy.’

  Sally leaned in close to Tyler and spoke evenly. ‘I’m new here, and you don’t know me, so I’m not gonna take offense. I don’t do drugs. I don’t buy drugs. As far as you being popular, have you ever considered that’s because you’ve blown half the hockey team?’ Tyler looked shocked. ‘Small school,’ Sally said. ‘Even the new kids hear the gossip. And when it comes to having enemies, you don’t even understand what that means. You want a real enemy, you’re messin’ with the right girl. Where I come from, we don’t do the Brady Bunch you-won’t-get-invited-to-parties kind of vendettas. We keep it real. You think you’re up for that, say the word.’ She looked down at her shoulder. Tyler was still holding on to her. ‘If not,’ Sally said, ‘then take your goddamned hand off me.’

  Tyler dropped her hand without a word. She started to say something, but closed her mouth.

  ‘Thanks,’ Sally said. She looked at Tiffany, wondering what was keeping her on her feet. She looked like she’d already fainted. ‘Nice meeting you. Maybe we can hang out after school sometime. Do each other’s nails.’

  Finn drove his battered MG convertible up the street that led to the school. It didn’t matter how much money he made, he’d never get rid of his car. It was a part of him, like a friend or a dog.

  The school was beautiful – bigger than the city college he’d gone to at nights, and more expensive. It was one of the few things he knew he could give Sally, one of the few things he couldn’t screw up. She’d been with him for less than a year, and he still had trouble thinking of himself as anything like a parent. People who knew him assumed that she’d been foisted on him, that he’d never really had a choice. They were wrong; he wasn’t the sort to be forced into anything. He’d accepted the responsibility of being her guardian willingly. In many ways she reminded him of himself at that age, a lean stray dog left alone to fend for himself. He’d made it out of that life, but he didn’t want to see her go through the same struggles. Even if his nurturing instincts left something to be desired, he figured he’d be better than the streets.

  The Brighton School was his idea of a back-stop. He figured even with his inevitable mistakes, she couldn’t go too far wrong as long as she was at the right school. From his own experience when he was younger, he knew that the city public schools could be dangerous places where drugs and violence were always hovering. He didn’t want that for her. A place like Brighton would keep her sheltered from those influences. It gave him some peace of mind, and helped ease some of the pressure he put on himself.

  As he drove up, he could see her waiting for him on the stone wall, talking to two girls. That was good; he wanted her to make friends. If there was one thing about her that made him worry, it was that she could be prickly.

  She stood up as he pulled to the curb. The two girls watched her climb into the car. ‘Hey,’ he said.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘How was school?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Finn pulled out back into the traffic. ‘I’ve got some work to do at the office,’ he said. ‘That okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got a bunch of homework to do. I can do it there.’

  ‘You’re liking the schoolwork, huh?’ he said. ‘That’s good.’

  She shrugged. ‘You’re payin’ for it. It’s a shitload of money; I’d feel guilty if I wasted it.’ He winced at her language. It was an issue he hadn’t addressed with her yet. ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘the teachers aren’t too bad. They’re clueless about the real world, but they know their shit when it comes to the classes. That’s kinda new for me.’

  ‘What about the kids?’ Finn asked. ‘They okay?’

  ‘They’re assholes.’

  ‘They can’t all be bad,’ Finn said. ‘They’re probably just different.’

  ‘They’re definitely different.’

  ‘Different doesn’t mean bad.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Not always.’

  ‘In some ways, it can be good. You can meet the sort of people that can help you later in life. It can make things easier.’

  He could feel her looking at him. ‘Is that the way you got to be successful? By knowing the right sort of people?’

  ‘Hardly. The right sort of people don’t hang out with people like me.’

  ‘So Lissa and Koz aren’t the right sort of people?’

  ‘That’s different. I’m talking about people with connections. There are a lot of advantages to going to a school like this. Not just academically. It couldn’t hurt to get to know some of the kids; who knows, you might even end up liking them.’

  She looked out the passenger window. ‘I kinda doubt it,’ she said quietly.

  He decided to change the subject. ‘What do you want for dinner?’

  ‘Whatever. Doesn’t matter to me.’

  ‘We could pick up some Chinese on the way back from the office. That sound okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Finn swerved through the Cambridge traffic on the way back into Charlestown. ‘It’s gonna be fine,’ he said to her. ‘Trust me, it’s gonna get better.’

  She pulled her eyes away from the passenger window and looked at him for a moment, then turned back to the window. ‘Trust me, it already has,’ she said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The man with the scar on his forehead waited patiently as the owner of the garage snapped his fingers at the young mechanic finishing the work on the car. His expression concealed his impatience, but the garage owner knew enough to regard him nervously. Little about the manner in which the man presented himself to the world ever altered. He confined his expression to casual indifference. His close-cropped, steel-gray hair was never out of place. His clothes were simple, understated, unwrinkled. He’d reached an age where he viewed any change as the harbinger of decrepitude. He would never allow that. Past his sixth decade, he remained in better physical condition than most men half his age. It was necessary in his line of work.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Coale,’ the garage owner stammered.

  Coale wasn’t his real name. His real name had been lost to the wind decades before. All he had now was a series of identities. None mattered to him. As a name, Coale worked just fine.

  ‘I was sure it would be ready,’ the garage owner apologized again, this time with a weak smile.

  Coale didn’t smile back. ‘Not a problem,’ he said. There was no accent to his voice. He’d fought hard to lose the accent. ‘I’m in no hurry.’

  That was a lie. There was much to do.r />
  Detective Long’s appearance at the dead woman’s apartment presented a challenge. Coale knew from Long’s reputation that he was good. Tenacious. Bright, too. Bright enough to pick Coale out of the crowd. That had been careless. It bothered him; he was never careless.

  Fortunately given the events of the past few months, it was unlikely that those in the police department would take Long seriously. Still, Coale had only survived this long because he refused to underestimate his adversaries. It was why he was the best.

  The garage owner was now motioning frantically to the young mechanic to bring the car around, and as the gleaming wheels flashed off the fluorescent lights, Coale almost allowed himself a smile. The car was his one vanity. He lived simply in all other respects, but he always drove an exceptional car. Not flashy, his profession wouldn’t permit that, but a quiet confirmation of class – elegance, even. His current vehicle was a gleaming black Mercedes S class.

  He supposed it went back to the days of his youth. He’d been raised in sustainable poverty by a father who was a chauffeur to a wealthy Boston Brahmin family. His mother had died giving birth to him – the irony of his first kill – and he and his father had nothing. They lived in a two-room garage apartment, and the only objects of beauty in their lives were the cars. Three of them – two Rolls Royces and a Bentley. Someone else’s cars, though his father had cared for them with a passion he’d passed on to his son. The appreciation for a beautiful automobile was something he and his father had shared.

  The garage owner was pulling the mechanic out of the driver’s seat, taking a chamois to the door handle and the wood finish on the steering wheel. Then he held his arm out, presenting the car to the man as though it were a gift. ‘It’s ready, Mr Coale,’ he said, his voice cracking. Coale smelled fear on the garage owner’s breath.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a polished silver money clip stretched with bills.

  ‘Oh, no,’ the garage owner protested. ‘I can’t. Please. It wasn’t ready on time.’