The bar was only one of Ballick’s quasi-legitimate businesses. For him, the crown jewel in his mini-empire was a run-down fishing shack at the edge of the water at the southern tip of Boston, just north of Quincy. It was the only place he cared about, and it was where he spent most of his time. It wasn’t much to look at: a small, rickety two-story building ready to slide into the edge of Quincy Harbor.
Ballick was sitting in a cheap aluminum folding chair at the corner of the building, watching the activity on the pier closely, when Finn and Kozlowski arrived. He looked as if he fit in there, and as if he would have a hard time fitting in anyplace else. He was in his late fifties, with a large round head fringed with matted white hair. A fisherman’s beard traced a smooth oval from ear to ear under his chin, and the only parts of him that seemed to move at all were his eyes. Boats were pulled up along a nearby pier, some of them already unloading their catches in the mid-afternoon sun. A few of Ballick’s buyers from the shack moved along the pier, watching over the unloading process, calculating their needs and the respective purchase prices in their heads.
“Eddie Ballick,” Finn said as he approached. He’d called earlier to tell Ballick he was coming; Ballick was known to be a man who abhorred surprises.
Ballick turned his head; the rest of his body remained still. He said nothing.
“I’m Scott Finn. Devon Malley’s lawyer. We spoke earlier.”
Ballick looked past Finn toward Kozlowski. “You didn’t say you were bringing someone with you.”
“Sorry,” Finn said. “This is Tom Kozlowski. He and I-”
“I know who he is,” Ballick said. “He’s a cop.”
“He’s no longer with the department,” Finn said. “He’s a private detective now.”
“He’s still a cop,” Ballick said. “Now he’s just a cop without a badge.”
Ballick’s head turned back toward the pier. “I only got a few minutes. I’m busy.” He shifted in his seat and brought his hands together on his lap. Finn had never seen thicker fingers. “Scott Finn,” he said. “I remember you.”
“I didn’t know whether you would,” Finn said.
“Looks like the other side is working out for you.”
“I suppose.”
“Fuckin’ shame.”
Finn was noncommittal. “In some ways, maybe.”
“And now you want to talk to me about Devon Malley.”
“It would be helpful.”
Ballick frowned. Then he got to his feet slowly. “We’ll talk inside,” he said. “Cop stays out here.”
Finn followed him around the corner of the building and through an undersized door that looked as though the hinges might fail soon. One room took up the entire first floor. It was concrete from wall to wall, and along the back there was a long sink where men in bloodstained sweatshirts and aprons worked steadily with long, thin gutting knives, slicing into the bellies of fish carcasses stacked in holding bins. With each casual flick of their wrists, innards spilled into the sinks and were washed down through an open drain that emptied into a trough in the cement along the wall, and were carried out through a chute in the corner of the building that led into the harbor. The sights and smells brought a rush of bile into Finn’s throat, but he managed to suppress the gag reflex.
“Upstairs,” Ballick said, nodding toward a rickety plywood staircase in the corner. “Mikey,” he called to one of the men bent over the bloody sink. The man stood and looked over his shoulder. Finn could see the muscles rippling under a thin T-shirt. “Keep an eye on the guy outside.” Ballick walked to the stairs and the entire building seemed to list to one side as the heavy man headed up.
The upstairs was only marginally less retch-inducing. The walls were open to the studs, and Finn could see patches of mold along the walls and on the ceiling. The stench from below seemed just as powerful. There was a small desk in the center of the room-painfully small for a man of Ballick’s girth-and a few rusted folding chairs placed haphazardly around. Stacks of newspapers and filing cabinets stood along one wall.
“Nice office,” Finn commented.
“Not what you’re used to, Counselor?”
“Actually, my office isn’t much bigger. Better ventilated, maybe.”
“With all the money you must be making these days?”
“I make a lot less than you do. Appearances notwithstanding.”
Ballick sat down behind the desk and slid open one of the bottom drawers, pulling out a thermos. He took the cup-shaped top off and turned it upside down on the desktop, then unscrewed the cap and poured out some of the contents. A thin wisp of steam wafted up. “I’ve never given much of a fuck about appearances,” Ballick said as he lifted the cup to his lips.
Finn nodded and pulled a chair over, sitting in front of the desk. “Me neither.”
“So?” Ballick said. “You said you wanted to talk. Talk.”
Kozlowski was leaning against the side of the building, close to the doorway so that he might hear it if things got loud upstairs. He’d have felt much better if he could have seen Finn and heard exactly what was going on. It was unlikely that Ballick would do anything. There were too many people around, and it wouldn’t be worth his effort. Still, Kozlowski felt uneasy.
The door opened and a man stepped outside. He was in his late twenties, a little taller than Kozlowski, with a shaved head and a goatee. An apron hung from his shoulders, covered in blood and fish guts, and his T-shirt, presumably once white, was splotched with yellow and gray. The arms that protruded from the sleeves were covered in green-black prison tattoos; cables of muscle and treads of veins shifted as he moved.
He paused as he adjusted to the light, his hand to his eyes, looking for something. Then he turned in Kozlowski’s direction. It took a moment for the recognition to flash in the man’s eyes, but once it did, it morphed instantly to hatred.
“Muthafucka,” he said. He was only a few feet from Kozlowski.
“Mikey Sullivan,” Kozlowski said. He nodded to the man. “How you been?”
“Fuck you care, Kozlowski?” the man said.
“C’mon, Mikey. I care. It makes me feel good when I know that the people I put away have been rehabilitated. Nice to see you got yourself a real job. Can’t say too much for your employer, but hell, I guess you gotta take what you can get. You just gut fish for Ballick, or you gut other things, too?”
The man took a half-step back, his hand going to the pocket at the front of his apron. “You ain’t on the job no more, from what I hear.”
“True.”
“So, what the fuck are you doin’ here, Kozlowski?”
“Maybe I’m just checking up on you. Maybe this is how I like to spend my days.”
“Maybe you made a mistake. Maybe you ain’t so fuckin’ tough without a badge.”
“Maybe,” Kozlowski said. He took his weight off the side of the building and secured his footing. He had a good idea what was coming.
“Maybe we’ll see,” the man said. He drew his hand out of the apron pocket, and Kozlowski could see the knife. It was long and thin and covered with blood. Then Sullivan lunged.
“ Devon ’s in a difficult spot,” Finn said.
“Yeah, so?” Ballick replied. “Fuck’s it got to do with me? Fuck’s it got to do with you, for that matter?”
“He’s my client,” Finn said. “I was wondering if there would be anything anyone could tell me that might help him out. Hypothetically speaking.”
“Hypothetically speaking?”
“Yeah.” Finn decided to tread lightly. “I’m not looking for you to say anything that might implicate yourself in any criminal activity. On the other hand, you may be able to give me some information that I could trade on his behalf.”
“What kind of information?”
“Information about who was involved in setting up the robbery at Gilberacci’s. Devon says there was inside involvement-that Johnny Gilberacci helped plan the whole thing.”