Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Kickback"
Автор книги: Ace Atkins
Жанры:
Криминальные детективы
,сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
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 incarceration 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.”
“How many white guys you ever met named Jamal?”
“A lot of them on Cape Cod,” I said. “Very preppy.”
“Haw.”
We killed the next three hours cruising around Tampa and the bayfront, ate Cuban sandwiches at a place called Brocato’s, and Hawk bought a box of cigars at a place called King Corona. He was smoking a Partagas Black when Special Agent Jamal Whitehead walked out onto the open deck of Jackson’s on Harbor Island. Hawk had also finished off a half bottle of Moët & Chandon Imperial while I had just started my second Yuengling.
We shook hands all around and introduced ourselves. Whitehead was a few years younger than us, a medium-sized guy with a strong handshake and a good smile. He wore a gray suit with blue ticking stripes, a light blue shirt, and a navy tie. As with most Feds, his lace-up dress shoes gleamed. When he sat down, Whitehead let out a lot of air, all but saying it had been a hell of a day.
“Epstein says if you two are here, I better watch my ass.”
“He’s such a sweet guy,” I said.
Hawk blew out some smoke and reached over to pour some more champagne. “Maybe we just on vacation.”
“Epstein says you two don’t take vacations,” he said. “He said something about you checking into the DeMarco family interests?”
I shrugged and offered my empty palms. Guilty as charged. I asked Whitehead if he’d like a drink, but he declined. He said he had to get home and let his dog out.
“What kind of dog?” I said.
“Would you believe a Yorkie?”
Hawk raised his eyebrows. I shook my head. “Secret’s safe with us.”
“I will take one of those sticks,” he said to Hawk. “If you have another.”
Hawk produced another cigar from inside his coat pocket and handed it over to Whitehead. Whitehead stood for a moment, removed his suit coat, loosened his tie, and undid his top button. He had his own punch built into his lighter. Soon I felt like I was seated at the table of Cuban revolutionaries.
“So you know the DeMarcos?” I said.
“We’re not on a first-name basis,” he said, cigar in his teeth. “But I know them and they know me. ’Specially Jackie.”
“He’s active down here?” I said.
Whitehead looked to Hawk and then to me. He gave a slow, delicate nod. From where we sat we had a nice view of the sunset where the river and channel met. A few boats puttered past the wide brick patio. The downtown reflected the sun’s orange glow in mirrored glass.
“What got you into the DeMarcos?” he said.
There were other tables near us. But no one who looked connected with organized crime. Most looked like business professionals who’d walked over from the convention center. Some wore nametags.
“We ran into the DeMarcos,” I said. “I was looking into a corrupt judge out of Blackburn, Mass. He sentenced the son of my client to nearly a year in juvie.”
“What’d the kid do?”
“Set up a Twitter account for his vice principal,” I said. “Announced the guy had gotten his dick trapped in a VCR.”
Whitehead laughed loud. Hawk laughed, too, although he’d already heard the story.
“What’s the judge’s name?” Whitehead said.
“Joe Scali.”
Whitehead puffed on his cigar as he thought. I probably would have seemed more thoughtful with a smoke in my hand, too. Somehow a cold bottle of beer did not produce the same effect. He nodded a bit to himself. “Epstein said I can trust you.”
“What about me?” Hawk said.
“Epstein wasn’t so sure,” Whitehead said. “Said it depends on the company you keep.”
Hawk sipped his champagne. “Fair enough.”
“But since he’s in such excellent company,” I said, “perhaps you might lead us in the right direction.”
“I don’t know Scali,” he said. “But I do know of a judge from Massachusetts named Gavin Callahan.”
“Bingo,” I said.
Whitehead stared at me.
“Sorry. Sometimes I’m judicious about using the term.”
The federal man checked his watch and then looked back to us, enjoying the fine weather, the sunset, the smoke.
“Why Callahan?” I said.
“He and the DeMarcos are in cahoots,” Whitehead said. “You must know that since you tossed a few of their people around in Ybor City.”
“You saw that?”
“Some of our people did.”
“You wouldn’t have special agents in bikinis,” I said. “Serving hot wings.”
Whitehead grinned and removed the cigar from his lips. He just smiled and shrugged a bit. A soft breeze passed over us. The sun was going fast; boaters were coming from the bay and back into the channel. “Callahan and the DeMarcos are old family friends,” Whitehead said. “Callahan was friendly with the old man, and apparently that extends to the new generation in Boston.”
“Classic,” Hawk said.
“Kind of missed those guys,” I said.
“Yeah, that guy Broz kind of shut down the old Mob,” he said. “But the new ones, the younger ones, might even be worse. I used to work out of the New Orleans field office and got to know the old guard down there. This may not make a lot of sense, but some of them had a code about them. Does that make any sense?”
I nodded. Hawk didn’t speak or make a gesture.
“These new guys,” Whitehead said. “They have to be tougher and meaner, worse than the Asians or the Mexicans. You get soft with the Mexicans and you’ll end up with your heart on a plate of enchiladas.”
“Ouch.”
Hawk finished off the champagne and plunged the empty bottle into an ice bucket. The sunset reflected off his sunglasses.
“Besides being in cahoots,” I said.
Whitehead shrugged. “They operate some seemingly legitimate businesses together,” he said. “If you believe it’s ethical to have a judge into strip clubs and bars.”
“But of course.”
“We’re pretty sure he’s on the take,” Whitehead said. “Besides the businesses we know about, Callahan receives huge payments for renting out his condo through a local attorney.”
“That wouldn’t happen to be Ziggy Swatek, Esquire.”
Whitehead nodded, puffing on the cigar.
“Is this the condo that hasn’t been built yet?” I said.
“Say,” Whitehead said, grinning. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”
“What if I were to tell you that I don’t think that money is coming from the DeMarcos but through one of Zig’s other clients,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to be interested in some major money laundering, racketeering, and bribes? All across several state lines.”
“That would definitely up the ante,” Whitehead said. “Fill up more pages on the indictment.”
“We should probably keep in touch,” I said. “I’m not sure how the DeMarcos fit into the scheme. But we’re pretty sure about a guy named Talos sending kickbacks through Zig’s office.”
Whitehead nodded, leaned forward, and ashed his cigar. In a low voice over the table, he said, “I might know someone who can help us make that connection.”
I nodded.
“A contract killer who worked a bit with Jackie,” he said. “He’s sort of a nutjob trying to work out a plea deal. Not the kind of guy we want on the stand. But some of what he tells us deals with work he did in Boston. Interested?”
I looked to Hawk and nodded. “All ears.”
“Okay,” Whitehead said. “He’s at Coleman. That’s not far from Orlando. I can set you up for tomorrow.”
We all shook hands and he left just as the sun disappeared behind us. I ordered another beer to clear my mind. “Champagne?”
“You buying?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not? Neither of us is getting paid.”
There wasn’t much to Fortune Island. It wasn’t that big, really only large enough to hold the three pod buildings, a cafeteria, and administrative offices. There was the West Shore with the beach, a couple acres of newly planted trees to the south, and a few mounds that the kids called the hills to the east. The hills had really just been trash mounds when the island was used as a landfill. Now it sprouted brown grass over the shit they shipped out of Boston. Someone had staked signs along the peaks saying it was now a natural habitat. Mainly the little mounds served as buffers from the wind. No one liked the wind out on the island.
The winter sun had set early. The boy sat with Dillon Yates on a bench watching a pickup game of basketball. They had already eaten dinner. This was supposed to be their rec period under the blaze of some hot lights set in the middle of the pods.
“Robocop make you swim today?” Dillon said.
The boy shook his head.
“I wondered where you were,” Dillon said. “They cut you from our beach crew.”
“I got to unload shit from the boats,” he said. “I did that all day.”
“He mess with you?”
The boy nodded. He didn’t want to tell Dillon, or anyone else, about the things said and implied by Robocop. The man had some serious mental-health issues.
“Don’t ever be alone with him,” Dillon said. “I told you when you got here.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“I think he messed with Tony Ponessa just like that,” Dillon said. “When Tony first got here. Now he is, or was, his favorite son.”
“I don’t speak to him.”
“Don’t let him touch you.”
“It’s not like that.”
The wind blew hard across the harbor and through the three block buildings and up and over the hills into the Atlantic. The boy pushed his hands deep into his pockets, feeling a little food he’d taken from the cafeteria. He wasn’t supposed to take extra food, but he needed it. The fever had drained a lot of energy from him and made him weak.
“Everyone is talking about you,” Dillon said. “They think you’re the new Tony Ponessa.”
“What happened to the old Tony?”
“They got him cleaning shit off the south part of the shore,” Dillon said. “Or that’s what I heard anyway. People aren’t afraid of him anymore. They know he’s no longer top dog for Robocop.”
“What’s wrong with that guy, anyway?”
Dillon turned to look at the boy. He shrugged. “What’s wrong with all these people?” he said. “They all know it’s wrong. They just want to punch the clock and leave this place. You see the look on their faces? All the guards and the people who serve that shitty food? They look like freakin’ zombies. No one will look you in the eye. You notice that? They can’t stand what they’re doing.”
“I’ve gone long past caring.”
“You don’t talk like that,” Dillon said. “You talk like that and they own you.”
“What do you know?”
“I know I’m getting out of here.”
“Same as you came?”
The wind came up hard again and Dillon pulled his jacket up higher onto his neck. He wore a knit winter hat that read MCC. Both boys had on a pair of cheap work boots made in China. Dillon spit on the ground. “I’m freakin’ gone.”
“When?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” he said. “I don’t know. They pulled me aside today.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I don’t know,” Dillon said. “Not something you want to brag about.”
“Are you shitting me?” he said. “I’d be jumping up and down if they said I could go. Shit, I’d swim across the freakin’ bay to the aquarium and walk naked out onto Atlantic Avenue. Good for you.”
“My mom,” Dillon said. “My mom did it.”
“Good for you,” the boy said. His voice sounded weak.
“I’ll try and help.”
The boy watched the kids in heavy winter clothes playing a rough game. There were a lot of elbows and head butts before the ball would zing into the goal. The ball ricocheted off the backboard with a heavy, dull thud. The work boots on the concrete pounded loud and hard.
“Just don’t come back,” the boy said. “Promise me that. Don’t ever come back.”
Dillon looked to the boy. He nodded.
“Maybe I can help.”
“Nah,” the boy said. “I’ll see it out.”
“My mom, she’s smart,” Dillon said. “If she can do it for me, she can do it for you.”
“All this is fucked up,” the boy said. “I’ll look you up when I get back.”
“I’ll be gone.”
The boy smiled. Dillon offered an open hand and they shook as the guards called for final lineup before heading back to the pod.
