Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

“C’mon, man,” Hawk said. “You can call him Jamal. It’s cool.”

“I’d like to run it past Jamal and I’d like to run it past Sydney.”

Hawk took a sip of his ice water. The ice rattled just a bit in his glass. The woman in the red bikini, that being her new name, twirled and floated out in the big pool. Another breeze washed over us and shook more palm fronds.

“Back to Tampa?” he said.

“I’d rather catch her in Boston.”

“So our work here is done?” Hawk said.

“You tell me,” I said. “We could catch the three-thirty nonstop to Logan.”

Through his dark sunglasses, Hawk’s gaze seemed to be at the pool and the woman. “How long would that give me?”

“Couple hours,” I said. “I was going to work out, call Susan, and then pack.”

“It’ll be close,” Hawk said. “But okay. I’ll make it work.”

“You’re a real pro, Hawk,” I said.

“Ain’t it the truth.”

44

Hawk and I parted at Logan. I drove back to Marlborough Street to drop my bag and change into a less wrinkled shirt and a blazer. An hour later, I strolled into Rialto and found Susan at the bar talking to Jody Adams. Jody was owner and head chef. I hugged Jody first and then Susan. My hug with Susan lingered a little longer, perhaps bordering on a public display of affection.

Before my backside even kissed the bar stool, a cold draft was set before me. I winked at Jody, and she disappeared into the kitchen. I put a hand on Susan’s knee. I used the other to lift the beer.

“Are you meeting someone?” I said.

“Perhaps.”

“Is he tall, dark, and handsome?”

“He wasn’t so dark before,” she said. “But I see that’s changed.”

“Should’ve used more sunscreen.”

“Lucky you.”

I drank some of the beer. Susan had a vodka gimlet.

“If I’d sent you a postcard,” I said, “it would had read: ‘Having a great time. Huckster lawyers, hoods from back home, and a very talkative hit man. Wish you were here.’”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t know these things.”

“The hit man was toothless,” I said. “An inch of Plexiglas separated us.”

She nodded. She put her hand over my hand and squeezed my fingers.

“Not the same?” I said.

“I’ve eaten here twice.”

“Without me?”

“If it weren’t for the hot sex,” Susan said, “this place has a slight edge on your kitchen.”

We mooned over each other for a bit. I finished the beer in less than two minutes. Susan might have had an eyedropper full of the gimlet. The hostess led us back to the booth, or, more appropriately, Susan’s booth, among the billowing curtains and soft music. “So let me guess,” Susan said. “The case is solved, bad guys thwarted, and all is right in the world.”

“They gave up,” I said. “They found out Spenser and Hawk were in the Sunshine State and the bad guys tossed their guns into the Gulf.”

“Are we clear on who are the bad guys?”

“In living Technicolor.”

“Can you now hand it over to the police?”

“It would be federal,” I said. “Since it involves the DA in Blackburn and money moving across two states.”

“Then the Feds?”

“Boston’s special agent in charge and I have a strained relationship.”

“Not to mention he’s a shit heel and you can’t trust him.”

“True,” I said. “But if I push a few things a bit, I may make it work through the Feds down there.”

“Your powers never cease to amaze,” she said. “But how exactly would that work?”

“You remember Epstein?”

“Yes,” she said. “You liked him.”

“Epstein introduced me to a guy in Tampa,” I said. “He’s already onto one of these judges and a good local boy from Revere.”

“Great.”

“But it’s not enough yet,” I said. “He needs more before they’d even think about arresting this guy Callahan or my dear and personal friend Joe Scali.”

“But you have an idea?”

“Don’t I always?”

“Do you wish to share it?”

I thought about it. I shook my head. “I’ve been on an airplane for more than four hours,” I said. “I feel like I’ve been in the clothes dryer on low tumble. I’d rather eat, drink another beer, and then pick up a wild and uninhibited woman and take her home with me.”

“My place is much closer.”

“Or let her take me home with her.”

She picked up her gimlet and took a long sip. Her dark eyes were very big and very adventurous over the rim of the glass. My swig on the pint was considerably less sexy.

I ordered the smoked chicken grilled under a brick with ginger, beets, cracked wheat, mushrooms, and goat cheese. Susan had the lobster bucatini with red and green tomatoes, chilis, and saffron. When the waiter left, I leaned over and asked when Jody would ever put a bologna sandwich on the menu.

Susan said, “I’m sure she’d be glad to substitute the bologna for chicken.”

“Not just any chicken,” I said. “But a chicken that’s been humiliated. Under a brick.”

“Do you and Hawk talk like this?”

“Hawk doesn’t talk much,” I said. “But he did meet a friend in Tampa.”

“Hawk does make friends easily.”

“He would agree.”

I recognized the song overhead as Satchmo singing with the Duke. “Do Nothin’ Till You Hear from Me.” A personal favorite. Satchmo, Susan, and suds. A regular trifecta.

“So,” Susan said. “Can you and Hawk get these people?”

I nodded.

“Good,” she said. “Because in your absence, I’ve made some calls and checked in with some old friends.”

“Anything I can use?”

“Just that this place in the harbor shouldn’t be licensed,” she said. “That place does so much business, there’s a waiting list.”

“Not surprising.”

“I also checked out Massachusetts Child Care,” she said. “I learned a lot about their corporate philosophy.”

“And?”

“It’s all bullshit,” Susan said. “Taking children from their parents and their schools should be the very last step. Not the first. It interrupts their education, exposes them to all kinds of trauma, gets them mixed up with delinquent peers, and mainly stigmatizes them. The whole philosophy of scared straight doesn’t work. Studies have proven it. It’s a lie that keeps places like this filled.”

I nodded. I kept my mouth shut. I had a better chance of stopping a locomotive with my teeth than backing Susan off a tirade.

“Did you know juvenile crime is at an all-time low, but the incarceration rate for kids has stayed the same?” she said. “Who wants to explain those numbers?”

“This problem may be bigger than Blackburn,” I said.

“But this is where you start,” she said. “Expose this and maybe the light shines through?”

“One would hope.”

“Lousy bastards,” Susan said before taking a dainty sip.

“You said it.”

45

Sometime while Hawk and I had been crossing the bluish-green waters of Tampa Bay, Dillon Yates had been released from the MCC facility on Fortune Island.

I’d invited Iris Milford to meet me at the Yateses’ apartment, a two-bedroom unit in a development just out of downtown called Old English Village. Not much had changed since my last visit to Blackburn. The Merrimack was still frozen and winter seemed like it might last another hundred years.

Sheila Yates met me at the door. I introduced Iris, and Sheila was a little less than enthused. “A reporter?” she said. “I don’t know. Dillon’s just home and there were conditions of his release and promises made. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Miss Yates,” Iris said. “Your son is one of the lucky ones. People keeping to themselves is how this whole mess started. You can keep quiet. That’s up to you. But knowing what goes on in that place is going to help out those other families. Or y’all want to keep this a private matter?”