Robert B. Parker's Kickback (9780698161214)

by Atkins, Ace

  “All the news that’s fit to print,” she said. “And some of the shit left over for The Star.”

  “How’s the reaction in Blackburn?”

  “Ran a story yesterday with Judge Price’s wife and family,” she said. “They still believe Scali killed him.”

  “He did,” I said. “In a way.”

  “And there are some, although a minority, who believe he’s been framed.”

  “Thick heads.”

  “Have you been to Blackburn?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “People come from generations of millworkers,” she said. “You do what the foreman says and ask no questions.”

  Iris wore a stylish black wrap dress and carried a faux-cheetah purse. I guessed it to be faux, as I was pretty sure it was illegal to kill cheetahs these days. We walked over to a low brick wall and sat until it was time for court to start. We both knew it’d be a long day, and we enjoyed the sunshine and nice breeze off the water. Way out in the harbor, the Feds had shut down the facility. The kids had been sent elsewhere. Parents, lawyers, and advocates wanted every kid tried by Scali to have their records expunged.

  It was very likely to happen.

  “You read where Bobby Talos is saying he’s a victim?”

  “I did.”

  “He might get a wrist slapped.”

  “The law isn’t justice,” I said. “It’s a very imperfect mechanism.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “The law isn’t—”

  Iris held up her hand. We laughed and sat in silence for now, watching the boats out in the harbor. A woman passed us with a big sign that read BAD JUDGES BURN IN HELL. A teenager held up another reading GIVE ME BACK MY LIFE.

  “Mmm,” Iris said.

  “When they break, can I take you to lunch?”

  “You can.”

  “And we can discuss more imperfections of the world?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “I’m here until the show is over.”

  “What if he goes free?”

  “It could happen,” I said. “Both you and I know that.”

  “But not likely.”

  I shrugged. We watched the small sailboats catch a stiff spring breeze and skate across the calm harbor. The whole motion was smooth and effortless. I thought about the boy I’d met out on Fortune Island and I wondered what had become of him. He’d gone back to Blackburn and returned to school. There was talk of a lawsuit.

  “More than a thousand kids,” she said. “And nobody gave a shit.”

  As I nodded, the crowd started to gather and yell. Scali walked in tow with his two lawyers as signs were raised and angry parents and kids pelted him with insults.

  The judge wore a funeral black suit and tie, looking bemused and diminutive behind his purple-tinted glasses. The wind off the harbor knocking his comb-over up off his bald head. One woman screamed at him that he wasn’t a god. An angry teenage girl called him a liar and a cheat. Behind him, the courthouse’s mirrored windows shined in a giant reflection of the calm harbor.

  As he walked inside, Scali was still smiling.

  55

  The night of Scali’s sentencing, I took Susan to dinner at Grill 23.

  It wasn’t a celebration. Although he’d been found guilty of accepting bribes from Massachusetts Child Care, Scali skated on kids for cash. He told the court he never took a nickel to send a child to jail. The kickbacks, he and his attorney argued, were misconstrued finder’s fees. The jury bought it.

  “What a repulsive little man,” Susan said.

  “Are you going to eat that?” I said, pointing to a scallop with my fork.

  “Yes,” she said. “But I’m taking my time. And how can you even eat after that verdict?”

  I shrugged and cut into my medium-rare filet. I reached for my Eagle Rare on the rocks and took a sip.

  “And Bobby Talos?” Susan said.

  “After he’s sentenced, he’ll get to work on his tennis game in minimum security.”

  “Ughh.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” I said. “But I did what I said. I got my client’s son off the island and his records expunged. And I uncovered a nasty cottage industry in Blackburn.”

  “And shut down Fortune Island.”

  “For now,” I said. “I’m sure it’s to reopen under new management.”

  “For-profit prisons,” she said. “Their incentive is not to rehabilitate but rather to create a returning customer.”

  “Therein lies the rub.”

  I forwent dessert, as my target weight had been reached. I was back running on the Charles now that Z had returned from the West Coast. I paid and Susan and I walked out onto Berkeley. I’d parked a block away from my office building.

  It was a lovely Boston night. Trees had leaves again. Tulips were sprouting in planters. We walked hand in hand down the sidewalk.

  As we crossed over Providence, I noticed a car I’d spotted earlier that day. And the same car I’d spotted parked along Marlborough Street the night before. It was a recent-model Chevy Malibu painted an orangey brown. If you plan to tail someone, you should pick a more attractive color. Ugly always stands out.

  It was parked on the corner where Providence runs to Berkeley. Right in front of the Souper Salad. Although I couldn’t see their faces, and I didn’t want them to notice me staring, I saw two men in the front seat.

  “You walk on ahead,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” Susan said.

  “I want to say hello to someone,” I said. “Here are my keys. Go up to my office. If I’m not up in five minutes, call Quirk.”

  “There is a Dumpster in front of your building,” Susan said. “Perhaps I could cower there while you fight the bad guys?”

  “I only want to say hello.”

  “I know how you say hello.”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Two,” Susan said.

  I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

  I strolled back in the direction of the Souper Salad. In all the years it had been next to my building, I’d had neither their soup nor their salad. Maybe you had to have both to make it Souper. Lots of options to consider.

  I knocked on the glass of the Malibu.

  A young guy in a black leather jacket was looking at his cell phone. The guy at the wheel looked nearly asleep. I had startled both of them.

  I knocked on the glass again. The passenger window went down.

  “Yeah,” the young guy said. He looked like a young James Caan without the looks. Or charisma.

  “I’m Spenser.”

  “So what?” the driver said. He had close-set eyes and no chin. His skin was pinkish, and he had the nose of a pig.

  “I’m the guy Jackie DeMarco wanted to scare.”

  “Who?”

  “How can I fight pros at playing stupid?” I said.

  “Hey,” said the younger guy.

  “Fuck off,” said Pig Nose.

  “You guys are even dumber than your replacements,” I said. “Things didn’t go so great for them.”

  Both men shuffled in their seats. The guy behind the wheel broke eye contact and scratched his cheek.

  “You know where I live,” I said. “You know where I work. And now where I eat.”

  “Yeah,” the young guy said. “We know everything.”

  I leaned closer into the window. “Brilliant,” I said. “Just brilliant.”

  “Watch your ass,” the driver said.

  “Yeah,” the young guy said.

  “Go home, get a drink, and for God’s sake take a shower,” I said. “If I hadn’t seen you both, I would’ve smelled you. And tell Jackie I got the message. We’re not friends. He’s angry. Terrific.”

  The driver looked at the younger
guy. The younger guy thumbed his nose and told me to go fuck myself. The driver cranked the car and sped off with a lot of dramatics. C for effort.

  I walked back along Berkeley. I pulled out my phone as I approached the Art Deco doors. Susan stood in shadow under the entrance.

  “Do you ever take direction?” I said.

  “Nice going,” she said. “I bet they ruined a nice set of tires.”

  “Second team,” I said.

  “Because the first is dead?” she said.

  I nodded toward the intersection where I’d left my Explorer. We walked over to it. And I opened her door and then moved around to the driver’s side. I started the car and we drove along Boylston toward the Public Garden and my apartment.

  “They’ll come back for you,” Susan said.

  “Of course.”

  “All in the name of macho bullshit.”

  “The new king must not be slighted.”

  “Is that what he is?” Susan said. “Jackie DeMarco?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said. “My guys, the old guys, like Gino and even Tony Marcus, have gotten soft.”

  “But not you.”

  “Suze, I’ve had worn-out parts replaced and improved the older ones. Did I not mention I’ve achieved my fighting weight?”

  “Better than ever.”

  “Maybe not better,” I said. “But still in the game.”

  Susan placed her hand on my knee as I drove. “I have no complaints on the consistency of quality,” she said. “How about you?”

  “Ah, no,” I said. My voice sounded a bit husky.

  “Shall we have a nightcap at the Four Seasons?”

  “Do you want one?”

  “No.”

  “Do you wish to test my enduring commitment to keeping in fighting shape?”

  “Yes.”

  I passed the Four Seasons, cut between the Public Garden and the Common on Charles, and headed back toward my apartment on Beacon. My SUV was very speedy.

  She patted my thigh with her hand and leaned in to nuzzle my neck. “Good boy.”

  Looking for more?

  Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.

  Discover your next great read!