The goon, whose voice sounded like a tinny version of Andy Kaufman playing Latka Gravas on the old show, “Taxi,” was reluctant to buzz us in, but eventually did so after being threatened by Brick. My uncle told the poor dolt that Jimmy Kills would eat the guy’s heart for breakfast the next day if Jimmy found out we were turned away, after he heard what we had to say.
That seemed to do the trick, because the next thing I knew, the massive cast-iron gate was swinging open. We swept past it in Brick’s Mercedes and I turned to watch the gate clang shut behind us. “Uh, what makes you so sure Jimmy Kills won’t eat our hearts for breakfast?” I nervously asked my uncle.
“Nothing, really. Just a clean conscience and a sunny disposition,” he answered. “Plus, it’s closer to dinner time than breakfast.”
“Oh, great,” I said. “So there’s no pressure then.” I knew we were in trouble when my uncle was starting to make sense.
We finally arrived at Kilpatrick’s house after a long drive through a heavily wooded area. We burst out of the primeval forest onto what looked like the eighteenth fairway at Augusta National. I mean, Jimmy Kills’ place was immaculate. The lawn was emerald-green, and the walkway leading from Jimmy’s cobblestone driveway up to the front door of his southern-style mansion was swept so clean you could eat off of it. I didn’t see any groundskeepers, but I had no trouble picturing them cutting the grass in three-piece suits and spit-shined wingtips.
Brick parked his car at the top of the circular driveway and as we approached the front door, it swung open and a butler wearing a shoulder holster with a weapon conspicuously displayed ushered us in. I wondered briefly how many guns had been trained on us as we had walked from the car to the house before deciding I didn’t really want to know.
I’m not sure what I expected Jimmy Kilpatrick to look like, but the man who strode across the living room and into the foyer to greet us looked more like a retired professional athlete—maybe a pro golfer or tennis player—than a cold-blooded mob kingpin. He was dressed in a crisp blue golf shirt and tan slacks, his steel-gray hair swept back from a tanned forehead.
My uncle’s real name, the name his parents hung on him when he was born, is Brian Richard Callahan. He absolutely hated the name Brian, for reasons which mystify me but are very real to him, so from a very young age, he started going by B. Richard Callahan. That moniker got reduced to B. Rick, and from there it was only a matter of time before people started calling him Brick. The name fits him like the glove should have fit O.J., and Brick is the only thing I’ve ever heard him called. Until today.
Jimmy Kilpatrick grabbed Brick’s hand and shook it enthusiastically, telling him, “Brian, I was so sorry to hear about your brother.”
I took half a step back, ready for a classic Brick Callahan explosion. It’s not an exaggeration to say that nobody calls my uncle Brian. I’m sure that when he gets to the pearly gates, St. Peter will contemplate calling him Brian, then decide the hell with it and follow the path of least resistance and use Brick, like everybody else.
You can imagine my surprise, then, when my uncle squared up his shoulders and simply accepted the words of sympathy from Jimmy Kilpatrick. Unlike when we met Harold Dawes, Kilpatrick’s words seemed sincere and well-intentioned.
Jimmy Kills continued, “Obviously, your agency and my organization are not always on the same side of the fence, legally speaking, but I had the pleasure of dealing with Dennis Callahan on more than one occasion, and I always found him to be a gentleman of honor and integrity. Even though I didn’t often see eye to eye with him, I respected him and I felt he respected me as well. His passing is truly a tragedy.”
Kilpatrick then led us into a small sitting room, where three settings of tea and coffee sat waiting on a sterling silver serving tray, steam curling into the air out of the delicate porcelain cups. He indicated we should sit, and played the perfect host, preparing our drinks before sitting himself.
Finally Kilpatrick sat and took a sip of his tea. “My man who operates the front gate is not easy to intimidate. Please accept my congratulations on browbeating him, although you should know I almost never eat heart for breakfast. For dinner, sometimes, but never breakfast.”
My uncle laughed like we were sharing jokes with David Letterman. I thought, and not for the first time, that Brick Callahan was either the bravest or most foolhardy man I had ever met. He said, “I’m sorry for intruding on your day, Mr. Kilpatrick, especially at home, but when you see what I have to show you, you will be glad you agreed to see us.”
“And what do you have to show me?”
Brick reached into his breast pocket, handing the bogus MP3 player to Jimmy Kilpatrick. “If you would connect that to your computer, Mr. Kilpatrick, you will see that one of your employees has been a very bad boy.”
Jimmy Kills reached under the table on which the tea and coffee was set, pulling out a laptop computer. While we waited for it to boot up, the mobster and my uncle traded small talk about various members of the community, both on the law enforcement and criminal side of the fence, that they both knew. They had a surprisingly large number of people in common.
When the computer was ready, Kilpatrick connected the seemingly innocent music player to a USB port. A few seconds later, he was studying the data on the screen like a Hollywood actor learning his lines. Gradually his face hardened as what he was reading began to dawn on him.
He reached under the table again, pulling out a calculator. My uncle said, “I can save you the trouble. I’m sure you’ll want to double-check my numbers, but when you do you’ll discover that Mr. Dawes has skimmed almost two million dollars off your account over the past several years.”
The mobster sat in silent contemplation. All of a sudden he looked a lot less like a retired golfer and a lot more like a ruthless crime figure. Finally he spoke, asking, “How did you get this and why did you bring it here?”
My uncle answered, “There was an accountant working for Dawes by the name of Robert Billingsley who discovered this double-bookkeeping quite by accident. When he confronted Harold Dawes he was murdered for his trouble, but not before giving this evidence to my brother for safe keeping. Dawes found out and killed Dennis too, but was unable to locate the hard drive.
“My nephew and I are looking for a little justice, both for Mr. Billingsley’s wife Maggie, who brought the entire affair to our attention, and for my brother. If we involve the police, I fear Mrs. Billingsley will become a target—the wheels of justice move so slowly sometimes, and I think Dawes would take her out just for spite. Also, the only direct evidence we have was his admission of guilt to us and that would simply be our word against his.”
Jimmy Kills absorbed this information as an uncomfortable silence descended over the room. My coffee was getting cold and I could feel what I had drunk sitting in my stomach like acid. At last he composed himself and rose, extending a hand to Brick and then to me. “I would like to thank you for bringing this to my attention,” he said. “You can rest assured justice will be served. Again, please accept my condolences on the passing of Dennis Callahan.”
As he finished speaking, the sitting room door swung smoothly open, and the butler with the sidearm escorted us through the house and out to Brick’s car. How he knew the exact moment to enter I have no idea. He stood watching us as we drove out the way we had come in. As we reentered the thickly forested area between the house and the street, I turned around in my seat and saw Jeeves standing stock-still, staring impassively into the distance until we were out of sight.