Robert B. Parker's Kickback (9780698161214)

by Atkins, Ace

  “There’s something wrong with that guy,” Dillon said. “Something weird in his eyes like he’s taking a leak on himself. He gives me the creeps.”

  The boy nodded. Tony Ponessa had moved from the court, going over to talk to the two black kids shooting hoops. Ponessa stood flat-footed and easily sunk a shot. When the shot clanged through the hoop, he turned to stare at the boy. He wasn’t smiling.

  “I’m supposed to meet with the shrink today.”

  “Have fun,” Dillon said. “That guy is a true weirdo. Dr. Feelgood. I think he’s on drugs the way he talks. He wants you to look at pictures and tell him that you hate your mother and that you want to go and jump in the harbor.”

  “He needs to know I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “None of us are supposed to be here, man,” Dillon said. “The only things that should be living on this island are seagulls and lizards. And Tony Ponessa. That kid’s got serious head issues. Did I tell you he’s into cutting himself?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He likes to steal forks and shit and carve things on his arm,” Dillon said. “Last week, he got some rubber bands and tied up his fingers until they turned black. The guard had to take him out of the line and over to the infirmary.”

  “How come they don’t send him away?” the boy said. “To some kind of mental unit?”

  “He hates himself but doesn’t want to leave,” Dillon said. “I think he wants to freakin’ die out here or something. The guards love him. They bring him pizza and shit from the shore. They feel sorry for him or something.”

  “Somebody will listen to me.”

  Dillon smiled and shook his head. A cold wind shot off the harbor and cut down deep through the open space. “I know my mother has tried,” he said. “But she says it takes money to get people to listen. And we don’t have much since my dad left.”

  “How long until you go home?”

  “Six more months until I get off this place,” Dillon said. “But I’m never going back to Blackburn.”

  “Why?”

  “Because once you’re tagged as a bad kid, the judge won’t ever let you go,” he said. “He’ll find a way to get you back in until you’re eighteen.”

  “I hate that guy’s guts.”

  “I hate everything about him,” Dillon said. “I see him in my sleep with those purple glasses looking at me. He doesn’t care. Nobody listens. That’s just the way things are.”

  “My dad will straighten it out,” the boy said. “I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t steal anything.”

  The wind came up hard off the harbor and quieted the teens for a moment. The boy could make out a long line of black rocks that protected the shore and beach and this whole damn place from floating away.

  21

  I met Bill Barke at the Davio’s on Arlington. He was already at the bar waiting for me, seated at the apex of the glass walls on the first floor. The bar was large and long, and within walking distance of my office. Before I sat down, I knew I’d get a lobster roll and a Harpoon draft.

  Bill was about my age, with a thick head of graying hair and a mustache. He was a former college basketball player and stood a few inches taller than me. He wore glasses and a tailored suit. He was a self-made success who’d gone to a state school in Pennsylvania and had a good eye for solid character. I figured that’s why he liked me. Or perhaps it was that I’d helped him out a few years ago when a couple of thugs were trying to shake down a Boston charity he supported. Either way, we’d become friends. Just this Christmas he’d sent me a fruit basket.

  “So you want to know about Bobby Talos?” He had a firm handshake and a good, knowing smile.

  “Any friend of Bobby’s,” I said.

  “I’m not his friend,” Bill said, smiling. “How do I put this? Talos is a real horse’s ass.”

  “Any other part of the horse?”

  “That part, too,” Bill said. “Especially. He took over the board of a nonprofit I respect and ran it into the ground. He was more about the party than what they supported. In one year, the charity dropped below fifty percent of contributions while expenditures had tripled.”

  “Nice.”

  “How about you?” Barke said. “How’d you cross paths with this son of a bitch?”

  I told him about my client and Dillon Yates without mentioning the boy’s name. Most of Bill’s fund-raising work revolved around children, and he sat on the board of Jumpstart, one of the best. He listened intently as I told him a little about the situation in Blackburn and what I knew about the facility on Fortune Island.

  “Talos built this place?” Barke said. “The island prison?”

  “He didn’t just build it,” I said. “He owns it. Or his company, Minos Inc., does.”

  “Private prisons,” Bill said. “They get our kids if we don’t get to them first.”

  “Besides being a rich creep, what can you tell me?”

  “Let’s order first,” Bill said. “It’s best to discuss creeps on a full stomach. You hungry?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  Bill grinned. He ordered us both lobster rolls with fries and two draft beers. We drank the beer as Bill collected his thoughts. “I can make a few calls, but the overall consensus on Talos is that he does whatever needs to be done to get a project completed. With shopping malls, he has city council members, union bosses, and local thugs on speed dial.”

  “That comes in handy.”

  The lobster roll, even as judged by an advanced palate, was perfect. Emphasis on the lobster, not the mayo. The bread was spot-on.

  “I knew his old man,” Bill said. “He was a creep, too. But he was less flashy about it. Bobby keeps a one-hundred-thirty-foot IAG Electra in a slip at the Boston Harbor Hotel.”

  “That’s a boat?”

  “That’s a yacht,” Bill said. “They’re bigger and nicer than any boat. I went to a party he was having out there a couple years ago. I was trying to make nice, as I thought I could influence Talos into doing the right thing on a few issues. I was at the party all of ten minutes when I saw things I ain’t never seen before.”

  “Momma told you not to come.”

  “You bet,” he said. “Just use your imagination. It was like a big frat party for a bunch of old fat guys.”

  “Did they wear togas?” I said.

  “No,” he said. “Thank God.”

  “Do you know anyone who worked with him but has left the fold?” I said.

  “No,” he said. “But I can ask around. You think he’s paying off this judge?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’ll be tough to prove,” Bill said. “I doubt they’re meeting in the Common exchanging sacks of cash.”

  “You’d be surprised how sloppy people get.”

  I was already half finished with the lobster roll and the beer. I tried to pace myself; I wanted to prolong the experience.

  “How’s the knee?” Bill said.

  “Better,” I said. “How’d you know?”

  “I’ve been working out at the Harbor Health Club,” Bill said. “To hear Cimoli tell it, you’re falling apart.”

  “Ha,” I said. “I’ll be running again in a week. Henry’s just jealous. It’s a height thing.”

  “Nobody gets out of this world without a little maintenance.”

  I shrugged. I finished off the roll and drank the last of the beer.

  “You want another?”

  I shook my head. “Yes, but no.”

  I reached for my wallet and Bill put his hand out. “On me, Spenser,” he said. “It’ll be nice for you to owe me for a change.”

  “So noted.”

  “Let me know what you hear about Talos,” he said. “In a town of some authentic creeps, he’s unique company to keep.”

  22

  When I ret
urned to my office, I found three men waiting for me. They did not seem lost or in need of my sleuthing services. One was sitting in my chair with his feet up on my desk. Another had his back to the wall by my washbasin, and the other sat in a client chair, playing with his gun.

  “You Spenser?” the man in my chair said.

  “Jesus,” I said. “You come in and lean on a guy, at least you could read the lettering on the door. No, I’m Ted Lipshitz, CPA. Spenser is two doors down. But be careful. He doesn’t like illiterate dipshits putting their feet up on his desk.”

  The man stood quick. Thatta boy, Spenser. Hurl the really tough insults.

  He was a large man, as all leg breakers tend to be. He had a lean face and a square jaw. He had shaved his receding hair down to nearly nothing on his head and wore a black leather jacket, as did the other two guys in his crew.

  “Nice jackets. Was Burlington having a sale?” I said. “Two-for-one Naugahyde?’

  “I’ll cut to the chase,” the man said.

  “Goody.”

  I moved behind my desk and pushed in to a few inches of where he sat. He smiled, stood, and stepped back. The snug-fitting coat didn’t do much to conceal the gun he wore on his left side. I sat at the desk, flicking my eyes at the other two. The man with the gun was really more of a kid, with a freckled white face and red hair that only a mother from County Cork could love.

  The man leaning against the washbasin had gray curly hair and wore dark sunglasses. He looked like a guy I may have met once. The man didn’t say anything. I edged forward, inching my hand under the desk, not far from the right-hand drawer.

  “I’ll spell it out to you,” the bald guy said.

  “Let me know if you need help.”

  “Keep on being a wiseass and they’ll be cleaning you up off Berkeley Street with a mop.”

  I nodded. “How about you say it one more time, slower. And squint your eyes. You’ll look tougher if you squint.”

  The redheaded kid with the gun snickered. The bald man told him to shut the fuck up.

  “Youth,” I said.

  “Your services are terminated in Blackburn,” he said.

  “Yikes.”

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Push it. You have no idea the kinda people you’re pissing off.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “I have a pretty good idea of the people I’m pissing off. I have a list. Would you like me to write a note back to Mr. Talos?”

  Baldy looked at me, eyes narrowing. He was learning or just looked confused. Of course, he probably always looked confused. But I don’t think he knew who I was talking about. I didn’t think the guy was good enough to feign ignorance. He was too good at conveying the real thing.

  “Jimmy.”

  The redheaded kid stood holding the gun. The senior gentleman with the gray curly hair pushed himself off the wall. They walked toward my desk.

  “I know you,” I said, snapping my fingers at the old guy. “You were in the Mickey Mouse Club. You, Cubby, and Annette. Wow. Brings back some real memories.”

  “I worked for Joe Broz,” he said. “The man hated your fucking guts.”

  “And now he’s dead,” I said. “Who said there’s no such thing as karma?”

  “He was a good man,” he said. “Open your mouth again and I’ll shoot you in the fucking nuts.”

  “Hold on,” I said, reaching for my yellow legal pad and a pen. I did so with my left hand, using my right to open up the drawer. I awkwardly picked up the pen and reached into the drawer for my .357. “First off, stay out of Blackburn. Second, don’t open my mouth. Is there a third request?”

  “Hey,” the redhead said. “He’s got it.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” the bald man said.

  The boy had a gun but he held it loose by his right leg. The gray-headed thug began to reach into his jacket. I grabbed the Magnum and pointed it dead center of the main guy. I began to whistle a sad rendition of the Mickey Mouse Club song. I let go of the pen with my left hand and began to wave. “See you real soon.”

  The big man with the shaved head swallowed. He stood there and breathed.

  “You know me, Cubby,” I said. “Tell him this isn’t a bluff.”

  “Nope,” the gray-headed man said.

  “Stay out of Blackburn,” Baldy said.

  I kept on whistling. “Why? Because we like you.”

  “This guy is fucking nuts,” the redhead said. “Old dude is nuts.”

  “Drop the gun, kid,” I said. My eyes flicked over each one of them. The kid smiled but soon the smile dropped. He let go of the automatic. It clattered to the floor.

  “Now, all of you walk out the door and go away,” I said. “I’ll need to fumigate the place after you’re gone.”

  The big man spit on my floor and tromped out. The gray-headed man smirked and winked at me before following. The kid stood like a deer in headlights, unsure whether to leave the gun or not. I leveled an unpleasant stare at him, gun in hand, as I heard the men’s heavy footsteps move down the hall.

  He said, “Shit,” and turned and left.

  When I spotted them on Berkeley getting into a large black SUV, I set the .357 on the table. I couldn’t see the tag number and knew I wasn’t fast enough to run down to my car and follow.

  Besides, I knew they’d soon be back.

  23

  Susan and I went for another walk, this time in Cambridge. We had followed Mass Avenue from Linnaean Street, past the park and the Old Burying Grounds. A lot of the snow had melted in select spots, and you could see actual grass among the crooked tombstones. We crossed into Harvard Yard through the stately brick buildings and by the big bronze statue of John Harvard. It was dark, and the classroom and office lights made a checkerboard pattern in the dark.

  Pearl did her business as soon as we walked under the iron gates, seeming to make sure not to desecrate the hallowed ground. We came out on Brattle Street and headed back from whence we came. On the return, I had the inspired idea to order a pizza with mushrooms and peppers.

  I told Susan while we walked about what I’d learned about MCC and Minos Inc., and from Bill Barke. I mentioned a little about my run-in that afternoon with three men. I told her my funniest lines, but she didn’t laugh.

  “They brought guns into your office.”

  “They weren’t the first,” I said. “Won’t be the last.”

  “But they threatened you.”

  “Well,” I said. “Yeah. It’s what guys like that do.”

  “And I’m sure you called the police?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Wouldn’t do any good,” I said. “I don’t know who they are. And I didn’t have much to offer the police.”

  “You could call Quirk.”

  “I use that contact sparingly.”

  “When someone dies.”

  “Always the best time for Quirk.”

  We strolled for a little bit with Pearl. Pearl Two was about ninety-nine percent muscle, and had I decided to hook her up to a sled, we could’ve ridden in style to Susan’s. But I kept her on a tight leash, trying to look dignified in an old sweatsuit and watch cap. Susan had on black leggings and jogging shoes, and a big black puffy coat over a sweatshirt. She wore a slouchy gray hat like nobody’s business.

  “When does Z get back?” she said.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Of course, you could call Hawk.”

  “The idea had crossed my mind,” I said. “But I don’t think a few knuckleheads merit reaching out to Hawk. He might make fun of me.”

  “Is he in town?”

  “Yep.”

  “And when does the situation merit it?”

  “If matters escalate.”

  “What if they escalate without you knowing it?”

&nb
sp; “These guys were semi-pro,” I said. “One of them had been a garbage collector for Joe Broz.”

  “Who do they work for now?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Things aren’t as clear as they used to be. You used to know who was who and what crew they ran with. If you were Italian or Irish or black, that gave you a little idea of the neighborhood. But color, race, ethnicity is of little consequence anymore.”

  “Progress.”

  “Yep,” I said. “The hoods have finally integrated in Boston.”

  “Whoopee,” Susan said.

  “But if it were my guess, I hear there is a shake-up in the city. I think some of the men who shall remain nameless in Providence are setting up more branch offices in the North End.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s the word,” I said. “I heard it from a blind shoeshine man outside a Falafel King downtown.”

  “That’s solid.”

  “You bet.”

  We walked farther up Commonwealth. The sidewalks were clean of ice and snow, and for a moment I realized spring would be here soon.

  “Why would some hoods from the North End be involved with a judge in Blackburn?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “What’s your best guess?”

  “I’ll go with money,” I said. “When in doubt, go with the money.”

  “And how is the boy?”

  “On the island,” I said. “Megan Mullen thinks she can get the ruling overturned. But that’ll take some time.”

  “Could you go out and see him?” she said. “See how he is?”

  “I’d have to rent a boat and break into the facility,” I said. “I tried to have a friendly sit-down with the company CEO, but he was away from the office. I was shuffled off to a happy plump woman who spoke in platitudes. All further calls to the CEO were unreturned.”

  “Has his mother seen him?”

  “No.”

  “Can she speak to him?”

  “They talk once a week,” I said. “Phone calls are limited to fifteen minutes. They’re also monitored.”