Текст книги "Robert B. Parker's Kickback"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

20

The next morning, I had huevos rancheros with a side of fresh fruit, OJ, and black coffee at the Paramount before driving out to the office of Massachusetts Child Care. The day was sunny and bright, with a hard white glint off the Common and the tips of snowbanks lining Boylston. I cut up to Soldiers Field Road and followed the Charles before crossing over the river and into Watertown, where I found MCC’s offices on the entire third floor of a repurposed turn-of-the-century schoolhouse. The office had wide-plank wood floors, plaster walls, and transoms over the glass doors. There was soft light along a row of framed posters of happy children free of drugs, behavior problems, or crime. A sign on the door read MAKING A DIFFERENCE FOR TODAY’S YOUTH!

There were six glass doors along each side of the long corridor, old classrooms subdivided. A perky young black woman in a tailored suit asked if she might be of help.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Talos,” I said. After seeing Robert Talos Jr. share the hallowed booth at IHOP with Scali and running his license plate, I’d learned he was the big cheese at MCC. Putting two and two together, I’d come up with one.

“Do you have an appointment?” she said. “Mr. Talos is often out with business. May I ask what this is regarding?”

“You may,” I said. “I have questions about MCC and a teenager in your care.”

Less than thirty seconds later, I was being introduced to Jane Corbin, parental communication specialist. Since I wasn’t a parent, I worried we wouldn’t be able to talk. Would a translator be necessary? I thought maybe I could win over Jane and then maybe get a handoff to Talos. “My name is Knute Rockne. My son George is to be rehabilitated by MCC. I had a few questions.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Rockne,” she said. “Please. How might we be of help?”

Jane Corbin was short and plump, with a round face and reddish hair chopped to the shoulders. She wore a tweed skirt and a red V-neck cashmere sweater, a stylish scarf wrapped around her thick neck. I sat and tried to look worried. I screwed up my mouth and tried to imagine sitting through a movie based on a Nicholas Sparks novel. “I don’t really know where to begin.”

“Your son.”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s a good kid who’s had a tough year.”

“It happens,” Jane said. She looked so sincere. So sincere that I thought she actually might be. She pursed her lips and nodded with great understanding.

“I guess I don’t know what to expect,” I said. “What exactly is it that you do here?”

She smiled. She’d answered this question many times before. She placed the flats of her hands together on the top of her desk. She licked her lips and said, “First off, we are not a prison.”

“But one gets sentenced to spend time at MCC?”

“Yes,” she said. “We are contracted by certain counties as alternatives to traditional juvenile jails.”

“Oh,” I said. “Thank God.”

“This isn’t just punishment,” she said. “We have classes at all MCC facilities. Your son. What is his name again?”

“George,” I said. “But we call him the Gipper.”

“Well, George can continue on with his schoolwork,” she said. “His education will continue. We have a full staff of teachers who will help him earn class credit. And if he’s looking toward college, we can even help him study for the ACT or SAT.”

I nodded. I tried to look interested and pleased. I thought of huevos rancheros with homemade salsa on top. I smiled. In my heart, my enthusiasm grew. Method acting.

“Most parents are worried about the stereotypes of juvie jails or work camps they’ve seen in movies,” she said. “That’s not the case here. We have classes and sports activities. Does your son play sports?”

“He’s very good at football.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “He’ll have plenty of time outdoors. We also have nature activities, like hiking.”

“Should be lovely this time of year,” I said. “It was almost twenty degrees yesterday.”

“The wind in the harbor isn’t as bad as they say,” she said before emitting a funny little laugh. “We make sure all the offenders—I mean teens—are well dressed for the nature walks.”

“Well, I know I’m feeling much better.”

She beamed. I tried to beam but wasn’t very good at it. I tried to think of a lobster roll for lunch, but it wasn’t working.

“Parents worry this is just punishment,” she said. “But the whole philosophy of MCC is based on balance and restorative justice principles.”

“Which are?”

“We provide programs of supervision, care, and rehabilitation, with balanced attention to competency development, victim awareness and restoration, and community protection. George will receive structured, individualized treatment from a supervisor with no less than a master’s degree. He will also receive individual counseling, group therapy, family therapy, and take part in psych educational groups, and life– and employability-skills groups.”

“Whoopee.”

“You don’t seem pleased.”

“On the contrary,” I said. “I’m thrilled. George has been so upset, he’s bedridden. He might need a pep talk.”

“We have a multidisciplinary team approach to working with youth,” Jane said, smiling hard and tight. “We work closely with contracted medical services and licensed psychologists. Our employees who have direct and regular contact with your child receive eighty hours of training before they are in the dorms with him.”

I whistled with awe. The whistle was convincing as hell.

“And if George isn’t interested in college, we have life-skills classes, such as culinary arts, upholstery, Lego robotics, and lab volt work.”

“Lab volt?”

“Home electrical wiring and cable installation.”

“Wow.”

“So this isn’t at all a bad thing, Mr. Rockne,” she said. It’s a—”

“Win-win?”

“Yes.”

“Somehow I knew you were going to say that.”

“When does George begin his time with us?” she said.

“Two weeks,” I said, taking a long breath and shaking my head. “I have to say he’s not thrilled. This fall was going to be his big year on the team.”

“He’ll be fine,” she said, standing up, signaling a close to our nice chat. “I assure you. The food is good. There is a nature club, a media club, and even a talent show in every season.”

“You make it sound almost like summer camp.”

“This isn’t the old days,” she said. “We’re a team here, too. That’s why what we do works better than anything the state can offer. We want to intervene with children before they turn eighteen. This is the crucial time to make it work for all of us.”

I smiled and stood also. “Quite impressive,” I said.

She smiled. I smiled back. There was a long silence as we flexed our facial muscles.

“But is Mr. Talos around?” I said. “I feel like I should thank him in person. You know, for the forethought.”

“Mr. Talos isn’t here today,” she said, walking to the door and standing in the frame. I didn’t move. “But I’d be glad to pass along your kind words.”

“Who runs things in his absence?”

“Mr. Talos runs a great many businesses,” she said. “He just happens to be out this morning. But he is the individual in charge.”

“Perhaps I might stop by later?”

“I promise to pass on your thanks,” she said. “And if you have any other questions about your child or our award-winning programs . . .”

I smiled and passed her in the narrow frame out into the hall of the old schoolhouse. The perky black woman and Jane Corbin exchanged hard looks. The hall was long and empty, every glass door shut, people going about their own business. Beside the art and the framed MCC posters, there was a lonely copy machine. The black woman then scowled at me. I smiled and turned back to Jane.

“Win-win,” I said.

Jane was no longer smiling. She looked doubtful of my story and swallowed a couple times. Her cheeks had a touch of red. I winked and showed myself out. As I turned to the elevator, both women watched me go. They were pros.

They knew a troublemaker when they saw one.

Do you really want to get off this island?” Dillon Yates said.

“Hell, yes,” the boy said.

“Then you got to drink their Kool-Aid,” he said. “You have to act like the MCC way is the real way. Say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ and get into all the speeches and pep talks they give. Sing their songs. Dance their dance. When you fill out the forms about your progress, quote shit they’ve said. You tell them that they’ve done something good and they’ll take time off.”

“Is that what you do?”

“Are you freaking kidding?” Dillon said. “This place is Looney Tunes. All they do is feed us, work us, and let us sleep and watch TV. The classes are a joke. The activities are a joke. The pep talks are downloaded off some kind of religious website. The people they hire are fuckups. They couldn’t get work at a decent place. Two of the guards spent time at Walpole, for crissake.”

“Can’t you tell somebody?”

“Like who?” Dillon said. “The freakin’ governor? The guards like to watch us fight like we’re dogs. Or see us fall on the rocks by the beach when we race. They think all the crap we get into is funny. The more dangerous it is, the funnier it is. Haven’t you noticed they don’t carry guns? They want to do something to you, they’ll just beat the crap out of you. They’ll report that you did it to yourself.”

The boys stood huddled together in the common area between the housing units. Snow powdered the dead grass and the basketball court was pocked with footprints. Two black kids shot some hoops. The boy liked Dillon. He was the only one who’d talked to him that much since he’d gotten to Fortune Island, telling him the unofficial rules.

Don’t get caught smoking.

Don’t ever go alone anywhere with just one guard. Always ask for at least two, so you’ll have a witness.

Don’t mess with the black kids. Or anyone from the South Shore or Revere. Just mind your own business.

Don’t volunteer for work. They’ll have you picking up trash all day on the West Shore.

And stay the fuck away from Tony Ponessa.

“Who’s Tony Ponessa again?” the boy said.

Dillon Yates motioned with his chin at a gangly-looking kid with a shaved head standing alone by the edge of the open court. He was staring right at the boy and Dillon, his hands in his paper-thin coat. His face was thin and weaselly. He had some kind of tattoo on his neck.

“What’s the big deal?” the boy said.

“Ponessa is the mayor around here,” Dillon said. “He’s lived on this island since they built it five years ago. He killed his own brother back in Brockton. He likes to fight. He likes to start shit even if you don’t. If he has it in for you, just turn away, act like he isn’t there.”

“He’s staring at me.”

“Because you’re new,” Dillon said. “When I got here a few weeks ago, we were out picking up beach trash and he came at me. I didn’t even see it. He knocked me in the back of the head and started to fill my mouth with sand. He doesn’t look like much. But he’s strong.”

“I know how to fight,” the boy said. “That shit doesn’t bother me. I weigh more than him. I get him on the ground and the kid is done.”

“You can’t win,” Dillon said. “The guards like him. That’s why he’s always with Sergeant Fuckwad.”

“Who’s he?”

“You see the muscly guy with the crew cut?” Dillon said. “He’s totally into saying ‘yes, sir’ and doing pushups. He’ll start talking to you about a career in the military. Just you wait.”

“He drove the boat out here,” the boy said. “He watched me the whole time.”

“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 returned 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.

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