Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

“Let me guess, they went into the arts?”

“Yeah,” Vinnie said. “The art of making money.”

“Any specialty?”

“Doesn’t matter—girls, drugs, plasma TVs from China,” he said. “They run a tow-truck company in Eastie. By the airport. The older one is in charge, Jackie.”

“What’s he look like?” I said.

Vinnie described him. I nodded.

“You’ve seen him?”

“Last night,” I said. “In the company of two Blackburn judges.”

“Maybe they needed their car towed?”

I shook my head. “So what’s Zig to Jackie DeMarco and his brother?”

“I don’t know,” Vinnie said. “He’s a professional bag man. He ain’t Perry Mason.”

We stood leaning over the railing watching the two old geezers bowl. One of the men wore a warm-up jacket that read LOWELL CHIEFS. The other said LYNNFIELD MEN’S SOFTBALL. Beer bottles littered the table where they kept score.

“So that’s not much,” I said. “Zig does work for a Boston developer and some local gangsters. Can’t really fault him for that.”

“Alleged,” Vinnie said. “Alleged gangsters. None of the DeMarco boys have been indicted.”

“Momma must be proud.”

Vinnie walked over to a table by the lanes and crushed the cigarette into an ashtray. He had on a blue cashmere blazer and gray slacks. His tailored blue shirt was open at the neck, where he wore a thick gold chain that spoiled the preppy ensemble.

“Only thing else I know is Ziggy does most of his business in Florida,” he said. “He helps get some folks settled down there and into business.”

“You know where?” I said.

“Tampa Bay.”

“Tampa Bay is a body of water,” I said. “Is he in Tampa or St. Pete?”

Vinnie shrugged. “Why don’t you look it up,” he said. “You being a fucking detective and all.”

“The two judges’ wives do business in that area,” I said. “They own a travel agency and some rental property.”

“Fly down,” he said. “Go get a tan and drink some beer.”

“And detect.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That, too.”

“You want to come?” I said.

Vinnie shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not anymore. I got business to attend.”

“I’ll ask Hawk.”

“He doesn’t need a tan.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.”

Vinnie grinned and pointed his chin at the two old men down the lanes. “You ever think it’ll be like that for us?” he said.

“I don’t bowl,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Or play golf.”

“I don’t mean that,” Vinnie said. “I mean retire. Take it easy. Get out of the life.”

“I live the life I love.”

“And you love the life you live,” Vinnie said. “Yeah. I know that old number.”

I winked at him, started to whistle the tune, and walked out of the bowling alley. It was snowing while I called to make reservations to Tampa.

34

Two days later, Hawk and I arrived at Tampa International and took a monorail to the terminal. Our luggage and guns were waiting for us in baggage claim. The guns had been safely locked away for travel, forms filled out to say they were unloaded, the ammo sealed in boxes. The conveyers spit out the bags first. Hawk traveled with a Louis Vuitton hard-case that probably cost more than my SUV.

“You get that in Chinatown?” I said. “Almost looks real.”

“Haw,” Hawk said, lifting up the case and flicking up the telescopic handle.

My travel bag was black nylon and made by Rawlings, with a tag on it like a catcher’s mitt.

We rented a Ford Expedition, nice and roomy for men of a certain size. Guns and luggage were stowed away and the hatch shut with a tap of a button. It was bright, sunny, and in the low eighties as we hit the exit ramp, Hawk in his designer sunglasses, designer jeans, black T-shirt, and a gray scarf.

I was dressed for work. Jeans, blue pocket tee, and New Balance running shoes. I stowed my leather jacket away as soon as we landed.

“Where to?” Hawk said.

“How about we just reconnoiter.”

“How about some lunch before that reconnoiter begins?”

“We are of like mind.”

I followed signs over the Howard Franklin Bridge to St. Petersburg. The judges’ wives owned rental properties north of St. Pete, where they also listed their travel agency. The sun was shining so big and bold that it made me squint as we hovered over the water. I put on my sunglasses to adjust my Boston vision and followed I-275 past the city and curved toward a sign that read BEACHES.

I let the windows down and Hawk inhaled deeply. I followed the signs until I hit the Gulf of Mexico. We stopped in a little community called Pass-A-Grille and parked in front of a gray gable-front restaurant I’d been told of called The Hurricane.

We sat at a picnic table under a big umbrella. It didn’t take too long before I was enjoying the sunshine and drinking Sam Adams on tap. Some habits were hard to break. Hawk asked for a top-shelf margarita.

“You think a grouper sandwich taste like cod?” Hawk said.

“Grouper isn’t as fishy and tastes sweeter,” I said. “How about a fried grouper sandwich and some fries?”

Hawk nodded. He sipped the margarita.

“I have addresses close to here,” I said. “I’d like to see how a couple of judges from Blackburn, Mass., live on the coast.”

“Looks just like Nantucket with palm trees.”

“Less picket fences.”

“No lighthouses.”

I finished my beer and ordered another. Hawk sipped his margarita. “Main thing I want to know is about this local lawyer and the DeMarcos,” I said. “Be nice to find out what a nice Boston family has cooking.”

“Reason you brought me.”

“Some might object to me asking questions.”

“Or maybe they open the door wide,” Hawk said. “I can kick back at the hotel and entertain ladies in bikinis.”

“What if we’re out of season for ladies in bikinis?”

“They’ll show up,” Hawk said. “Always do.”

I nodded. The grouper sandwiches arrived and they did indeed taste better than cod and even haddock. But it still wasn’t as good as a lobster roll. Hawk ate with mannered grace, touching the edge of his lips with a napkin.

“Better not get tartar sauce on that scarf.”

“I’ll send you the bill.”

“As agreed, all expenses paid.”

The wind was warm and smelled of salt. I finished my sandwich and the beer. We both sat in silence for a long while listening to the surf and enjoying the sense of thawing out. A well-proportioned woman in a small red bikini rode a bike past the restaurant. Hawk did not ogle, but gave a simple nod. “What’d I tell you?”

Back in the rental, we followed the highway north along the coast to a small community called Dunedin about ten miles away. We kept the windows down and the sunroof pulled back. The main street was long and pleasant, one-story brick storefronts of boutiques, art galleries, and mom-and-pop restaurants. The address I had for the travel agency was right off Main, the business called Destinations Inc. Catchy.

I had checked out their website before we left Boston. I had called the business from there and got an answering service. When we pulled up into a small strip mall, we found an empty office space. A paper sign in the window read DESTINATIONS INC., with the same number I had called. Peering into the window, I could see only a single black desk, no chairs, nothing hanging on the wall.

“This what you detectives call a clue?” Hawk said.

“Maybe they’re not into aesthetics.”

“Or maybe this be what we thugs call a shell,” Hawk said.

“Damn, you’re good.”

“Now what?” Hawk said. “Check on the bad guys?”