He caressed her cheek with his fingertips, and she could smell dirt and grit and sweat. He put his finger to her lips. “Open your mouth,” he said.
She wondered when the last time was that he washed the hand, and shuddered. Still, she had little choice. She let her lips part and unclenched her jaw. He pushed his finger into her mouth slowly. She gagged at the thought of what he was doing, and a dribble of saliva ran down her chin. She thought her revulsion might make him reconsider, but if anything it only seemed to excite him more. He licked his lips as he watched her. “Suck it,” he said.
She forced herself to relax as he pushed his finger farther into her mouth. She watched him closely, swallowing it up past the middle joint. It was almost over, she told herself. He closed his eyes, and tipped his head back ever so slightly, enjoying himself. She looked around briefly; his posse was transfixed by the scene.
Then she bit down on the finger as hard as she could.
He screamed and tried to pull his hand away, but she had hooked her teeth on the far side of his knuckle, and by fighting he drove her teeth deeper through the skin and muscle. His friends stood shocked, faces slack, unsure what to do.
“Get the fuckin’ bitch off me!” the boy screamed, thrashing his hand about, but it did no good. She could taste the blood as it filled her mouth, and she was afraid for a moment that she might gag again, but she held on to his wrist and kept her jaw locked. She was pretty sure that she was down to the bone, and she wondered, if she twisted slightly, whether the finger would break and come off in her mouth. It would serve him right, she figured.
He was screaming so loudly now that she almost couldn’t hear the man’s voice over the screeches. “What the devil is going on out there?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a figure in black standing on the landing of the stairs that led up to the sacristy of the church. She unclenched her teeth and the boy stumbled backward, still howling. “You fuckin’ bitch!” he yelled.
The priest was coming down the stairs now. “You there!” he yelled at the boys. “What are you doing?” He was in his fifties, with a flame of thick, bright white hair rising up from his head. “Stay there!” he yelled.
The boys were moving away, gathering themselves into a run. Blood was running down Acne-boy’s hand and onto his arm. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you little cunt!” he yelled.
The priest hit the ground and took a few strides toward the boys, looking for a moment as though he would go after them. She knew he wouldn’t really, though. He understood the dangers of the neighborhood as well as she did; the collar only provided so much protection, and he broke off any pursuit before it really started.
She was breathing hard, and the flood of adrenaline was making her shake. She reached into her pocket and pulled out another cigarette, reached down and picked up the pack of matches the boy had dropped. She lit the cigarette and took a drag.
The priest turned and headed back to her, regarding her as if she were an alien life-form. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“You belong in school,” he said.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette. Looking down, she could see a smear of blood on her skin. “I’m going,” she said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, held it out to her. His arm extended its fullest from his body to make the gesture, as though he didn’t want to come too close to her. She took it and wiped off the back of her hand. Then she wiped her mouth, and the red stain on the white fabric grew significantly. She spat, and a mouthful of blood hit the ground. She was pretty sure it was the boy’s blood, and it disgusted her. She spat again, and then took another drag from the cigarette.
The priest was just standing there, and she could feel his disgust and judgment. She didn’t blame him, really; she felt disgusted with herself. “You shouldn’t smoke cigarettes,” he said after a moment. His tone carried the implication that she had brought the attack on herself. It was more than Sally could take.
“You shouldn’t blow altar boys,” she replied.
His face contorted. “Get away from this church!” he hissed.
She dropped her cigarette on the cement and wiped her mouth once more. She tossed the handkerchief back at him, and he dodged it, letting it fall to the ground. “I’m going,” she said. “I’m late for math.”
She picked up her bag and walked past the priest, turned right, and headed up the alley to the main entrance of the school. She could feel him watching her the entire way. She didn’t care, though. What more could God do to her, she figured.
Chapter Nineteen
Finn headed upstairs to the holding cells. Devon was still in shackles as he awaited transfer back to Nashua Street. Finn rubbed his jaw, shaking his head back and forth. “You want to explain what the hell this is all about?”
“Sorry,” was all Devon said. He looked sorry, but not about the incident in the courtroom. Instead his sorrow seemed deeper. He hadn’t gotten his color back, and he sat hunched over, his shoulders drawn around him like a protective shawl.
“Sorry doesn’t really help me, Devon. I need to know what’s going on.”
Devon shook his head. “You don’t wanna know what’s going on, Finn.”
“Yes, I do,” Finn replied. “It’s been a while since I took a shot like that. I want to know why. I’m busting my ass trying to help you-trying to help your daughter. If you don’t tell me what’s going on right now, I’m walking.”
Devon looked up at him. “I can’t leave the jail. Not now.”
“Why?” Finn said. “What are you talking about?”
“You were gonna get me released, and the judge was buying it. I couldn’t let that happen. I can’t be on the street. Not now.”
“Jesus Christ, Devon,” Finn said. “You didn’t have to hit me; the judge wasn’t going to release you on your own recognizance. I was just arguing O.R. so he’d set a reasonable bail. If you didn’t want to get out, you could have refused to post the bond.”
“I couldn’t take the chance,” Devon said. “You were arguing too fuckin’ good, and I couldn’t risk the judge cuttin’ me loose.”
“Why not? Whatever this is about, isn’t it easier to deal with on the outside?”
Devon shook his head. “I wouldn’t last a fuckin’ night on the outside. I’d be dead before the sun came up.”
Finn sat back in his chair. “Murphy and Ballick,” he said. “This all ties in to them. Did you have something to do with their murders?” Devon just stared back at him. “No, of course not,” Finn thought out loud. “If you had them killed, what would you be afraid of, right?” He rubbed his jaw again. “You’re afraid of the people who killed them. You think whoever killed them would kill you if they get the chance.”
“I don’t think it, I know it,” Devon said.
“Who is it? Someone in the organization? Someone trying to move up?”
“No. There are rules in the organization, and you don’t break the rules like this without someone’s say-so.”
“So, someone from outside. Another gang?”
Devon shook his head again.
“Who, then? And why would they be trying to kill you?”
“Because they think I know where they are.”
“Where who is?”
“Not who, what. They think I know where the paintings are.”
“The paintings?” Finn was confused, but somewhere in the back of his mind an alarm went off, and he had a sense that both he and his client were in much more serious trouble than he had ever suspected.
Devon nodded at him, his shackles clattering as he brought his hands up to his face. “The paintings,” he said.
Devon had never been in the Gardner Museum before. He’d grown up in Southie and never finished high school. He’d been stealing since he was a teenager, but he’d always been a blue-collar thief, and he’d never delved into thefts involving priceless art. As he walked through the great cavernous space, he could feel the ghosts on the canvases looking down on him, powerless to intervene as the corridors echoed with the footsteps of the two thieves.