Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“Does Scali play fair?”

“Who are you?’

“A harbinger of change.”

Bukowski raised his head back, took a deep swallow. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “He doesn’t want us in there. I got enough shit to fight in this town without worrying about the kiddies.”

I laid down money for another drink and left Felix on the bar stool, head tucked deep into the parka, staring straight ahead at the row of booze. It had started to snow, the sidewalks covered in white. For maybe a good thirty seconds, Blackburn almost looked pretty.

9

Henry Cimoli had placed me on a strict upper-body routine while my knee healed up. He liked to remind me my legs weren’t that great anyway. I told him he was crazy and intentionally wore a pair of navy gym shorts to make the point. I left my leg out straight while I cranked out several reps on the bench. The front of my gray workout tee was soaked in sweat. It had been a while since I had attacked the heavy bag.

“Let me know when you’re done warming up,” Henry said.

“What makes you think I’m warming up?”

“I saw Hawk curl what you’ve got on that bar,” he said.

I slid an extra plate onto the bar and performed twelve reps to shut him up. When I racked the weight and sat upright on the bench, Henry stood nearby, unimpressed. “Next time slower,” he said. “And pause when the bar hits your chest. Don’t bounce it. You’ll get hurt that way.”

“I only get hurt when someone uses a tire iron on my legs,” I said.

“That’s your own fault,” Henry said. “You should’ve moved faster.”

“Is there no pity sitting in the clouds?”

“What the hell does that mean?” Henry said.

“Strike that,” I said. “Imagining you on high takes too much effort.”

Henry stood about five-foot-five in lifts he denied he owned. But he was as loyal a friend as they made and tougher than a two-dollar steak. I’d been working out in his gym since I’d been a wise-ass kid who thought he might be a contender. Those dreams, along with my profile, had been shattered by an aging heavyweight of some note. As of late, we’d both been working with a tough Native American named Zebulon Sixkill. Henry offered him boxing lessons and I was helping him get his investigator license. He had great potential.

“You heard from Z?” Henry said.

“I offered a letter of introduction to my people in Southern California.”

“Your people are damn good.”

“Yep,” I said. “And they’ll come through for Z. Whatever it is he needs.”

I walked over to a chin-up bar facing a plate-glass window. As I counted out ten reps and then went on to twelve, I looked out into the harbor. The water was black and choppy, and you couldn’t see maybe a hundred feet beyond the pier. Everything was wrapped in a white haze. It felt good and warm to be inside. The snow fell into the water, dusted the docked sailboats, and covered pilings in gentle mounds. Sleet mixed in with the snow tapped at the window. I got some water. Henry stood next to me drinking coffee from a foam cup.

“What’ve you been doing, besides nothing?”

“I took a case in Blackburn.”

“Blackburn?” Henry said. “Jesus. What are you doing in that shithole?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“Who’s your client?”

“A woman named Sheila Yates,” I said. “Her son was sent to kids’ jail for making fun of an administrator.”

“Is that a crime?”

“Apparently it is in Blackburn.”

“Kids got nothing to do these days,” he said. “When I was coming up, you had the streets or you had the gym.”

“Same for me,” I said. “And Hawk.”

“Boys got all kinds of anger and energy,” Henry said. “You got the body but you ain’t got the brains. You got to find a place to focus it. If you don’t, you end up in the can.”

“True.”

“You could’ve ended up in the can,” Henry said. “Right? If it weren’t for boxing and then the Army. Difference between you and Hawk was your uncle. Kept you safe after your old man passed.”

I nodded.

“And I did my best,” Henry said. “Despite how you turned out. I take no credit for that.”

“Hawk had Bobby Nevins,” I said. “Closest thing Hawk ever had to family.”

“I know for a fact Bobby kept on bailing Hawk out of the hoosegow.”

“Do people still say hoosegow ?”

“Yeah,” Henry said. “I just did.”

I slid my feet under the base of a weight bench and did three sets of sit-ups, fifty reps each. Henry stood sure-footed and gray-headed, lording over all his shiny stainless-steel machines. “A little snow and it gives people an excuse,” Henry said. “Look at this place. It’s nearly empty.”

“The roads are about to freeze.”

“Roads are always freezing,” Henry said. “If it ain’t the snow, it’s the rain. You can’t run your life around the freakin’ weather.”

“Have you no compassion for my poor nerves?”

“How does Susan put up with you?”

“The dog,” I said. “We stay together for the dog.”

“Jesus,” Henry said, walking away.

They were in the van for what seemed like forever. There were no windows and no one told them where they were headed. It was just him and seven other boys. Four of them were black, two Asians, and another scared-shitless white kid. One of the black kids started to talk about the island before they even left Blackburn. He said he’d been to the island three times and it wasn’t so rough. He said it got cold and the staff tried to fuck with your mind. But he said if you kept your head down and kept with the program you’d be cool.

The black kid had a paisley-shaped scar on one cheek and had kind of a far-off look in his eyes like he didn’t believe a word he was saying. Nobody else talked. The two guards were separated from the kids by a wire screen. They listened to some sports talk radio, a show called Paulie & the Gooch , and didn’t say much besides telling the kids to shut the fuck up twice so they could listen.

All of them were in orange. All of them had been cuffed and didn’t have anything to do but look at the floor and try not to think about where they were going as the van raced along. The black kid told him his name was Perry but everyone called him Pooky. He was from the projects in Grove Hill. Pooky said he’d stolen a car just to get the hell out of town. The judge committed him to Fortune Island until he turned eighteen.

“When I get out,” he said, “I’m getting the hell away from this damn place.”

The other white kid was Isaac, a chunky boy not even fourteen, who had stolen a copy of Grand Theft Auto from Target. The boy didn’t talk much, trying to listen and learn a little bit more about the island. No one had told him a thing.

He’d seen his dad for only a second before they removed him from court. His dad was crying. His dad just kept on saying he was sorry but didn’t say he knew what to do. For the first time, his father looked weak to him.

After a long while, the van slowed and the guards got out, slamming the doors. The boys looked at one another. No one spoke. You could hear the wind and sleet against the van doors. Finally the back door opened and there was a bright artificial light. The two men who’d driven them this far telling them to get the hell out.

“Move,” they said. “Come on. Now.”

It was the first time the boy noticed they weren’t cops but had uniforms with a patch that read MCC over an outline of Massachusetts. They told the boys to line up outside in the dark and cold. He could make out part of a parking lot and a dock in the streetlights. The guards marched them down a long path to a small dock, where an enclosed motorboat was waiting for them. They pushed the kids onboard, telling them to keep their feet inside because no one would be diving in after them.