Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

“Very.”

“And was that a problem at MCC?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Can you tell me about that?”

He seemed to be very far away for a moment and then appeared as if he might cry. He didn’t speak, only shook his head. “Not now.”

Jake came back and said he had to get going. He looked to the door and around the coffee shop. Everyone was so intent on their phones, computers, and tablets that I didn’t think our presence had even been noted.

“Where do you work?” I said.

“Warehouse,” he said. “I move stone and tile. I take inventory. Drive a forklift.”

“Can’t you go back to school?” I said.

“Now?” Jake said, shaking his head. “Nah. I’m done. Screw those people. I need to get on with my life.”

“But that’s not easy,” I said. “Without the paper.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

We all walked out into the dark together. My popularity was growing.

12

Susan and I were walking in Harvard Square on the way to Russell House Tavern. Susan had on a long black down coat and dark designer blue jeans tucked into a tall pair of Italian riding boots. She bought the boots on our recent trip to Paris and was fond of telling me the great deal they’d been. Nearly half-off at a boutique in the Saint-Germain.

“They remind me of the Brasserie Lipp,” I said.

“Everything about Paris reminds you of the Lipp.”

“The frankfurters with spicy mustard, the sauerkraut.”

“And don’t forget the beer.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “We’ll always have the beer.”

Harvard Square bustled in and around the T station despite it being cold enough to freeze the banana off a brass monkey. A gray-bearded man in an Army coat and fingerless gloves played some Simon and Garfunkel on a battered guitar. Undergrads were hanging out outside the bars, smoking cigarettes and talking about things that Harvard undergrads discuss. Two inebriated girls were in an argument. One told the other that her judgment was skewed so heteronormative.

A homeless man in a ski hat smelling of Mad Dog 20/20 challenged passersby to a Bible trivia test for five bucks. Or at least that’s what his sandwich board promised.

“Let me ask you a professional question.”

“No shrink talk after hours,” she said.

“This isn’t about being a shrink,” I said. “This is about your previous occupation.”

“Housewife or guidance counselor?”

“Guidance counselor.”

She linked her arm in mine. “Fair enough. Fire away.”

“What are your thoughts about cops in schools?”

“When I was a counselor, we didn’t have them,” she said. “It’s a relatively new idea, and while I understand the need, I don’t like the message.”

“Meaning?”

“Some horrific things have happened in schools lately,” she said. “But while the old model had the counselors or teachers or administrators looking for solutions to most problems, all those problems now seem to fall to the school resource officer, and they’re ill-equipped to solve them. From what you’ve told me about Blackburn, and other things I’ve heard, it’s gotten very much out of hand. They’re cops. They have only one approach to a problem.”

“Cops make an arrest and the school’s hands are clean.”

“Out of sight and out of mind.”

“Do you still have any old contacts who may know about the current climate in Blackburn?”

“I resent that my contacts are old.”

“ Old is a relative term.”

“I can make some calls Monday.”

“Good,” I said. “I’ll buy you an extra order of the deviled eggs.”

“You were going to do that anyway.”

“How about a Bloody Mary?”

“This late?” she said. “I’ll take a gimlet. Ketel One. Fresh lime juice.”

“Of course,” I said. “I may need a double myself.”

“That bad?”

“It’s rotten as hell up there,” I said, both of us turning off the street and into the Russell House Tavern patio, tall mushroom heaters burning a bright orange, and ducking inside and down into the basement. “The juvie courts don’t have an issue with suspending the Constitution. And none of the locals, or even the public defender, wants to challenge it.”

Miracle of all miracles, we found a spot for two at the bar. I ordered a gimlet for Susan and a Harpoon Ale for myself. I tried to keep away from the hard stuff except on very bad days or for medicinal reasons. There was soft music playing and a lot of loud, but not unpleasant, conversation.

“It seems I’m dealing with a lot of trusting and naïve parents,” I said. “Some of them are immigrants who are slow to question authority.”

“Are you sure their rights are being denied?”

“I spent a great portion of my day talking with parents,” I said. “Some I found had the option of a release. My client had the option of a release. I found three others who said the release wasn’t optional and they were told to sign.”

“Do you think that’s the norm?”

“The good judge tries a lot of cases,” I said. “All of them are confidential.”

“But even one case of a child being denied an attorney would be enough for an official inquiry?”

“One would think,” I said. “Apparently another judge up there, a family court judge, filed a complaint that Scali was eating up his budget with all the kids he was putting away.”

“Then why not just talk to the judge?”

“I’d have to retain the services of Madame Blavatsky.”

“Dead.”

“As a doornail,” I said. “Died last year. I tried to speak to his widow, but she seems to be out of town.”

The bartender, looking spiffy in a crisp white shirt and black vest, served our drinks. I liked the new trend of bartenders dressing like bartenders. The bar had a lot of handsome polished wood and marble counters. Single lights hung from the ceiling, filaments burning in vintage globes. We raised our glasses and clinked them together.

“If the kid gets off on a technicality,” she said, “that won’t be enough for you.”

“Or his mother. On principle.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Hard to open closed doors and secrecy,” I said.

“Unless you happen to have a size-twelve steel-toed boot.”

“You have a solid point.” I smiled and sipped some of the Harpoon. “How’d you get so smart?”

“It doesn’t take a Ph.D. to appreciate your unnatural persistence,” she said. “Especially to those abusing power.”

“Toward kids.”

“The worst.”

13

I awoke early Monday morning, fixed myself two semi-poached eggs, some corned-beef hash, and rye toast lathered in Irish butter. Showered and closely shaved, I tugged on a pair of Levi’s with a black cable-knit sweater, slipped a peacoat over the .38 on my hip, and drove north along I-93. At a quarter till nine, I knocked on the door of the late Judge Price. When the knocking didn’t work, I tried the bell. If I ever dropped sleuthing, I would be a dynamite employee for Avon.

After the third attempt, the door opened and an older woman with perfect grayish-black hair and exact makeup stood facing me.

I introduced myself. I told her I was working a case related to her husband.

She stared at me. She did not smile or even register if she understood me. When I finished, her eyes lingered and then wandered down to my Red Wing boots. She nodded a couple times and said, “All right then. I am Mary Price. You may come in for a moment, but I’m already running very late.”

I wiped my boots on a Christmas-themed welcome mat and walked into a still and dark house. The floors were wide-planked hardwoods. The walls were white and spare, with framed family photos and oil paintings of New England landscapes. She had a nice fire going in her family room, where she invited me to sit on a long brown leather couch. An old mantel clock over the hearth clicked off time in a steady and assured tick-tock.