Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

I waited until she disappeared inside and then followed. I was dressed differently than I was when we met in Tampa. I wore a leather jacket and a ball cap. I wore the ball cap down low to obscure my face. I tucked my hands in the pocket of the jacket and walked with my head down. I strolled inside and spotted her right off in the ladies shoes department.

I hung back with Ralph Lauren. I pretended to shop as if I were shopping for Susan. I would never shop for Susan. She once told me my taste seemed more fitting for Gypsy Rose Lee. I thumbed through a rack of herringbone jackets. I became immersed in a stack of navy silk blouses. I was about to move on when a perky sales clerk wandered up to me and asked if I’d found anything.

“Do these come in a double XL?”

“Men’s section is at the other end of the mall, sir.”

“Darn,” I said. “And I was starting to feel so pretty.”

When I looked up, Sydney Bennett was gone. I made my way through the shoes and into cosmetics and spotted her just as she stepped out of the store into the rest of the mall. It was a weekday and the mall crowd was thin. Even with Susan, my patience with shopping lasted only a good twenty minutes.

Not far from the Bloomingdale’s entrance, Sydney had stopped to check messages on her phone. There was a grouping of leather furniture nearby, close and comfy to keep you prisoner in the mall with the offer of Wi-Fi. As she tucked the phone into her purse, I stepped up next to her.

“Hello,” I said. “Again.”

She did not look in the least bit surprised. I think I’d have been more pleased if I’d actually startled her. She might have been easier to work with if she wasn’t sure what to say or do. But there was a reason she was second in command to a huckster like Ziggy Swatek.

“I have nothing to say.”

“‘Then follow me and give me audience.’”

“Is that a quote?”

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

“You’d rather not know,” I said. “It might lead to suspicion.”

“I am already more than suspicious, Mr. Spenser,” she said. “You followed me here.”

“Yes.”

“Because you believe I will tell you something about my client?”

“No.”

“Then why else?”

Two old women in small pink ball caps wandered by, hoisting packages in old frail fists. They sat down at the little grouping of leather seating, ruining our private place to talk, and complained about their poor, aching feet.

“Perhaps we can go elsewhere,” I said.

“I have nothing to say,” she said. “And frankly, I am—”

“Do you know the name Ray-Ray Barboza?”

“No,” she said. “Why should I?”

“Or perhaps Raymond Barboza,” I said. “I believe Ray-Ray to be his professional name.”

“What kind of professional?”

She looked annoyed and impatient, and reached into her purse for her phone. She looked at its screen and then back at me. She typed out something and then replaced the phone. She looked even more lawyerly today, wearing a fitted navy pin-striped suit with a pearl-colored silk top under a heavy blue wool coat. Her leather boots were tall and seemed like they may have been designed by the Luftwaffe.

“If you click your heels together, I bet those things make a hell of a racket.”

She turned to leave. I touched, not grabbed, her arm.

“Jackie DeMarco isn’t a nice man.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?”

“He feels you may be working with the Feds.”

“Yeah, right.”

“And he hired Mr. Barboza to make sure you would stay quiet.”

“That’s a lie.”

She turned up her small chin to look at me. She might’ve been pretty in another place and under another circumstance. It’s hard to find beauty when someone looks like they just might clock you with their purse.

“I don’t know if you’re working with the Feds,” I said. “But you know what Talos and the judges are doing with those kids is wrong. You didn’t sign on to work with a creep like Judge Scali.”

“You draw a lot of imaginary lines, Mr. Spenser.”

Her mouth twitched a bit, and as in the Tampa office, her words had little starch. She just upturned that little chin and shook a little. I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go somewhere,” I said. “I’ll tell you all I know, and then you can make up your own mind.”

I waited for the purse to clock me with all the ferocity of Ruth Buzzi. Instead, she simply nodded.

47

I told Sydney Bennett all I knew at the Café Vanille inside the mall.

She drank coffee and listened. Although the dark chocolate croissant looked terrific, I knew it was just a fancy donut. I had coffee, too. I was within a few pounds of my target two hundred and ten.

“I’m supposed to believe the word of a convicted killer.”

“No,” I said. “Only believe me. I think you got a queasy feeling about this whole business long before we met.”

She was silent. She stirred her coffee for the umpteenth time.

“Even if I had concerns about a client, I would be disbarred for speaking with you.”

“Perhaps.”

“Not perhaps,” she said. “Absolutely.”

“What if you only told me about the judges,” I said. “You said they aren’t your clients. I have a pretty good idea on what the DeMarcos are all about.”

“Oh,” she said. “Do you?”

She said it condescendingly, with a sharp edge. I shrugged and let the words hang there for a moment. I took a sip of coffee to keep my mind working to decide on what my mouth should do next. I nodded. “I knew Jackie DeMarco’s old man,” I said. “I knew the guy who sold him out and sent him to prison, too. Over my many years in this business, I’ve had the dishonor of meeting a thousand guys like Jackie. Jackie does for Jackie. I doubt he’s even conflicted about it.”

“You don’t even know my client.”

“Jackie will steal, rob, and cheat until he creates his own noose. I’m more concerned about two men who swore an oath to uphold the law. You lead me in the right direction and I walk away.”

“And why on earth would I do that?”

“Because you don’t like this any more than I do,” I said. “You don’t mind playing the game for the DeMarcos, but you want out of this.”

She looked at me, mouth open, as if about to speak. She then shut her mouth and just stared. “You got me,” she said. “Where do I sign up to unburden myself?”

“You are a tough nut,” I said.

“I have a job to do, as do you,” she said. “You keep following me, and I’ll file a restraining order.”

“Then why did you sit down with me?”

“Why else?” Sydney said. “To find out what you know. To learn what kind of an agenda you have toward my client.”

“The judges,” I said. “Sydney, I just want the judges. You can help.”

“Good-bye,” she said. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“May I offer you a maple scone?”

She stood, snatched her big bag, and turned back toward Bloomingdale’s. I paid and followed her out. Outside, the rain had indeed turned to sleet, and the wet asphalt turned slick. The sleet pinged off my hat and jacket as I walked to my car, spotting Sydney Bennett getting into her Lexus, lights blazing on, and then sitting there watching me. For a moment, I thought she might have a change of heart. But soon she drove off and I was left standing there.

I got back into my Explorer.

It was late. I could head back to my apartment and finally unpack. I could return to my office and shuffle through unpaid bills. Or I could go to the Harbor Health Club and see how much damage had been done to my knee.

When I started the engine, I felt a firm forearm wrap around my throat and the familiar click of a revolver in my ear.