Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Kickback"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

42

Whitehead arranged for me to meet a convict by the name of Ray-Ray Barboza at nine the next morning. The Coleman state pen was about an hour and a half from St. Pete, and I left early, driving north on I-75 with a cup of weak coffee and a cold bagel. Hawk was meeting the woman in the purple bathing suit for a leisurely brunch at the Vinoy. He mentioned omelets and fresh-squeezed juice.

I had the feeling, but no proof, they’d had dessert the night before.

The prison, like all maximum-security prisons, was a maze of many checkpoints. I checked in at the front gate, the front office, and through a few more posts before a guard ushered me to a meeting room. The room looked the same as they did in the movies, cinder-block walls, Plexiglas barriers, and an old-fashioned handset to communicate with the prisoner.

I left my gun locked in the rental. I came armed with only a smile and my winning personality.

I took a seat. In a couple minutes, a very unattractive middle-aged man sat across from me. He had longish, unruly black hair pulled into a ponytail, jug ears, and a busted nose. There was a big bruise on his forehead and scratches across his cheeks. Under his split lips, he kept the tiniest tuft of hair, which he stroked several times. When he looked directly at me, through the Plexi, I noticed he had both a brown eye and a black eye, giving him an almost canine appearance. I was relieved this wasn’t my first experience with speed dating.

I picked up the phone.

He did the same.

I told him Jamal Whitehead had sent me to him.

He shrugged and picked his nose. We were off to a famous start.

“I understand you used to work with Jackie DeMarco?” He met my eyes again. The two colors gave me a slight case of the creeps. He nodded. I continued. “And I heard you’re from Boston?”

“Revere,” he said. “I grew up in Revere.”

If he hadn’t said it, I might have guessed it by the accent. “You miss Kelly’s?”

He smiled, the effort of the broken lips seeming to hurt a little. “I’d freakin’ kill for one of those sandwiches about now,” Ray-Ray said.

I smiled back at the assassin. I couldn’t help myself.

“Maybe that’s a bad choice of words,” he said. Ray-Ray was no longer smiling, and sat stoop-shouldered and watching me from under a pair of bushy eyebrows.

I shrugged. “But you were down here doing some work for up there.”

He shrugged. Maybe we didn’t need the phone. Maybe we could communicate in a series of shrugs and nods, maybe a shake of the head. I could even tap out the Morse code I’d learned in the Army on the glass.

“Jackie set you up?” I said, already knowing the answer.

He nodded. “Flushed me down the freakin’ toilet.”

“Ever hear of him working with a guy named Gavin Callahan?” I said.

He shook his head.

“Joe Scali?” I said into the mouthpiece.

He again shook his head. I nodded. “How about a rich guy named Bobby Talos?” I said. “He’s a developer back home.”

I thought the back home was a particularly good touch to build a rapport. After Kelly’s, I planned to talk to him about how much the Sox were going to suck this year. Maybe tell him about the new indigo line on the T. A hundred years from now, it should be running smooth and on time. Someone could push his wheelchair up onto the platform.

“I don’t know those guys,” he said. “Sorry. What’s this about anyway?”

“Your old pal Jackie,” I said. “And two corrupt judges.”

He nodded. “Is there any other kind?”

“I thought you pled out,” I said. “To get out of . . . you know.”

“The death penalty?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That.”

Ray-Ray nodded in agreement. “I only did those two of the four they say,” he said. “But I was just the instrument, man. I wasn’t calling the shots.”

“And DeMarco is walking free.”

“Never so much as a Christmas card or a ‘Hey, how you doing?’ You know? He washed me off like I was shit on his Guccis.”

“Self-preservation,” I said.

“That’s why I agreed to help the Feds,” he said. “They don’t think I’ll be good on the stand because of things I done. And some lies I may have told. But they can make my life easier inside. If it puts the screws to Jackie down here? That works.”

I nodded. “What kind of stuff are they into down here?” I said.

“Making money,” he said. “Jackie owns six strip clubs, a few restaurants, and a bunch a boats. He takes people out on dolphin cruises and shit. Does some deep-sea fishing. He gets pills brought in off the twelve-mile limit. I don’t know why, but it’s easier to slip through down here. Like I said, if it’s about money, he’s interested. I seen him one time buy a cargo hold of bootleg Barbie dolls from China.”

“A true entrepreneur,” I said.

“Yep,” he said. “And a real asshole.”

“Do you know if he had much interest in Blackburn?”

“Blackburn, Mass.?”

No, Blackburn, Oklahoma. “Yeah, back in Mass.”

“Not much,” he said. “Like I said, he’s into money, and there ain’t a lot of money in Blackburn. Probably some drugs. But I really don’t know. I can’t remember.”

I nodded.

“There was this one thing in Blackburn,” he said. “One time. But I didn’t kill him. Okay? I saw it and this is the way it happened. But no, I didn’t kill the old guy. I was just supposed to scare him and this freakin’ guy just keeled over after I popped him a few times. I thought he was crapping his pants or something, but he grabbed his arm and said he was having a heart attack. I didn’t know what to do. So I got the hell out of there. I read the guy had really died.”

“Jim Price,” I said. “He was a judge.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. How the hell did you know about that? I hadn’t told no one about that. They’d try and pin that on me, too.”

“I used to rent an office of a clairvoyant,” I said. “Must be osmosis.”

“What’s that?”

“It means I picked up her talent.” Ray-Ray Barboza stared at me with amazement and awe. I think he believed I might just pull a Playboy Bunny from my Red Sox cap. “How many did you kill for DeMarco?”

He shook his head. “Whitehead knows,” he said. “But that’s between me and him. I was told to help you. Not tell my life story.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Ever hear anything about DeMarco making money by building prisons?”

“That’s a laugh,” he said. “Why would Jackie build a prison?”

“For kids.”

He shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “I don’t believe that.”

“Did Jackie say why he wanted to scare Judge Price?”

“I figured it was a favor to someone,” Ray-Ray said. “He didn’t seem to know a lot about the guy. He just told me to screw with him a little. Gave me an address and said go slap him around until he shut his mouth.”

“And it worked,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes you get lucky.”

I folded my arms across my chest. Ray-Ray turned his head behind him to check the time. He shuffled a little in his chair. I wondered what kind of omelet Hawk had at brunch. I wondered if it was poolside or bedside. I checked my watch and nodded to Ray-Ray.

“And you worked with Ziggy?”

“The freakin’ Jew lawyer?” Ray-Ray said. “That piece of shit. He’d sell out his own mother for Jackie. But Jackie never trusted him.”

I shifted in my seat, crossed my left foot over my right knee. I wiggled my foot a little and waited. “How do you know?”

“’Cause he talked to me about it,” Ray-Ray said. “He had a plan in place for Ziggy before I got popped.”

I leaned toward the glass. I smiled. “I have time, Ray-Ray. How about you?”

43

Did you get what you need?” Hawk said.

“Did you?”

“And then some, babe,” Hawk said. “And then some.”

“Oh, hell,” I said. “I’m more interested in your breakfast. But you missed a real class character today. He had two different-color eyes.”

“A damn shame.”

“And a mullet,” I said. “Of course, I think it was a mullet. He had it pulled into a ponytail.”

“Classy.”

We were at the poolside bar at the Vinoy, enjoying some poolside beverages. I broke the beer streak for a margarita in honor of Susan. Hawk drank ice water with lemon. A nice breeze lifted off the water, shaking the leaves of the palms and sprawling banyan trees. Many sailboats had left their moorings for some sport out in the bay. A lot of dazzling colors and activity out in the big empty sea.

“What’d that convict say?”

“He told me he’d kill for a roast beef sandwich from Kelly’s in Revere.”

“Man works for cheap,” Hawk said.

“Indeed,” I said. “He also told me he’d put the screws to a judge named Jim Price before being thrown in the clink. Jackie DeMarco had sent this guy to Blackburn to scare him to death. And the good judge ended up having a heart attack.”

“Your judge?”

“My dead judge,” I said. “The one wishing reform for the kids.”

“You really believe he died of fright?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m surprised you hadn’t heard of him. Ray-Ray Barboza.”

“Ain’t no union for what we do, man.”

I nodded. I left it at that. I never liked to know more about Hawk’s work than necessary.

“Ray-Ray told me that he’d taken the fall for a couple jobs DeMarco pulled himself,” I said. “And two that DeMarco ordered.”

Hawk nodded. In the center of the pool, the woman he’d met yesterday lay chest-down on a float. Her bikini top had been untied, but I noted she now wore red bottoms. Her back was very tan and she had one long arm trailing along in the water. She wore enormous sunglasses and I couldn’t tell if she was awake. Suddenly a hand shot up and she waved to Hawk.

Hawk waved back. In truth it was more of a salute.

“Before I left Coleman, Ray-Ray confided his last job concerned our pal Ziggy Swatek.”

“On,” Hawk said. “Or for?”

“DeMarco thought Ziggy’s associate, Sydney, might have turned. Apparently Sydney had raised an army of red flags about what they were doing for the DeMarcos. Zig told her to take a walk. But she stayed. DeMarco thought she might have been working for the Feds.”

“Is she?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Might be worth mentioning to Agent Whitehead.”

“C’mon, man,” Hawk said. “You can call him Jamal. It’s cool.”

“I’d like to run it past Jamal and I’d like to run it past Sydney.”

Hawk took a sip of his ice water. The ice rattled just a bit in his glass. The woman in the red bikini, that being her new name, twirled and floated out in the big pool. Another breeze washed over us and shook more palm fronds.

“Back to Tampa?” he said.

“I’d rather catch her in Boston.”

“So our work here is done?” Hawk said.

“You tell me,” I said. “We could catch the three-thirty nonstop to Logan.”

Through his dark sunglasses, Hawk’s gaze seemed to be at the pool and the woman. “How long would that give me?”

“Couple hours,” I said. “I was going to work out, call Susan, and then pack.”

“It’ll be close,” Hawk said. “But okay. I’ll make it work.”

“You’re a real pro, Hawk,” I said.

“Ain’t it the truth.”

44

Hawk and I parted at Logan. I drove back to Marlborough Street to drop my bag and change into a less wrinkled shirt and a blazer. An hour later, I strolled into Rialto and found Susan at the bar talking to Jody Adams. Jody was owner and head chef. I hugged Jody first and then Susan. My hug with Susan lingered a little longer, perhaps bordering on a public display of affection.

Before my backside even kissed the bar stool, a cold draft was set before me. I winked at Jody, and she disappeared into the kitchen. I put a hand on Susan’s knee. I used the other to lift the beer.

“Are you meeting someone?” I said.

“Perhaps.”

“Is he tall, dark, and handsome?”

“He wasn’t so dark before,” she said. “But I see that’s changed.”

“Should’ve used more sunscreen.”

“Lucky you.”

I drank some of the beer. Susan had a vodka gimlet.

“If I’d sent you a postcard,” I said, “it would had read: ‘Having a great time. Huckster lawyers, hoods from back home, and a very talkative hit man. Wish you were here.’”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t know these things.”

“The hit man was toothless,” I said. “An inch of Plexiglas separated us.”

She nodded. She put her hand over my hand and squeezed my fingers.

“Not the same?” I said.

“I’ve eaten here twice.”

“Without me?”

“If it weren’t for the hot sex,” Susan said, “this place has a slight edge on your kitchen.”

We mooned over each other for a bit. I finished the beer in less than two minutes. Susan might have had an eyedropper full of the gimlet. The hostess led us back to the booth, or, more appropriately, Susan’s booth, among the billowing curtains and soft music. “So let me guess,” Susan said. “The case is solved, bad guys thwarted, and all is right in the world.”

“They gave up,” I said. “They found out Spenser and Hawk were in the Sunshine State and the bad guys tossed their guns into the Gulf.”

“Are we clear on who are the bad guys?”

“In living Technicolor.”

“Can you now hand it over to the police?”

“It would be federal,” I said. “Since it involves the DA in Blackburn and money moving across two states.”

“Then the Feds?”

“Boston’s special agent in charge and I have a strained relationship.”

“Not to mention he’s a shit heel and you can’t trust him.”

“True,” I said. “But if I push a few things a bit, I may make it work through the Feds down there.”

“Your powers never cease to amaze,” she said. “But how exactly would that work?”

“You remember Epstein?”

“Yes,” she said. “You liked him.”

“Epstein introduced me to a guy in Tampa,” I said. “He’s already onto one of these judges and a good local boy from Revere.”

“Great.”

“But it’s not enough yet,” I said. “He needs more before they’d even think about arresting this guy Callahan or my dear and personal friend Joe Scali.”

“But you have an idea?”

“Don’t I always?”

“Do you wish to share it?”

I thought about it. I shook my head. “I’ve been on an airplane for more than four hours,” I said. “I feel like I’ve been in the clothes dryer on low tumble. I’d rather eat, drink another beer, and then pick up a wild and uninhibited woman and take her home with me.”

“My place is much closer.”

“Or let her take me home with her.”

She picked up her gimlet and took a long sip. Her dark eyes were very big and very adventurous over the rim of the glass. My swig on the pint was considerably less sexy.

I ordered the smoked chicken grilled under a brick with ginger, beets, cracked wheat, mushrooms, and goat cheese. Susan had the lobster bucatini with red and green tomatoes, chilis, and saffron. When the waiter left, I leaned over and asked when Jody would ever put a bologna sandwich on the menu.

Susan said, “I’m sure she’d be glad to substitute the bologna for chicken.”

“Not just any chicken,” I said. “But a chicken that’s been humiliated. Under a brick.”

“Do you and Hawk talk like this?”

“Hawk doesn’t talk much,” I said. “But he did meet a friend in Tampa.”

“Hawk does make friends easily.”

“He would agree.”

I recognized the song overhead as Satchmo singing with the Duke. “Do Nothin’ Till You Hear from Me.” A personal favorite. Satchmo, Susan, and suds. A regular trifecta.

“So,” Susan said. “Can you and Hawk get these people?”

I nodded.

“Good,” she said. “Because in your absence, I’ve made some calls and checked in with some old friends.”

“Anything I can use?”

“Just that this place in the harbor shouldn’t be licensed,” she said. “That place does so much business, there’s a waiting list.”

“Not surprising.”

“I also checked out Massachusetts Child Care,” she said. “I learned a lot about their corporate philosophy.”

“And?”

“It’s all bullshit,” Susan said. “Taking children from their parents and their schools should be the very last step. Not the first. It interrupts their education, exposes them to all kinds of trauma, gets them mixed up with delinquent peers, and mainly stigmatizes them. The whole philosophy of scared straight doesn’t work. Studies have proven it. It’s a lie that keeps places like this filled.”

I nodded. I kept my mouth shut. I had a better chance of stopping a locomotive with my teeth than backing Susan off a tirade.

“Did you know juvenile crime is at an all-time low, but the incarceration rate for kids has stayed the same?” she said. “Who wants to explain those numbers?”

“This problem may be bigger than Blackburn,” I said.

“But this is where you start,” she said. “Expose this and maybe the light shines through?”

“One would hope.”

“Lousy bastards,” Susan said before taking a dainty sip.

“You said it.”

45

Sometime while Hawk and I had been crossing the bluish-green waters of Tampa Bay, Dillon Yates had been released from the MCC facility on Fortune Island.

I’d invited Iris Milford to meet me at the Yateses’ apartment, a two-bedroom unit in a development just out of downtown called Old English Village. Not much had changed since my last visit to Blackburn. The Merrimack was still frozen and winter seemed like it might last another hundred years.

Sheila Yates met me at the door. I introduced Iris, and Sheila was a little less than enthused. “A reporter?” she said. “I don’t know. Dillon’s just home and there were conditions of his release and promises made. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Miss Yates,” Iris said. “Your son is one of the lucky ones. People keeping to themselves is how this whole mess started. You can keep quiet. That’s up to you. But knowing what goes on in that place is going to help out those other families. Or y’all want to keep this a private matter?”

Iris Milford had a very direct, authoritative way of speaking. Sheila swallowed, looked to me, and then nodded back at Iris. “Okay,” she said. “Come in.”

We walked back to a small kitchen table with a fine view of the parking lot and other similar apartment units. They were all newish brick, two stories tall, with white vinyl dormers. The chosen landscaping was of the type to survive a nuclear winter. Arthur Treacher’s Fish & Chips had more British charm than Ye Old English Village. I turned away from the window as Sheila disappeared into a back room. Iris set out a digital recorder and her notepad. I touched my temple with an index finger and said, “Steel trap.”

“You really remember everything?”

“Everything.”

“What was I wearing when we first met?”

“A dashiki,” I said.

“Hmm,” she said. “Could be. I can’t remember myself. But that sounds like something I would’ve worn back then.”

“I once wore a leisure suit.”

“Burn the pictures?”

“You bet,” I said.

Iris smiled as a back bedroom door opened and out walked a big sleepy kid wearing gray sweatpants and an oversized white tee that fell to his knees. He didn’t wear shoes, and his feet were bigger than mine. He looked thinner than he had in the photographs I’d seen, different somehow, or maybe it was just the hair. His thick, curly hair from the pictures had been cut shorter than Daddy Warbucks’s.

He took a seat at the head of the table and widened his tired eyes at us. I waved. Sheila put a hand on his shoulder and introduced us. Dillon blinked a few times and sat up a little straighter. He wiped his eyes a bit and nodded, staring right at me. “You were the one who got me out?”

I shrugged. “Mostly it was a tough attorney named Megan Mullen,” I said. “You’d like her. She’s about your age.”

“What?”

“He’s kidding,” Sheila said. “Spenser helped her with some information. You and a lot of other kids were being sent away without an attorney. You can’t do that. You can’t do that to anyone.”

Dillon’s face hardened. He nodded along with his mom, his eyes flicking back and forth between me and Iris.

“What’s it like?” Iris said. “Out there on that island?”

“It sucks.”

“Can you tell me in more detail?”

“It sucks hard,” he said. “It’s colder than shit.”

I looked at Iris. “You writing all this down?”

Iris nodded, took a long breath, and pushed the digital recorder closer to Dillon. “Were you abused?”

“Me?” he said. “No.”

“Did it straighten you out?”

“For setting up a Twitter page?” Dillon said. “It may have been stupid. But no one should get treated like I was.”

“How were you treated?”

“Like a freakin’ prisoner,” Dillon said. “What do you think? They made me take a chemical shower and then shaved my head. I was stuck in this room with a bunch of kids who were in for real crimes, real violent crimes. One of the kids had nearly killed his old man with a ballpoint pen. A few others actually killed someone. We were told to shut up, don’t do anything, stick around and watch a crappy TV until they turned the lights off.”

“What about school?”

Dillon snorted out his nose. “That’s a joke.”

His mother had not moved, standing with a hand still on his shoulder. Sheila again wore her signature perfume and a lot of it. “Dillon said he was sent to a room for thirty minutes a day for study period. Study period was pretty much keeping quiet and doodling in old workbooks. Almost all the books had been filled in, front to back.”

“How about counseling,” I said. “Did you meet with anyone?”

“There was this weird guy I saw a couple times,” Dillon said. “We called him Dr. Feelgood. He was an absolute idiot. I’m pretty sure he was on drugs. He was zoned out. You know? I think he was taking the drugs meant for the kids who needed them. If you got to be a problem, he’d give you some kind of pills. Some of the kids would act wild and give guards trouble just to get the scrip.”

“So no school, no real psychiatric care,” I said. “They must have some terrific cultural activities.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dillon said, grinning. “We got to hum a little while we picked up shit on the beach.”

“Dillon,” Sheila said.

“What else can I call it?” he said. “We were on garbage detail. We cleaned up the beach every day until we had two sacks full of the stuff. Sometimes we’d add in seaweed and crap to make it all go faster. They didn’t really care about the cleanup. It was just busy work. Everything we did was about checking the box. School, the doc, recreation time. Even the food. I wasn’t exactly expecting great stuff, but I wouldn’t feed a dog the kind of stuff they dished out.”

“My dog has gourmet tastes.”

“Well, your dog wouldn’t last on Fortune Island,” he said. “It’s not a place to live. You just sort of exist. It makes you feel like you’ve been put on hold, and nobody gives a shit anymore. I know that’s not true. I know everything my mom was doing. But they want you to believe that you’re nothing and no more important than the crap that washes up on the beach.”

I nodded. Iris kept writing down notes. Sheila started to cry a little. She told us she’d already found a new place for them to live. They’d never come back to Blackburn. Ever.

“Did you meet other kids like you?” I said. “Given a sentence for a minor offense.”

“How long you got?” Dillon said.

“Long as you want to talk,” Iris said. She had on severe black-framed glasses that gave her a serious and focused look. Not that Iris Milford had ever been a wallflower.

“Listen,” Dillon said. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I’ll tell you everything that happened to me. My mom and I already talked about it. If I shut up, then people like Judge Scali have won. I’m not ever going back to that school and we’re moving out of this town. But I have a favor to ask, Mr. Spenser.”

I nodded.

“I met a friend out on the island who had it a lot worse than me,” Dillon said. “He’s from Blackburn, too, but a senior. He was a wrestler and a real good guy. I knew who he was before the island but we really didn’t know each other. He did something real stupid but not violent. He got sent to the island and when he was there he wouldn’t get with the program. I respected him for not letting the guards beat him down.”

“What’s his name?”

Dillon told us.

“How can we help?”

“If you don’t get him off that island they are going to freakin’ kill him,” Dillon said. “These guys, the guards, they don’t give a shit. Sorry, Mom. But they don’t. They’ll shoot him and throw him into the harbor and no one will ever find him. I’m worried they may have already done it.”

“Why him?”

“Because the kid won’t quit,” Dillon said. “They can’t break him. And the guards don’t know how to handle it.”

I lifted my eyes at Iris. She was taking notes. She met my eyes and just shook her head.

“Okay,” I said. “Tell us all you know.”