Robert B. Parker's Kickback Page 14

  Sheila put a hand to her mouth and made a little squeal. Her hair was bright and big that morning. As always, she wore quite a bit of perfume. Several bracelets jangled from her wrist.

  “And they will expunge the charge,” Megan said. “That was a condition of our appeal.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Sheila said. “When?”

  “Next Friday,” Megan said. “Dillon will be taken off the island and out-processed at the Blackburn juvenile detention center.”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you both.”

  She reached out and squeezed my arm. I instinctively flexed a bit. I couldn’t help but show off. Megan didn’t speak while she added a couple packets of fake sugar to her coffee and stirred. She stared down at the coffee. “Of course, there’s more to it.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “They want me out of Blackburn by sundown.”

  “Did you speak to Rita already?”

  I nodded.

  “So you know what’s on the table,” she said. “The DA is obviously aware you’re working on Dillon’s case. That’s why they also agreed to drop charges against you. On the condition you won’t return to the city.”

  “And I’d grown so fond of it.”

  “No one ever mentioned a taped interview with Miss Golnick,” Megan said. “I’m betting she recanted her story. But since I got her out of jail, neither she nor her parents will answer my phone calls.”

  “How grateful is that?”

  “At least she didn’t accuse me of a crime.” Megan reached for her satchel and turned to Sheila Yates. She pulled out a single piece of paper and handed it over to her. “They faxed this over this morning. It’s a lot of fancy wording saying you will not pursue a civil complaint against the Blackburn Courts or Middlesex County. Someone is telling the cops to make this all go away.”

  “Fat chance,” Sheila said, not reading the paper and handing it back.

  “If you don’t sign it, they won’t release Dillon.”

  “And my continuing to poke around would violate the terms of Dillon’s release,” I said.

  “Not stated,” Megan said. “But heavily implied.”

  “Can’t get me for being a pervert,” I said. “But they can threaten to punish my client.”

  A long line had formed at the cash register. A middle-aged woman in a knitted red hat was having a hard time deciding between coffee and tea. She was asking the cashier which ones she’d prefer. Those behind her were growing agitated. I had ten to one that the woman was on the tenure track in Harvard’s English department.

  “When I get my son back, I’m leaving,” Sheila Yates said. “I can find another job. I can’t run the risk of them arresting him again. And to release him with threats? I don’t like this. I don’t like this a bit.”

  “I’m not very good at being told what to do.”

  “I plan on sending them our own waiver,” Megan said, sipping coffee, her hazel eyes very big but not quite innocent over the rim of the cup. “Where the terms are more definite and applying only to a civil suit. If that’s what you want.”

  Sheila Yates turned to me. She rested her hand on mine and looked me in the eye. “You,” she said. “You give ’em hell. I’m taking Dillon so far away from here they won’t ever find him. As soon as he’s off that fucking island, bust these crooks up. Okay? You do that for me?”

  I smiled. She patted my hand.

  “What’s wrong with these people?” Sheila said. “Jesus. They’re either greedy or lazy or just plain stupid.”

  “All that’s needed for evil to triumph—” I said.

  “Is some dirty, sneaky bastards,” Sheila said.

  “Nobody ever said it better.”

  33

  Okay,” Vinnie said. “There’s this guy. A lawyer. His name is Ziggy Swatek.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “You think I’d make up a fucking name like that?”

  “I guess you’re right,” I said. “Nobody in their right mind would.”

  “You were asking me about the DeMarcos and this developer named Talos,” he said. “So Zig is kind of like their . . .”

  “Common denominator.”

  “Exactly,” Vinnie said. “They all work together, too.”

  We stood at the railing overlooking the bowling lanes. Vinnie had a cigarette hanging from his lips, despite several signs around the premises forbidding smoking. Several lanes away, two old men in tracksuits took turns knocking the hell out of the pins. I had stopped counting after six strikes in a row. Vinnie eyed me for a moment and blew out some smoke.

  “He’s a real shitbag,” Vinnie said.

  “Give it to me straight,” I said. “Don’t pull any punches.”

  “Man doesn’t have any style,” Vinnie said. “He has a picture of himself on his legal website. He’s standing by a Harley and he’s wearing a leather vest with no shirt.”

  “Not a good look.”

  “No,” Vinnie said. “And he don’t even have the arms for it.”

  “I don’t think anyone can pull off a leather vest.”

  “I don’t like these people,” he said. “None of them. Ten years ago, old man DeMarco tried to have Gino whacked just for being queer.”

  “I imagine he had some territory to gain as well.”

  “Yeah,” Vinnie said. “That, too. But mainly he couldn’t cut up a piece of the pie with a guy like Gino. Behind his back, he called Gino all kind of names and said he was an embarrassment to the city’s Italian community.”

  “But robbing, stealing, and killing is good for the image?”

  Vinnie shrugged. He blew out some more smoke. I’d forgotten how much I disliked being around it. I took off my ball cap and waved away the smoke. Vinnie smiled.

  “Nobody can say the old man wasn’t stand-up,” he said. “He did a twenty-year stretch. Never opened his mouth.”

  “And he died a free man.”

  “So this guy, fucking Ziggy, now looks out for the old lady who’s like a hundred years old and the two sons.”

  “Let me guess, they went into the arts?”

  “Yeah,” Vinnie said. “The art of making money.”

  “Any specialty?”

  “Doesn’t matter—girls, drugs, plasma TVs from China,” he said. “They run a tow-truck company in Eastie. By the airport. The older one is in charge, Jackie.”

  “What’s he look like?” I said.

  Vinnie described him. I nodded.

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “Last night,” I said. “In the company of two Blackburn judges.”

  “Maybe they needed their car towed?”

  I shook my head. “So what’s Zig to Jackie DeMarco and his brother?”

  “I don’t know,” Vinnie said. “He’s a professional bag man. He ain’t Perry Mason.”

  We stood leaning over the railing watching the two old geezers bowl. One of the men wore a warm-up jacket that read LOWELL CHIEFS. The other said LYNNFIELD MEN’S SOFTBALL. Beer bottles littered the table where they kept score.

  “So that’s not much,” I said. “Zig does work for a Boston developer and some local gangsters. Can’t really fault him for that.”

  “Alleged,” Vinnie said. “Alleged gangsters. None of the DeMarco boys have been indicted.”

  “Momma must be proud.”

  Vinnie walked over to a table by the lanes and crushed the cigarette into an ashtray. He had on a blue cashmere blazer and gray slacks. His tailored blue shirt was open at the neck, where he wore a thick gold chain that spoiled the preppy ensemble.

  “Only thing else I know is Ziggy does most of his business in Florida,” he said. “He helps get some folks settled down there and into business.”

  “You know where?” I said.

  “Tampa Bay.”
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  “Tampa Bay is a body of water,” I said. “Is he in Tampa or St. Pete?”

  Vinnie shrugged. “Why don’t you look it up,” he said. “You being a fucking detective and all.”

  “The two judges’ wives do business in that area,” I said. “They own a travel agency and some rental property.”

  “Fly down,” he said. “Go get a tan and drink some beer.”

  “And detect.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “That, too.”

  “You want to come?” I said.

  Vinnie shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not anymore. I got business to attend.”

  “I’ll ask Hawk.”

  “He doesn’t need a tan.”

  “I’ll tell him you said that.”

  Vinnie grinned and pointed his chin at the two old men down the lanes. “You ever think it’ll be like that for us?” he said.

  “I don’t bowl,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Or play golf.”

  “I don’t mean that,” Vinnie said. “I mean retire. Take it easy. Get out of the life.”

  “I live the life I love.”

  “And you love the life you live,” Vinnie said. “Yeah. I know that old number.”

  I winked at him, started to whistle the tune, and walked out of the bowling alley. It was snowing while I called to make reservations to Tampa.

  34

  Two days later, Hawk and I arrived at Tampa International and took a monorail to the terminal. Our luggage and guns were waiting for us in baggage claim. The guns had been safely locked away for travel, forms filled out to say they were unloaded, the ammo sealed in boxes. The conveyers spit out the bags first. Hawk traveled with a Louis Vuitton hard-case that probably cost more than my SUV.

  “You get that in Chinatown?” I said. “Almost looks real.”

  “Haw,” Hawk said, lifting up the case and flicking up the telescopic handle.

  My travel bag was black nylon and made by Rawlings, with a tag on it like a catcher’s mitt.

  We rented a Ford Expedition, nice and roomy for men of a certain size. Guns and luggage were stowed away and the hatch shut with a tap of a button. It was bright, sunny, and in the low eighties as we hit the exit ramp, Hawk in his designer sunglasses, designer jeans, black T-shirt, and a gray scarf.

  I was dressed for work. Jeans, blue pocket tee, and New Balance running shoes. I stowed my leather jacket away as soon as we landed.

  “Where to?” Hawk said.

  “How about we just reconnoiter.”

  “How about some lunch before that reconnoiter begins?”

  “We are of like mind.”

  I followed signs over the Howard Franklin Bridge to St. Petersburg. The judges’ wives owned rental properties north of St. Pete, where they also listed their travel agency. The sun was shining so big and bold that it made me squint as we hovered over the water. I put on my sunglasses to adjust my Boston vision and followed I-275 past the city and curved toward a sign that read BEACHES.

  I let the windows down and Hawk inhaled deeply. I followed the signs until I hit the Gulf of Mexico. We stopped in a little community called Pass-A-Grille and parked in front of a gray gable-front restaurant I’d been told of called The Hurricane.

  We sat at a picnic table under a big umbrella. It didn’t take too long before I was enjoying the sunshine and drinking Sam Adams on tap. Some habits were hard to break. Hawk asked for a top-shelf margarita.

  “You think a grouper sandwich taste like cod?” Hawk said.

  “Grouper isn’t as fishy and tastes sweeter,” I said. “How about a fried grouper sandwich and some fries?”

  Hawk nodded. He sipped the margarita.

  “I have addresses close to here,” I said. “I’d like to see how a couple of judges from Blackburn, Mass., live on the coast.”

  “Looks just like Nantucket with palm trees.”

  “Less picket fences.”

  “No lighthouses.”

  I finished my beer and ordered another. Hawk sipped his margarita. “Main thing I want to know is about this local lawyer and the DeMarcos,” I said. “Be nice to find out what a nice Boston family has cooking.”

  “Reason you brought me.”

  “Some might object to me asking questions.”

  “Or maybe they open the door wide,” Hawk said. “I can kick back at the hotel and entertain ladies in bikinis.”

  “What if we’re out of season for ladies in bikinis?”

  “They’ll show up,” Hawk said. “Always do.”

  I nodded. The grouper sandwiches arrived and they did indeed taste better than cod and even haddock. But it still wasn’t as good as a lobster roll. Hawk ate with mannered grace, touching the edge of his lips with a napkin.

  “Better not get tartar sauce on that scarf.”

  “I’ll send you the bill.”

  “As agreed, all expenses paid.”

  The wind was warm and smelled of salt. I finished my sandwich and the beer. We both sat in silence for a long while listening to the surf and enjoying the sense of thawing out. A well-proportioned woman in a small red bikini rode a bike past the restaurant. Hawk did not ogle, but gave a simple nod. “What’d I tell you?”

  Back in the rental, we followed the highway north along the coast to a small community called Dunedin about ten miles away. We kept the windows down and the sunroof pulled back. The main street was long and pleasant, one-story brick storefronts of boutiques, art galleries, and mom-and-pop restaurants. The address I had for the travel agency was right off Main, the business called Destinations Inc. Catchy.

  I had checked out their website before we left Boston. I had called the business from there and got an answering service. When we pulled up into a small strip mall, we found an empty office space. A paper sign in the window read DESTINATIONS INC., with the same number I had called. Peering into the window, I could see only a single black desk, no chairs, nothing hanging on the wall.

  “This what you detectives call a clue?” Hawk said.

  “Maybe they’re not into aesthetics.”

  “Or maybe this be what we thugs call a shell,” Hawk said.

  “Damn, you’re good.”

  “Now what?” Hawk said. “Check on the bad guys?”

  “Hard to know who is who,” I said. “How about we check in to the hotel and get changed. Nobody looks tough wearing a scarf.”

  “Babe, I could wear a pink dress and it wouldn’t matter.”

  “I shudder to think,” I said.

  They gave him medicine that made him sleep. The boy had dreams, weird dreams, that took him home and back with his forgotten mother. He thought about his dad with his back turned. Danielle was there watching, but not speaking. He remembered waking up shaking and a big black woman bringing him more pills. She walked him to the bathroom and then back. And after a few hours, or a few days, he woke up. The mattress was wet with sweat. He was having another dream and he awoke with his breath caught in his throat.

  He sat up.

  And there was the guard. The one Dillon called Robocop. He stood at the end of the boy’s bed holding the stick with the nail in the end. He’d been watching the boy sleep.

  There was something unnatural about the man. He was wiry thin but corded with muscle. He had a skeletal face with the eyes that burned a weird, almost neon, blue. He palmed the stick in his hand. A long twisted row of black-and-blue tattoos snaked from under his T-shirt down one arm.

  “What do you want?”

  The man didn’t answer him. He tightened his jaw, eye twitching.

  “What?” the boy said. The words felt weird and tight coming from his cotton mouth. These might’ve been the first words he’d spoken in days, and everything felt hollow and weird. His mind was still half in a dream and his arms shook just holding himself upright. He fe
lt like he’d just run a marathon.

  “Don’t you ever make me look bad again.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “In front of the other boys,” he said. “Don’t do it. When I saw you on the boat, I knew you’d be trouble. I seen a lot of you come and go off this island. It’s up to me who stays. You go when I say it.”

  The boy tried to remember the man’s real name. All he could think of was Robocop. He hadn’t seen the man without sunglasses since that first night on the boat. The way the man had stared, appraised him, made him feel uncomfortable then. His mind rushed with thoughts of explaining that Tony Ponessa had jumped him. That this wasn’t his fault. He’d meant no disrespect. But he stopped himself. He looked at the man. Maybe he did mean some disrespect. This man just wanted to break him.

  “You could have killed Tony.”

  The boy nodded.

  “He’s special here,” he said. “You’re nobody.”

  It was early in the morning. A soft light bled through the blinds in the sterile room. Someone had brought him a clean uniform and left it on a hard folding chair. The man continued to stare. The boy waited for him to hit him with the stick. Or yank him from bed.

  Instead, the man tossed the stick to the linoleum floor.

  “Get it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, ‘Get it.’”

  When the boy shook his head, the man lunged for him, gripping the back of the boy’s neck, like you would a puppy, and pulled him from the bed. He fell to his weak legs, but then was up. It was no different than wrestling. You get tossed down, you get up. It was all automatic.

  “Did I say, ‘Get up’?”

  You couldn’t win. The boy stared at him.

  “Get dressed,” Robocop said.

  The boy crossed his arms tightly over his chest to stop shaking. Outside he heard yelling and a group of boys running through the morning count off. They yelled out their number aligned on the broken basketball court.

  “You’re nobody,” the man said. “Nobody cares if you ever make it back home.”