Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

“That comes in handy.”

The lobster roll, even as judged by an advanced palate, was perfect. Emphasis on the lobster, not the mayo. The bread was spot-on.

“I knew his old man,” Bill said. “He was a creep, too. But he was less flashy about it. Bobby keeps a one-hundred-thirty-foot IAG Electra in a slip at the Boston Harbor Hotel.”

“That’s a boat?”

“That’s a yacht,” Bill said. “They’re bigger and nicer than any boat. I went to a party he was having out there a couple years ago. I was trying to make nice, as I thought I could influence Talos into doing the right thing on a few issues. I was at the party all of ten minutes when I saw things I ain’t never seen before.”

“Momma told you not to come.”

“You bet,” he said. “Just use your imagination. It was like a big frat party for a bunch of old fat guys.”

“Did they wear togas?” I said.

“No,” he said. “Thank God.”

“Do you know anyone who worked with him but has left the fold?” I said.

“No,” he said. “But I can ask around. You think he’s paying off this judge?”

“Yep.”

“That’ll be tough to prove,” Bill said. “I doubt they’re meeting in the Common exchanging sacks of cash.”

“You’d be surprised how sloppy people get.”

I was already half finished with the lobster roll and the beer. I tried to pace myself; I wanted to prolong the experience.

“How’s the knee?” Bill said.

“Better,” I said. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve been working out at the Harbor Health Club,” Bill said. “To hear Cimoli tell it, you’re falling apart.”

“Ha,” I said. “I’ll be running again in a week. Henry’s just jealous. It’s a height thing.”

“Nobody gets out of this world without a little maintenance.”

I shrugged. I finished off the roll and drank the last of the beer.

“You want another?”

I shook my head. “Yes, but no.”

I reached for my wallet and Bill put his hand out. “On me, Spenser,” he said. “It’ll be nice for you to owe me for a change.”

“So noted.”

“Let me know what you hear about Talos,” he said. “In a town of some authentic creeps, he’s unique company to keep.”

22

When I returned to my office, I found three men waiting for me. They did not seem lost or in need of my sleuthing services. One was sitting in my chair with his feet up on my desk. Another had his back to the wall by my washbasin, and the other sat in a client chair, playing with his gun.

“You Spenser?” the man in my chair said.

“Jesus,” I said. “You come in and lean on a guy, at least you could read the lettering on the door. No, I’m Ted Lipshitz, CPA. Spenser is two doors down. But be careful. He doesn’t like illiterate dipshits putting their feet up on his desk.”

The man stood quick. Thatta boy, Spenser. Hurl the really tough insults.

He was a large man, as all leg breakers tend to be. He had a lean face and a square jaw. He had shaved his receding hair down to nearly nothing on his head and wore a black leather jacket, as did the other two guys in his crew.

“Nice jackets. Was Burlington having a sale?” I said. “Two-for-one Naugahyde?’

“I’ll cut to the chase,” the man said.

“Goody.”

I moved behind my desk and pushed in to a few inches of where he sat. He smiled, stood, and stepped back. The snug-fitting coat didn’t do much to conceal the gun he wore on his left side. I sat at the desk, flicking my eyes at the other two. The man with the gun was really more of a kid, with a freckled white face and red hair that only a mother from County Cork could love.

The man leaning against the washbasin had gray curly hair and wore dark sunglasses. He looked like a guy I may have met once. The man didn’t say anything. I edged forward, inching my hand under the desk, not far from the right-hand drawer.

“I’ll spell it out to you,” the bald guy said.

“Let me know if you need help.”

“Keep on being a wiseass and they’ll be cleaning you up off Berkeley Street with a mop.”

I nodded. “How about you say it one more time, slower. And squint your eyes. You’ll look tougher if you squint.”

The redheaded kid with the gun snickered. The bald man told him to shut the fuck up.

“Youth,” I said.

“Your services are terminated in Blackburn,” he said.

“Yikes.”

“Go ahead,” he said. “Push it. You have no idea the kinda people you’re pissing off.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “I have a pretty good idea of the people I’m pissing off. I have a list. Would you like me to write a note back to Mr. Talos?”

Baldy looked at me, eyes narrowing. He was learning or just looked confused. Of course, he probably always looked confused. But I don’t think he knew who I was talking about. I didn’t think the guy was good enough to feign ignorance. He was too good at conveying the real thing.

“Jimmy.”

The redheaded kid stood holding the gun. The senior gentleman with the gray curly hair pushed himself off the wall. They walked toward my desk.

“I know you,” I said, snapping my fingers at the old guy. “You were in the Mickey Mouse Club. You, Cubby, and Annette. Wow. Brings back some real memories.”

“I worked for Joe Broz,” he said. “The man hated your fucking guts.”

“And now he’s dead,” I said. “Who said there’s no such thing as karma?”

“He was a good man,” he said. “Open your mouth again and I’ll shoot you in the fucking nuts.”

“Hold on,” I said, reaching for my yellow legal pad and a pen. I did so with my left hand, using my right to open up the drawer. I awkwardly picked up the pen and reached into the drawer for my .357. “First off, stay out of Blackburn. Second, don’t open my mouth. Is there a third request?”

“Hey,” the redhead said. “He’s got it.”

“Shut the fuck up,” the bald man said.

The boy had a gun but he held it loose by his right leg. The gray-headed thug began to reach into his jacket. I grabbed the Magnum and pointed it dead center of the main guy. I began to whistle a sad rendition of the Mickey Mouse Club song. I let go of the pen with my left hand and began to wave. “See you real soon.”

The big man with the shaved head swallowed. He stood there and breathed.

“You know me, Cubby,” I said. “Tell him this isn’t a bluff.”

“Nope,” the gray-headed man said.

“Stay out of Blackburn,” Baldy said.

I kept on whistling. “ Why? Because we like you.”

“This guy is fucking nuts,” the redhead said. “Old dude is nuts.”

“Drop the gun, kid,” I said. My eyes flicked over each one of them. The kid smiled but soon the smile dropped. He let go of the automatic. It clattered to the floor.

“Now, all of you walk out the door and go away,” I said. “I’ll need to fumigate the place after you’re gone.”

The big man spit on my floor and tromped out. The gray-headed man smirked and winked at me before following. The kid stood like a deer in headlights, unsure whether to leave the gun or not. I leveled an unpleasant stare at him, gun in hand, as I heard the men’s heavy footsteps move down the hall.

He said, “Shit,” and turned and left.

When I spotted them on Berkeley getting into a large black SUV, I set the .357 on the table. I couldn’t see the tag number and knew I wasn’t fast enough to run down to my car and follow.

Besides, I knew they’d soon be back.

23

Susan and I went for another walk, this time in Cambridge. We had followed Mass Avenue from Linnaean Street, past the park and the Old Burying Grounds. A lot of the snow had melted in select spots, and you could see actual grass among the crooked tombstones. We crossed into Harvard Yard through the stately brick buildings and by the big bronze statue of John Harvard. It was dark, and the classroom and office lights made a checkerboard pattern in the dark.