Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

“I sure know how to pick ’em,” she said.

The guard opened the door and let her out. I was led back to the court with the other prisoners. Rita found a spot in the courtroom. I got to sit on a long, hard bench waiting for Callahan. He did not seem to be in any hurry, looking down from on high, shuffling through the docket. He was a pig-faced Irishman with a high-pink complexion and white hair swept back from his forehead. He had a thick, bloated neck and looked to be wearing a size-XXL black robe. He held a big cup of coffee on the bench with him and took an audible slurp between his pronouncements. At the moment, he was talking to a skinny young woman who’d been busted for possession of heroin.

“Not my problem,” he said. “The court ordered you to rehab and you left early. How long has it been since your last appearance?”

The skinny woman mumbled something I could not hear.

“Two weeks?” Callahan said before slurping his coffee. “Well, Jiminy Cricket on a stick. What? Okay. Okay. Sorry, sweetheart. Off you go.”

Bond was set for ten thousand bucks. The woman cried very loudly. Callahan slurped some coffee and launched into a coughing fit. Four cases later, my name was called. Rita joined me at the lectern. Callahan had not glanced up once, reading the charges and then taking a long pause. The lectern had a microphone. Perhaps some “Volare”?

The bailiff told the courtroom I’d been charged with sexual misconduct with a minor. Perhaps not. I looked to Rita and Rita back to me. She spent the next four minutes telling the judge that I was actually a pretty swell guy.

Callahan stared down at me and smiled. The smile was quick, but it was there. He slurped his coffee a final time and set bail at a quarter million.

Under her breath, Rita accused Callahan of being intimate with his mother.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“You want me to call Susan?”

“She knew what would happen.”

“And what’s she going to do?”

“It’s been taken care of.”

27

Hawk met me in the lobby of the city jail. Back in street clothes, I was in need of a hot shower and something edible. We did not speak while we walked from the jail and down the steps to the parking lot. It was a dark morning and snowing. Snowplows were out scraping clean the potholed streets of Blackburn.

Hawk hit the locks on his Jaguar and I slid into the passenger seat. The car smelled of new leather and civilization. He had his stereo on low. I recognized the guttural voice of Howlin’ Wolf from the original Chess sessions. He sang a song called “Smokestack Lightning.”

“They sure want to fuck you hard, babe.”

“Yep.”

“Coming at you from all sides,” he said. “The creeps and the law. Got to believe you hit a raw nerve.”

“Would you believe this all started because a kid said his vice principal liked to garden in the nude?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“The man didn’t have a sense of humor.”

“And what happened to the kid?”

“Cooling his heels in a juvie facility out on Fortune Island.”

“I was nine years old first time I was arrested,” Hawk said. “Stealing a bottle of whiskey for my uncle.”

“What happened?”

“A big fat white cop whipped my ass with his gun belt,” he said. “Second time was much worse. Didn’t get out of that place for nearly a year. Those guards sho’ did love to watch us niggers kill each other.”

We drove out of the downtown, following a snowplow, until Hawk passed, and led us away and over the old metal bridge. He wore a long navy coat and a snug-fitting cashmere cap to match. His sunglasses had the Chanel insignia at the hinges. Big snowflakes hit the windshield before the wipers knocked them away.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Chump change,” Hawk said. “Unless you’re guilty.”

“Got to cost something.”

“I invest wisely.”

“Might take some time,” I said.

“You know where it’s all coming from?”

“I do.”

“But the bitch of it is in the proving.”

“Yep.”

Hawk turned south onto I-93 and we drove back toward Boston. Not long into the drive, Hawk stopped off at Dempsey’s at Medford. I ordered Irish eggs Benedict, home fries, and a pot of coffee as fast as anyone could.

Hawk had Texas French toast and fresh squeezed orange juice. “Susan said you had three sluggers stop by your office.”

I shrugged and cut off a bit of hash. The food was so good I could feel it in my toes. I wiggled them inside my boots as I chewed.

“You know who paid their bill?”

I shook my head. It was rude to talk with your mouth full.

“Any idea?”

I swallowed. “One of them recognized me,” I said. “Said he used to work for Broz.”

“And the other two?”

I described the older guy, Baldy, and the redheaded kid. Hawk cut up his French toast like a surgeon. An attractive waitress in a form-fitting uniform stopped by to refill our cups. Hawk thanked her and smiled as the wolf must’ve at Little Red Riding Hood.

“What sharp teeth you have,” I said.

Hawk smiled bigger. He ate a little more and then wiped his mouth with his napkin. “The older gentleman is Arty Leblanc,” he said.

“Arty Leblanc?”

“Yeah,” Hawk said. “Sound nicer than he is.”

“How bad?”

“Stupid and bad,” Hawk said. “He once gave a man an enema with a garden hose ’cause he late on his vig.”

“Inventive,” I said. The Irish eggs Benedict was excellent. I speared a bit of bread with a runny poached egg and a little hash. “How’s the Texas French toast?”

“Giddyup.”

“You had a run-in with Leblanc?”

“Worked two jobs with him,” Hawk said. “Never will again.”

“Can you find out who holds his leash?”

Hawk took another bite and thoughtfully chewed. Outside the plate-glass windows, the snow scattered and twirled in the bluing of the late morning. I hadn’t been in jail long but felt an ease in my back and shoulders with the freedom.

“I know a guy who can help,” he said. “But you won’t like it.”

I drank some more coffee and started into the last of the Benedict. “Like what?”

“The man in the know.”

“Ming the Merciless?”

“Only with more hair and a better suit.”

“Vinnie Morris.”

“Yep,” Hawk said. “Vinnie will know who Leblanc working for. You think he’s still pissed at you?”

28

Since he’d split with Gino Fish, Vinnie Morris had kept an office on the second floor of a bowling alley on the Concord Turnpike. When we walked in, a fat guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt and shiny shoes nodded us to an open staircase. I’d been there before. The alley hadn’t changed its décor since the Beatles appeared on Ed Sullivan . The upstairs promised an exciting lounge with nightly entertainment. Now it was a storage area filled floor-to-ceiling with boxes. I didn’t know what was inside the boxes, nor would I ask.

Vinnie waited for us at the landing.

He didn’t look pleased to see me. We’d had a falling-out the year before over a hidden interest in a casino slated for Revere. He nodded to me. I nodded back. Civil.

Vinnie looked good. He’d given up the baggy tracksuits for his preppy look of old. His salt-and-pepper hair had been expertly trimmed. He wore a three-piece gray suit and black tie that made him look more Beacon Hill than North End. A smile crept on his face as he tossed a half-dollar into the air and nodded.

“I thought George Raft was dead,” I said.

“Heard you were dead, too,” Vinnie said. “Some Puerto Rican gangbangers after you.”