“Stay away from her. I’m serious.”
Ballick stood. “No, I’m fuckin’ serious.” He picked up the gun and pointed it at Finn. “This conversation’s over.”
Kozlowski’s finger trembled, tightening on the trigger. “Get the fuck up.”
Sullivan got to his feet. Kozlowski twisted his arm and faced him toward the side of the building. “Hands on the wall,” Kozlowski said. “You’ve done this before, spread ’em.”
Sullivan assumed the familiar pose, leaning forward on the building. “What the fuck you gonna do? Arrest me?”
Kozlowski kicked at the man’s feet. “Farther apart, asshole.” He stuck the barrel of the gun into the man’s back and bent over as he used his free hand to frisk him. His hand slid over the blood and fish guts that covered the apron.
“You can’t arrest me,” the man taunted. “You’re not a fuckin’ cop no more.”
Kozlowski straightened up and put the gun at the base of the man’s skull. “Who said anything about arresting you, Mikey? You been in twice already. Consider this my own version of the three-strikes rule.” He pushed the gun harder into the man’s head, until his face was rubbing against the building’s raw wood siding.
“You can’t fuckin’ kill me!” the man yelled.
“No? Why not?”
The door banged open and Finn stepped out. Ballick followed him, holding a gun. He looked at Kozlowski. “You see what I mean?” he said to Finn. “Once a cop, always a fuckin’ cop.” He raised his gun and pointed it toward the back of Finn’s head. “Okay, if you’re the cowboy, I guess that makes me the fuckin’ Indian. You wanna play?”
“It’s not my fault,” Mikey pleaded with Ballick.
“Shut up, you worthless piece of shit. What do you think, cop? Should we waste ’em both?”
Kozlowski uncocked his gun and lowered it. Ballick did the same.
“Too bad,” Ballick said. “For a second we both had a chance to do some fuckin’ good here today.”
Kozlowski grabbed Mikey by the back of his shirt and pulled him off the building, then shoved him toward Ballick. “Maybe next time.”
Ballick looked at Mikey. “Thanks for keepin’ an eye on this guy.”
“I’m sorry, Eddie.” Mikey barely got the words out before Ballick whipped the gun around, catching him in the face with the butt. He went down instantly.
“I said shut the fuck up.”
“Let’s go,” Kozlowski said to Finn.
Finn nodded and the two of them started walking toward their car. “Hey lawyer-man!” Ballick called out. Finn turned. “You should get to know your fuckin’ client a little better. He’s playin’ you. Swear to God, he’s playin’ you better than I’m gonna play his little girl when she shows up on my doorstep lookin’ for food.”
Kozlowski looked back and forth between the two men.
“You’re not part of the game no more!” Ballick yelled. “You remember that!”
Finn and Kozlowski got into Finn’s car and Finn pulled out.
Kozlowski looked at him. “So, how’d it go?”
Chapter Twelve
The guard’s voice echoed off the walls of the central area at the jail. “ Devon Malley! Phone call!”
Devon knew it had to be Finn. Phone calls only came in to inmates if there was an emergency, or if it was a lawyer. Other than that, calls had to be placed by the inmates themselves during specified times. He headed to the long, narrow corridor off one side of the cell block. A guard was there to open the door for him. “Number three,” he said. Along the wall of the corridor were several phones spaced evenly apart. Devon went to the third one in the line and picked up the handset. “Finn?” he said.
“Yeah,” Finn replied.
“Did you see him?” Devon held his breath waiting for the answer.
“I got nothing,” Finn replied.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it was a waste of time. There’s nothing we’re gonna get from Ballick.”
“Why not? Did you see him?”
“Yeah, I saw him,” Finn said. “He wouldn’t give us anything even if he had something to give.”
“But you saw him? You spoke to him?”
“Yeah.”
“In person?”
“Yeah. What the fuck does it matter? Weren’t you listening? He’s not gonna help us. He wouldn’t give up Gilberacci even if he could. What the fuck is going on?”
“Nothing,” Devon said, smiling to himself. “He say anything else?”
“Yeah, he said that you don’t do any work for him anymore. He told me you’re playing me. You wanna tell me what that’s all about?”
“That’s nothing. Eddie’s always been a hard case, you know that.”
“Yeah, I know,” Finn said. “That wasn’t it, though. There was something else. I need you to be straight with me, Devon, if you want me to keep representing you.”
“You worry too much, Finn. You’ve got to trust me a little more; everything’s gonna be okay. The arraignment’s tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. You get me out, and I’ll get you the money I owe you.”
“I’m not worried about the money,” Finn said.
“Yeah, right. A lawyer not worried about money. Who the fuck you think you’re dealing with, Finn?”
“I saw your apartment when I picked Sally up,” Finn said. “I know you can’t pay me. Not if that’s the shithole you’ve been living in.”
“Don’t ever judge a book by its fuckin’ cover, Finn. I just need you to get me out on bail. I’ll take care of everything else.”
Devon heard Finn sigh on the other end of the line. “We’re in pretty good shape as far as the hearing goes. I’ll get there a little early and we can talk through any questions you have. The most important thing will be for you to keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.”
Devon laughed again. “Right. You’re the boss.”
“I’m serious about that, Devon. Judges don’t like to hear from smartass defendants. Nothing pisses them off faster,” Finn said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be good,” Devon replied. “And I swear to God, I’ll get you your money when all this is done.”
“Whatever.”
“How’s Sally?”
“She’s fine. She’s fourteen.”
“Yeah, I know. Fucked up as it sounds, though, she’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Will you give her a message?”
“Sure.”
“Tell her I’m getting out tomorrow. Tell her everything’s gonna be fine. Tell her to trust me.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s heard that before,” Finn said.
“She has,” Devon admitted. “This time it’s true, though.” He hung up.
As he walked back to his cell, he took his first deep breath of the day. Ever since he’d heard about Murphy’s murder, his chest had felt constricted. Now he had real hope. Perhaps the past would remain in the past after all.
Devon would have waited a little longer. The St. Patrick’s Day fete in the building next door was winding down, and in a matter of a half hour the risk of being seen would have gone down dramatically. Being seen wasn’t necessarily fatal to the job-undoubtedly the four young men who had passed by them on the street had seen them-but it increased the risk of something going wrong. The Irishman was not going to be restrained anymore, though, so Devon got out of the car.
It was unseasonably warm. It had been down in the thirties the night before, but by midday it was well into the sixties, and by the time the sun went down the temperature had passed seventy degrees. Devon had spent some of the day walking the city, trying to clear his head before the job. Drunk girls were walking around in loose T-shirts, and the bars opened their windows to let the people breathe. The city was so packed you could hardly move on the streets, and the heat brought out the best and the worst in everyone. St. Patrick’s Day was like that in Southie. It was like Christmas and New Year’s all rolled into one with a keg of green beer to top it off. Devon never liked it. It was amateur hour out at the bars, with every rich prick from the colleges or the suburbs with an Irish grandmother or maid walking around screaming “Kiss me, I’m Irish,” like they had any real fucking idea what it meant to be Irish.