by Atkins, Ace
“Callahan fly down a lot?”
“Every few weeks,” he said. “Never see them here at the same time. What’s the other one’s name?”
“Scali.”
“He’s kind of a weirdo,” he said.
“Yep, that’s him.”
“Gives me the creeps,” he said. “Those weird purple glasses he wears.” He flung some fish guts onto the deck and a couple seagulls fought over the mess. “He’s always yelling at folks who own the boats. Says they aren’t following the rules. I don’t think he knows one end of a boat from another. All he and his wife do is sleep aboard and get drunk.”
I thanked the man. The man put the cigarette, now smeared with fish blood, back to his mouth and resumed work.
Hawk and I stood at the bow of the judge’s ship. The fighting chair reached up tall into the sky. Nautical flags flapped from stiff wires. The controls were covered in a tarp and, below deck, sealed with a padlock. I didn’t need to get on board anyway.
Hawk crossed his massive arms across his chest. He shook his head and read the boat’s name. “Reel Justice,” he said. “Boston, MA.”
“Poetic,” I said.
“You think that developer in Boston supplementing the judges’ paychecks?”
“I do.”
“And that some way he’s buddies with the DeMarcos?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“How many kids does Scali have to send to Fortune Island to buy a boat that big?”
“A few hundred.”
“So this is all about kids for cash.”
“Sure seems that way,” I said.
“I’d sure like to take those men fishing,” he said. “Use their asses as bait.”
38
We returned to the Vinoy hotel and ate lunch poolside. I had on nothing but a pair of running shorts and my Sox cap. I rarely wore the Sox cap in Boston. Too much competition. But deep down in Florida, in enemy territory, it stood out like a beacon of hope. This time of year, the place was crawling with Yankees fans. I finished off the last quarter of a club sandwich and drank some Yuengling on tap.
“Man could get used to living down here,” Hawk said. A lot of glistening bodies sunbathed by the pool while he worked on a tall Bloody Mary, taking inventory.
“Maybe Scali and Callahan will take you yachting.”
“I don’t think they want me in their club.”
“Bobby Talos has a boat in Boston,” I said. “Keeps it at the Boston Harbor Hotel.”
“We can pay him a visit when we get back.”
“Not if his attorney has anything to do with it,” I said. “Ziggy Swatek just left me a pretty nasty voice mail at my office. He threatened to sue for harassment.”
“We didn’t threaten Talos,” Hawk said. “Not yet.”
“He said I threatened Mr. DeMarco and his business partners.”
“In other words, those crooks.”
“Well,” I said. “Yeah.”
“This the attorney from Tampa?”
“Apparently he has offices in Boston, too.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Ziggy,” I said. “Swatek.”
“You’re making that up.”
I shrugged and drank some more beer. A woman in a skimpy purple bathing suit and very large sunglasses shimmied by. It seemed as if Hawk had lost his train of thought.
I coughed. “As I was saying.”
“Hmm,” Hawk said. “I could get used to this.”
The pool was sprawling, with a man-made waterfall cascading and plenty of space for bodies to laze about on floats. Palm trees swayed. Cables on the marina boats clanked in the warm wind. The sky was big and blue, with fat white clouds only momentarily obscuring the sun. A waiter appeared. I asked for another beer.
“Maybe we should pay ol’ Zig a visit,” he said.
“Confront him with what we know?”
“Why not?”
“He won’t say anything about the DeMarcos.”
“Then again, he may not know we know about the judges taking payoffs from Talos.”
“Technically, we don’t know. But I’d like to see his reaction.”
“Rattle that cage,” Hawk said.
I nodded. “More than we have now.”
Hawk dove off into the pool. Several women watched him as he started to swim laps. His dark skin and muscular shoulders and arms made him seem as if he’d been born to the water. He did four laps across the pool before he was sidetracked by the woman in the purple bathing suit. She rested on a yellow float and turned sideways, keeping a tricky balance, as she moved to speak to Hawk.
Maybe I could bring Susan back here when things slowed down. We could thaw out for a while. Maybe catch a Rays game and the Dalí museum. Susan could shop. I could drink beer and eat blue crabs. It would be lovely.
About the time I finished my second beer, Hawk paddled up to the side of the pool. He rested his sizable arms on the lip of the pool.
“Making friends?” I said.
“And influencing the ladies.”
“I think her bathing suit was influencing you.”
“Both,” he said. “She invited me to dinner.”
“Fast worker.”
Hawk grinned. I watched the pitch and fall of the sailboat masts in the harbor. The hotel stood pink and proud as it had back in Gatsby’s day.
“Don’t suppose we’re down here to frolic in the water,” Hawk said.
“Even in the water, it’s hard to imagine you frolic.”
“Where to?”
“Let’s go see Zig,” I said. “I don’t know anyone else down here. I only know people in Miami.”
Hawk nodded.
“But it could be useful to check in with them,” I said. “Perhaps they might offer an introduction.”
“Epstein?” Hawk said.
I nodded.
“Good to know some honest Feds,” Hawk said. He turned to look over his shoulder. The woman on the float raised a tropical drink in our direction.
“Meet you in the lobby in thirty minutes?” I said.
Hawk remained impassive behind his designer frames. “Babe, that wouldn’t do the lady justice.”
39
Ziggy Swatek’s office was on the seventh floor of a building in Tampa that resembled a beer can.
“Everything looks like a beer can to you,” Hawk said.
“Maybe,” I said. “But this building must have been designed on a very hot day.”
“Hmm,” Hawk said, standing with me on Ashley Street near the Hillsborough River. He looked upward, shielding his eyes and studying the tall, cylindrical shape. “You just may be right, man.”
We rode up together on the elevator. My knee was giving me a little trouble, but I didn’t acknowledge it. I start to complain about the knee, and soon Hawk and I would be trading cholesterol scores.
The Swatek Law Firm took up three office suites and had an interior that looked to have been designed by Marlin Perkins. Photographs of exotic animals lined the walls. The receptionist noted my staring and informed us Mr. Swatek was a world traveler and an animal lover. Hawk leaned in and said, “Reason he work with Jackie DeMarco,” he said.
“Is Mr. Swatek in?” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “He’s not in the office. But his associate Sydney Bennett is in. Would you like to speak with her?”
“Terrific.”
“And your names, please?”
“Spenser and Hawk.”
“Mr. Spenser and Mr. Hawk,” she said, writing it down. “And may I ask your first names?”
“That’s all of it,” I said. “Kind of like Madonna.”
“Or Prince,” Hawk said.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was being racially insensitive.”
/> The woman studied us for a moment, not sure what to say, and picked up the phone. She let the party at the other end know a Mr. Spenser and Mr. Hawk were in the building. She put down the phone and gave an unsteady smile. Behind her was a picture of a cheetah chasing down a gazelle. Or maybe it was a small wildebeest. It was really hard to tell from the angle and all the blood. Another photo showed a herd of galloping giraffes. Hawk stood nearby, staring out the window at the river rolling by. A plaque on the wall noted that Swatek donated money to the Lowry Park Zoo.
After a minute or two, a young woman emerged from a hallway and walked out to the front desk. She was tall and moved with a lot of confidence, as if maybe she’d been an athlete in college. She had the build for it, maybe an inch shorter than me, with broad shoulders and muscular legs showing from a herringbone skirt. Her top was white silk and her shoes a modest black patent leather. She had bobbed brown hair and did not wear a lot of makeup. She offered her hand.
“You work fast, Mr. Spenser,” she said. “We only called you this morning.”
“Oh, well,” I said. “We were in the neighborhood.”
She asked if we wanted water or coffee. I accepted a little coffee and she nodded to the secretary. Hawk didn’t speak.
“This way,” she said. “Please. We’re looking forward to clearing up this matter.”
“We?” I said.
“Mr. Swatek is just back to the office.”
“Ziggy,” Hawk said. “Wow. Man sure moves quick.”
“Well, we weren’t exactly expecting you,” Sydney said. “I figured I’d be the one searching for you in Boston. I run the office there.”
“You don’t say.”
“In Brookline,” she said. “If we don’t settle this matter today, I look forward to seeing you there. I fly back tomorrow.”
“‘When strangers do meet, they should ere long see one another again.’”
“Who said that?”
“Let’s pretend it was Shakespeare and not Cary Grant.”
She didn’t respond as we walked down a long hallway. The walls seemed to be made of tan suede. I looked back to Hawk and he ran his finger along the edge. He tilted his head and shrugged. She opened the door to a conference room and waved us in with an open hand.
At the head of an oval table sat an ugly man with a lot of white hair. He wore an ugly suit and had an ugly look on his face. If he’d been cast in ceramic, one might place him in a garden with a red hat to chase away evil spirits. His skin had an orange glow, contrasting weirdly with the cotton white of his hair. His sport coat was some hue of aqua over an open-collared white shirt. The shoes propped on the desk were pink suede.
“I’m guessing there was no court today,” I said.
“Who said that?”
“Your shoes,” I said. “Your client would be guilty on many levels, Zig.”
He grinned. “When I heard you were giving Mr. DeMarco a headache, I had you checked out, Spenser.”
I looked to Hawk. Hawk nodded with appreciation.
“You’ve pissed a lot of people off,” he said. “Your name is high on a lot of shit lists.”
“Shucks.”
“No, I mean it,” he said. “You make trouble for people wherever you go. You have a history of stirring up things and pissin’ in the punch bowl.”
“Man just can’t help himself,” Hawk said.
“Who the hell are you?” Swatek said.
Hawk took off his shades and tucked them into his shirt pocket. He didn’t change his expression. “Better for you not to know.”
“Whatever,” Swatek said. “Sit down. I got no problem with this. You want to come in and explain why you two come into Mr. DeMarco’s restaurant and start tearing up the place? Or do I need to call someone at Tampa police to come down and make an arrest?”
“Is there a third choice?” I said.
“I believe so,” Hawk said, smiling.
40
I sat down. Hawk sat down. The secretary brought in some coffee in a ceramic cup stamped with the firm’s logo and set it in front of me. She turned and left as Sydney Bennett entered holding an identical mug of coffee and took a seat across from Swatek. Swatek removed his pink suede shoes from the desk and leaned back in his chair, waiting for us to explain his options. He didn’t look very excited.
I sipped some coffee. Hawk pressed his hands together, both index fingers touching his chin. Hawk did most negotiation in silence.
After several moments of all of us staring at one another, Sydney tapped her pen on the legal paper and said, “Two of Mr. DeMarco’s employees were badly injured by your actions. They required medical attention.”
I wanted to high-five Hawk. But I restrained myself.
“Call the police,” I said. “And I’ll call a friend at the Globe. I’m sure he’d be interested to know how the Mob is bankrolling a crooked developer and two crooked judges into selling kids to the prison system.”
“I got no idea what you’re talking about,” Zwatek said. “I represent Mr. DeMarco. Are you saying he’s in the Mob? You want me to file slander charges, too? Jesus.”
Hawk grinned. Sydney Bennett’s face drained of color.
“Let’s cut the crap, Zig,” I said. “Jackie DeMarco has a hell of a rep. His dad had a record that would stretch from Boston to L.A. I don’t really give a rat’s ass whether he’s selling his bootleg TVs from China or heroin from Mexico. I came across him because of a man named Bobby Talos, whom you also represent.”
Ziggy sat up straighter. He fingered his open collar and the little tuft of white hair sprouting from his shirt. He shrugged. “I have lots of clients.”
“He’s a sleazy millionaire developer who’s figured out a scam with two greedy Blackburn judges, who also own a piece of DeMarco’s bar in Ybor City,” I said. “I want the judges. I don’t care about DeMarco.”
“I don’t know anything about Blackburn,” he said. “All I know is you beat two men senseless yesterday at Mr. DeMarco’s bar.”
“You’re wrong,” Hawk said.
Zig looked to Hawk.
“Man got to have sense before he can be robbed of it.”
“Funny,” Zig said. “Hilarious. Sydney, get the police on the phone, tell them I have two men who tried to stick up a restaurant in Ybor City. We got your ass on tape.”
Sydney didn’t move. She was biting her lower lip.
I pulled out my cell phone and twirled in on the conference call. “You still taking the Globe on Sunday, Hawk?”
“Nah, man,” he said. “I prefer The Wall Street Journal. Check up on my investments.”
“Go ahead,” Sydney said. “I specialize in libel.”
Her words didn’t have a lot of starch in them. Hawk cut his eyes toward me and then back at her and Zig.
“Tell DeMarco to stay out of this,” I said. “This has to do with Bobby Talos and his prison out on Fortune Island. He’s been greasing the palms of Joe Scali and Gavin Callahan so long they’ve gotten sloppy. They’re going to bring all of this down, and Jackie is going to be following in the old man’s footsteps making marinara and linguine at Walpole.”
“You’re full of shit,” Swatek said.
“Man did go to law school,” Hawk said. “Impressive vocabulary.”
“This thing is so incestuous it reads like a Greek play,” I said. “How many other shell companies do they have besides the ones fronted by their wives?”
Swatek scratched his cheek. He looked to Sydney, who took a deep breath and turned away, and then back at us. He swallowed and said, “This meeting is over.”
“Hold on,” Sydney said, raising a hand as Ziggy stood. “What do you mean, ‘selling kids’?”
“Scali sentences kids in Blackburn for jaywalking,” I said. “Or if they forget to wash their hands after using the bathroom. Each kid’s incarc
eration is worth about eighty grand a year to the Bobby Talos Hilton.”
Sydney Bennett’s jaw tightened. She pointed the end of a cheap pen my way. “I think you’re crazy.”
“Must be fun taking a ride on the Reel Justice,” Hawk said. “Wind in your hair, champagne in hand.”
“We don’t know anything about judges from Blackburn or Lawrence or Lowell,” Ziggy said. “This meeting is fucking over.”
“What about the cops?” Hawk said.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I wanted to be arrested again.”
Ziggy stood and marched to the door. He opened the conference room wide, back pressed to the wall as we exited. He did not look us in the face or speak as we passed. He straightened his aqua coat and looked away. Back in the conference room, Sydney Bennett had her head in her hands, brown hair dropping over her fingers and face. Her yellow legal pad sat empty in front of her.
Hawk had disappeared around the corner.
I turned back to Ziggy Swatek and said, “Loved you in Lord of the Rings.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” he said.
I made the hand motion for him to call me and followed Hawk to the elevators.
41
I had not spoken to Epstein for some time, not since I’d found out something rotten about his predecessor in Boston last year. The predecessor was supposedly under investigation while Epstein remained in charge of the FBI’s Miami office. I was shocked to learn he loved the Florida weather but hated the crime.
Hawk and I hadn’t even left Tampa by the time he’d called back.
“Epstein?” Hawk said.
Hawk was driving the Expedition. I sat in the passenger seat as we cruised along Bayshore Boulevard, passing mansions, palm trees, and attractive people jogging along the waterfront. We kept the windows down.
“Yep,” I said. “A guy named Jamal Whitehead is meeting us.”
“Jamal?” Hawk said. “This the special brother in charge?”
“Could be a white guy named Jamal.”