“You okay in there?”
The voice belonged to Devon ’s lawyer-her benefactor, for the moment. He seemed like a decent sort, at least on first impression. But she knew that first impressions could be misleading. She’d been around men enough to know to be careful. She was small for her age; that played to her advantage. She dressed in loose T-shirts and baggy pants. Better not to draw attention; attention could be dangerous. In a just and reasonable world, her youth alone would have been sufficient protection from unwanted advances, but she had learned that the world was neither just nor reasonable.
She’d been ten the first time one of her mother’s “boyfriends” tried something. He and her mother had been out for most of the night and her mother had passed out cold upon their return to the apartment. Frustrated, angry, and high, he had come into Sally’s room and stood over her bed. She’d been petrified as she lay there, pretending to be asleep, praying that he would go away. He hadn’t, though. She heard him pulling his clothes off. Shirt first; then pants; finally his underwear. He stood there a few moments longer, staring at her, before he pulled up the blanket and climbed into bed with her. She could smell the booze on his breath and oozing from his pores as he inched toward her. When he put out his hand and pulled her toward him, she hadn’t fought. She rolled over toward him and opened her eyes. His pupils were wide and glassy, and a serpentine smile crept across his face as he looked at her. Then he reached for her again and she closed her eyes and kicked out with all the force she could muster, her shin driving home between his legs.
He screamed and she ran into the bathroom where her mother lay unconscious with her head against the sweating base of the porcelain toilet. She locked the door and curled up beside her mother as the boyfriend, wounded both in body and in ego, beat on the door and screamed curses at them both. The next morning, after Sally told her mother what had happened, the boyfriend was sent away. Her mother cried for days and begged forgiveness from Sally, promising that she’d gotten high for the last time. She was convincing enough that Sally even believed her, giving in to a flicker of hope.
A week later her mother came home, stoned again, with another man. That was when Sally realized fully for the first time that no one would ever really protect her. After that, she learned how to protect herself at all costs, and few people messed with her more than once.
The knock on the door came again. “Everything okay in there?” the lawyer called once more, an edge of concern in the voice.
“Fine,” she responded. She was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants that doubled as pajamas.
“Can I open the door?” he asked.
“It’s your door.”
The door slid open slowly and every muscle in her body went tight, the fight-or-flight response well conditioned. He looked nervous as he stuck his head in the room, keeping his feet in the hallway. He stood there for a moment, leaning awkwardly. “I have a TV,” he finally offered.
“Cutting-edge,” she replied.
“I don’t watch it much, but you’re welcome to watch whatever you want.”
She shook her head. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
He nodded. “Do you have everything you need? You want a glass of water or something?”
She shook her head again.
“Okay. If you need anything, give a shout.” He looked at her again for another moment, as if waiting for a response. Then, clearly realizing that the conversation was over, he pulled his head back and closed the door.
She waited a couple of seconds before she got up and walked quietly over to the door, pushing in the small round button on the knob until she heard the lock engage. It wouldn’t keep him out if he was determined to get in, but it might buy her a little time if necessary.
She walked back over to the bed, shaking the blanket out of its folds and pulling it over her. She didn’t sleep under covers-they made her feel trapped.
She turned off the light and lay back, staring up at the ceiling, running through all her options in her head. It didn’t take long for her to conclude that she didn’t have any.
Chapter Six
Devon Malley lay on the cot in his cell. It had been two decades since he’d spent real time in jail, but the rhythms came back to him quickly. In some ways, they’d never left him. There was a certain comfort to it all. There were few decisions to make in jail. They told you when to get up, when to eat, when to shower, when to shit. If you knew how to protect yourself, it was a simple existence. The trick was keeping your sanity.
Prison was the safest place for him now. He wasn’t one of those saps who couldn’t survive on the outside-he valued his freedom. But the streets held dangers over which he had no control. In jail, he could keep his back to the wall and his mouth shut. That would be enough to keep him alive. In the meantime, he had Finn on the outside, looking into things for him. It would only be a few days, and then he’d know for sure what he was facing. He could handle the jail time until then.
The only thing he missed from the outside was Sally. When her mother had brought her to his apartment over a year ago, Devon nearly panicked. He couldn’t imagine living his lifestyle with a kid hanging around. He’d hated the idea. But after a while, he came to see that she was smart and tough-everything he would have hoped for her to be. He took pride in that; pride in her. Were it not for the fact that he missed her now, jail would be a breeze. Still, he knew he had no choice. It was better for her, too.
As he lay there, the sounds of the jail filled his ears. Those around him rustled in their cages. Some slept soundly, snoring or talking through their dreams. Others were grunting openly as they relieved their sexual frustrations. There was no etiquette about that in jail-men did what they had to do. He didn’t mind. The only sound that haunted him was the crying. There was always one, a first-timer usually, new to the system. Sometimes it was on their first night; other times they managed to hold themselves together until after there was a trial and a verdict-or a plea bargain that sealed the fate just as tightly-and all hope was destroyed. Then the fear and the pain seeped out in low sobs. It made Devon ’s skin crawl. The criers would be taught a lesson the next day; the other prisoners would see to that. For now, though, the dismal sound had to be endured.
Devon did everything he could to block it out. He hummed softly to himself, he focused on the ceiling, he thought about the women he’d slept with in the past. Nothing worked. The sobbing cut through everything else. It wasn’t until he lost himself in memory that it disappeared.
Devon got the call in February, in the dead of winter, years before. It was Murphy. “We’ve got a job for you, Devon,” he said.
“What sort of a job?” Devon asked.
“Your sort. Meet me at the Body Shop tomorrow morning at ten.” Devon asked no more questions. Murphy wasn’t the type to be questioned. Devon showed up the next morning fifteen minutes early.
There were four of them in the room, not including himself. Devon had worked for Murphy and Ballick before. They were sitting on chairs against the wall. The third he’d never seen before: a thin man with jet-black hair and dark, angry eyes sitting in front of Murphy’s desk. At the desk on that day was a fit man in his early sixties with silver-white hair pulled back from the crown. He was leaning back in the chair, but had an aggressive energy about him, as if he was coiled and ready to attack.
“ Devon, this is Jimmy Bulger,” Murphy said.
It was an unnecessary introduction; everyone knew Bulger. Many knew him better as “Whitey,” though he hated the nickname. It had been given to him as a boy with bright blond hair. Those who valued their lives at all called him Jimmy. Those who valued their lives more called him Mr. Bulger.