Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

The boys stood huddled together in the common area between the housing units. Snow powdered the dead grass and the basketball court was pocked with footprints. Two black kids shot some hoops. The boy liked Dillon. He was the only one who’d talked to him that much since he’d gotten to Fortune Island, telling him the unofficial rules.

Don’t get caught smoking.

Don’t ever go alone anywhere with just one guard. Always ask for at least two, so you’ll have a witness.

Don’t mess with the black kids. Or anyone from the South Shore or Revere. Just mind your own business.

Don’t volunteer for work. They’ll have you picking up trash all day on the West Shore.

And stay the fuck away from Tony Ponessa.

“Who’s Tony Ponessa again?” the boy said.

Dillon Yates motioned with his chin at a gangly-looking kid with a shaved head standing alone by the edge of the open court. He was staring right at the boy and Dillon, his hands in his paper-thin coat. His face was thin and weaselly. He had some kind of tattoo on his neck.

“What’s the big deal?” the boy said.

“Ponessa is the mayor around here,” Dillon said. “He’s lived on this island since they built it five years ago. He killed his own brother back in Brockton. He likes to fight. He likes to start shit even if you don’t. If he has it in for you, just turn away, act like he isn’t there.”

“He’s staring at me.”

“Because you’re new,” Dillon said. “When I got here a few weeks ago, we were out picking up beach trash and he came at me. I didn’t even see it. He knocked me in the back of the head and started to fill my mouth with sand. He doesn’t look like much. But he’s strong.”

“I know how to fight,” the boy said. “That shit doesn’t bother me. I weigh more than him. I get him on the ground and the kid is done.”

“You can’t win,” Dillon said. “The guards like him. That’s why he’s always with Sergeant Fuckwad.”

“Who’s he?”

“You see the muscly guy with the crew cut?” Dillon said. “He’s totally into saying ‘yes, sir’ and doing pushups. He’ll start talking to you about a career in the military. Just you wait.”

“He drove the boat out here,” the boy said. “He watched me the whole time.”

“There’s something wrong with that guy,” Dillon said. “Something weird in his eyes like he’s taking a leak on himself. He gives me the creeps.”

The boy nodded. Tony Ponessa had moved from the court, going over to talk to the two black kids shooting hoops. Ponessa stood flat-footed and easily sunk a shot. When the shot clanged through the hoop, he turned to stare at the boy. He wasn’t smiling.

“I’m supposed to meet with the shrink today.”

“Have fun,” Dillon said. “That guy is a true weirdo. Dr. Feelgood. I think he’s on drugs the way he talks. He wants you to look at pictures and tell him that you hate your mother and that you want to go and jump in the harbor.”

“He needs to know I’m not supposed to be here.”

“None of us are supposed to be here, man,” Dillon said. “The only things that should be living on this island are seagulls and lizards. And Tony Ponessa. That kid’s got serious head issues. Did I tell you he’s into cutting himself?”

“What do you mean?”

“He likes to steal forks and shit and carve things on his arm,” Dillon said. “Last week, he got some rubber bands and tied up his fingers until they turned black. The guard had to take him out of the line and over to the infirmary.”

“How come they don’t send him away?” the boy said. “To some kind of mental unit?”

“He hates himself but doesn’t want to leave,” Dillon said. “I think he wants to freakin’ die out here or something. The guards love him. They bring him pizza and shit from the shore. They feel sorry for him or something.”

“Somebody will listen to me.”

Dillon smiled and shook his head. A cold wind shot off the harbor and cut down deep through the open space. “I know my mother has tried,” he said. “But she says it takes money to get people to listen. And we don’t have much since my dad left.”

“How long until you go home?”

“Six more months until I get off this place,” Dillon said. “But I’m never going back to Blackburn.”

“Why?”

“Because once you’re tagged as a bad kid, the judge won’t ever let you go,” he said. “He’ll find a way to get you back in until you’re eighteen.”

“I hate that guy’s guts.”

“I hate everything about him,” Dillon said. “I see him in my sleep with those purple glasses looking at me. He doesn’t care. Nobody listens. That’s just the way things are.”

“My dad will straighten it out,” the boy said. “I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t steal anything.”

The wind came up hard off the harbor and quieted the teens for a moment. The boy could make out a long line of black rocks that protected the shore and beach and this whole damn place from floating away.

21

I met Bill Barke at the Davio’s on Arlington. He was already at the bar waiting for me, seated at the apex of the glass walls on the first floor. The bar was large and long, and within walking distance of my office. Before I sat down, I knew I’d get a lobster roll and a Harpoon draft.

Bill was about my age, with a thick head of graying hair and a mustache. He was a former college basketball player and stood a few inches taller than me. He wore glasses and a tailored suit. He was a self-made success who’d gone to a state school in Pennsylvania and had a good eye for solid character. I figured that’s why he liked me. Or perhaps it was that I’d helped him out a few years ago when a couple of thugs were trying to shake down a Boston charity he supported. Either way, we’d become friends. Just this Christmas he’d sent me a fruit basket.

“So you want to know about Bobby Talos?” He had a firm handshake and a good, knowing smile.

“Any friend of Bobby’s,” I said.

“I’m not his friend,” Bill said, smiling. “How do I put this? Talos is a real horse’s ass.”

“Any other part of the horse?”

“That part, too,” Bill said. “Especially. He took over the board of a nonprofit I respect and ran it into the ground. He was more about the party than what they supported. In one year, the charity dropped below fifty percent of contributions while expenditures had tripled.”

“Nice.”

“How about you?” Barke said. “How’d you cross paths with this son of a bitch?”

I told him about my client and Dillon Yates without mentioning the boy’s name. Most of Bill’s fund-raising work revolved around children, and he sat on the board of Jumpstart, one of the best. He listened intently as I told him a little about the situation in Blackburn and what I knew about the facility on Fortune Island.

“Talos built this place?” Barke said. “The island prison?”

“He didn’t just build it,” I said. “He owns it. Or his company, Minos Inc., does.”

“Private prisons,” Bill said. “They get our kids if we don’t get to them first.”

“Besides being a rich creep, what can you tell me?”

“Let’s order first,” Bill said. “It’s best to discuss creeps on a full stomach. You hungry?”

“Is this a trick question?”

Bill grinned. He ordered us both lobster rolls with fries and two draft beers. We drank the beer as Bill collected his thoughts. “I can make a few calls, but the overall consensus on Talos is that he does whatever needs to be done to get a project completed. With shopping malls, he has city council members, union bosses, and local thugs on speed dial.”