Robert B. Parker's Kickback Page 9

  Megan smiled. “I only wish I could do more for Dillon Yates.”

  “You filed an appeal,” I said. “Now we wait.”

  “I do wish his mother had contacted us first,” she said. “After working for the firm, she should have known better. He would have never been sentenced to that island.”

  “You know much about Massachusetts Child Care?”

  “No,” she said. “Most of my clients are over eighteen.”

  “They own Dillon’s digs on Fortune Island,” I said. “They get two hundred and fifty bucks a day to keep him there.”

  “What can you do while we wait?” she said.

  “Follow Scali around,” I said. “See how the judicial set lives.”

  I took off my Dodgers cap, rolled the bill, and set it back on my head.

  “Good luck,” she said. We walked out of the old courthouse together and shook hands before going different ways.

  19

  A car, or even an SUV in my case, was only comfortable for so long. I once drove a ’68 Chevy convertible with bucket seats. For a while I had a Subaru Outback with seats designed for Billy Barty. Sometimes I borrowed Susan’s MG and later her Bronco. But I liked the Explorer. It was comfortable, innocuous in traffic. Good gas mileage for the size. It had seat warmers and Bluetooth technology. Sometimes when the tech gods were with me, I could talk dirty to Susan while keeping both hands on the wheel.

  But my Ford was little match for Scali’s gunmetal-gray Cadillac ELR. The car had jeweled brake lights, glowing with a lot of style at stoplights, and bright chrome wheels. I hung back as I followed him. I knew his address. I just wanted to see if he made any other stops on the way home.

  I listened to an Artie Shaw CD as I drove through Blackburn.

  He drove in the opposite direction of his Belleview home. He jetted along the Merrimack River to an exit off I-93 and parked in the lot of an International House of Pancakes. I knew that he’d seen my face. What a shame I’d miss a chance to dine at an IHOP. Maybe the old Bickford’s cafeteria. But I drew the line at IHOP.

  I waited inside my car with Artie. When I’m calling you / Will you answer, too?

  Scali was gracious enough to take a seat by the picture window. He was seated alone, with a very large menu. About twenty minutes later, a beefy-looking gray-headed man in a tan overcoat joined him. Scali didn’t stand or shake hands. The beefy man took a seat, and the waitress dropped off a menu. So many culinary choices, so little time. They both snapped their menus shut at about the same time. The sign outside advertised SIGNATURE FAVORITES. And the all-new Blue Cheese and Bacon Sirloin. Mario Batali, take note.

  I checked my e-mail. I checked my voice mail. I checked my profile for any stray hairs I missed while shaving. Late afternoon turned later. It got dark very early. It seemed even later in Blackburn. Susan would be finishing with her last client about now. She would be taking Pearl out for a long walk along Linnaean Street. Inventive cocktails were being poured in Harvard Square. Bistros along Newbury Street had opened for dinner. I had two dry-aged filets in my refrigerator.

  I had three other cases to be stoked.

  There was more dry apple wood in the cellar of my apartment building. And according to my phone, TCM was running Monte Walsh.

  After an hour and sixteen minutes, Scali and the beefy man walked out together. Scali had on a long black overcoat and swiveled a toothpick in his mouth. The pancakes must’ve been something else.

  The men separated with a handshake. I wrote down the tag number on the beefy man’s big black Mercedes and gave Scali a two-minute start. I followed him back up the Merrimack and back into the center of town. There was something obsessively cold and dark about February in Massachusetts. The dull burn of streetlamps, the dirty snowbanks, the long, meandering stretch of a half-frozen river.

  Scali’s house was about a quarter-mile away from Judge Price’s house in Belleview. Christmas decorations still adorned Scali’s house. I thought about walking straight up to the door and regaling him with some carols. Any man who loved Christmas so much he wanted to celebrate it two months later couldn’t be all bad. Multicolored lights ran up and down the V’s of the roofline. A snowman made of LED lights glittered on the snow-covered lawn. I parked a few houses down the street. I removed my Dodgers cap, although I needed it, turned up the collar on my jacket, and went out for a stroll. This was in equal parts surveillance and a way of loosening my stiff knee.

  I had already received two texts from Susan reminding me of my rehab. I walked for nearly a half-mile, trying to get a feel for the upper-middle-class neighborhood. I learned a lot of people liked to celebrate Christmas well into the next year. The houses were a mix of mid-century modern and neo-Colonial. I had my hands in my jacket pockets, my breath coming in clouds. I missed the jogging. I liked the rhythm and feel of pounding the pavement.

  I turned back and walked past Scali’s house. The curtains were closed and the Cadillac safely stowed away in his garage. The house was big, a three-story Colonial painted gray with white trim. A wrought-iron fence encircled the property. I gave up the idea of knocking on the door and singing carols and returned to my SUV. I plugged in the address to a realty website for an estimate of how much the good judge had paid for the house.

  Being a master detective with a smartphone, I learned he’d bought the property only two years ago for $750,000. He paid about nine grand a year in property taxes. Ouch.

  I didn’t know how much a juvenile court judge made, but I could easily find out.

  I waited for a couple minutes for Scali to run from the house and confess his sins. When this didn’t happen, I started the Explorer and drove back to Boston. It was late, so I’d only cook one of the steaks and open a nice bottle of Cabernet.

  I didn’t even slow down when I passed the IHOP.

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.”