Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

“They didn’t have to,” I said. “They were implied.”

“I want out of this.”

“I know you do.”

“I feel like I’m a prisoner,” she said. “I can’t go anywhere without being watched. People following me around. I don’t even have a life anymore.”

I nodded. She wiped her eyes and looked at me.

“Just imagine how the kids feel,” I said.

52

Two nights later, I was back in Florida watching two Feds test a wire on Ziggy Swatek. It wasn’t pretty. Ziggy had taken off his shirt, showing off a pudgy pale body and thick black hair on his chest, back, and weirdly long arms. If he were running through the woods, hunters might have mistaken him for a small bear or a large ape.

“Do we have to use the freakin’ tape?” he said.

A female agent in a blue suit nodded. She tore off more tape and patted a microphone to his chest. She was short and stocky, with cropped, frosted hair and little makeup. As she worked, I noted the impressive government-issue auto she wore on her hip. The other agent was tall and gawky, fidgety, as he tested a signal on a laptop. When finished, he gave the woman a thumbs-up.

“What if they make me take off my shirt?” Ziggy said.

“They’d be sorry,” I said. “Ever hear of manscaping, Zig?”

“Man-what?”

“You might want to invest in a Weedwacker.”

“Screw you, Spenser,” he said. “Who the hell invited you?”

I nodded to Special Agent Jamal Whitehead, who stood near two French doors facing the Gulf. He was talking on a cell phone. Outside, it was raining, and a little thunder growled overhead. The newly planted palms at the judges’ planned community whipped around in the tiny squall, rain tapping at the glass. But the weather was tropical and pleasant, and the warm air had felt good as soon as I’d landed that morning. Whitehead had picked me up at Tampa International.

We had gone to see Zig. At first, Zig had threatened. And then Agent Whitehead had run down his short list of options. Zig finally agreed to give up the judges. He wouldn’t even mention Jackie DeMarco’s name.

“What if they try and throw me overboard?” Ziggy said. “I can’t swim.”

“We’re on a boat two slips down,” the female agent said.

“And we have a net,” Whitehead said, pocketing his cell phone in his gray pants. He had on a tailored white shirt with his initials on his pocket and a black knit tie. “We’ll pull you in with the rest of the sea creatures.”

“If you want to be an asshole about this,” Ziggy said, “I can walk away right now.”

“What time does Jackie DeMarco’s plane land?” Whitehead said.

“Ten in the morning,” the female agent said. “Should we meet him at the gate?”

“What do you think, Zig?” I said. “Fair offer.”

“Jesus,” he said. “Okay. Okay. What do you want me to say?”

“You said Callahan and Scali wanted to meet,” I said, looking to Whitehead as I spoke. “And you persuaded them Boston was too hot. So here we are. And here they are. All you got to do is facilitate some fascinating conversation.”

“On the fucking boat?”

“Reel Justice,” Whitehead said. “It’s gonna look great in print.”

“Not my name,” he said.

“Not now,” Whitehead said. “Not until the trial.”

“My career is over,” Ziggy said. “Hope you’re all happy about that.”

Whitehead smiled and nodded. I nodded, too. I was very happy how it all worked out.

“How’d you know about me being shaken down?” Ziggy said. “Sydney tell you?”

The rain hit the glass a little harder now. The palm fronds shook and the boats rocked out in the marina. A man and a woman darted off the long pier and ran to the parking lot. I saw the taillights click on as they U-turned out of the lot and drove away.

“I don’t believe Scali and Callahan would’ve had it any other way,” I said. “A big boat like that takes a lot of gas. They’d need gas money.”

“Someone on the inside tipped you,” he said. “Who the hell was it?”

Whitehead held up his hand in a polite gesture to tell Ziggy to shut his mouth. He leaned over the young agent who was working on the laptop and looked up to the female agent finishing with the tape. Ziggy stood there, pale and hairy, a pink silk shirt hanging across a rattan chair. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“Get them talking straight and exact,” Whitehead said. “They start talking in vague terms, or in code, we won’t make a move. Don’t have them hemming and hawing around the point. You understand?”

“What do you mean?” Ziggy said.

“I once worked a case with some guys who called money fish,” Whitehead said. “They’d make plans for a deal and talk about all the fish they’d need. I don’t want the judges talking how much flounder they plan on netting. You got it?”

Ziggy nodded.

“Ask them straight out about this new deal they want with Bobby Talos.”

“Bobby is a good guy,” Ziggy said. “A class act. He don’t deserve this.”

“Zig, you are the true Good Housekeeping Seal,” I said. “If only Bobby Junior could be with us today. I’d love to finally meet him up close and personal.”

“Mr. Swatek here comes through and we’ll get all we need to indict Mr. Talos,” Whitehead said. “Only thing that’s not clear is who came up with the whole plan? Did Talos go to the judges or did the judges go to Talos?”

“Joe Scali reached out,” Ziggy said, reaching for his pink shirt and thankfully covering up his less-than-impressive physique. “He came to Bobby. He said he and Callahan could close down that shithole in Blackburn and they could steer business his way. It was all supposed to be a straight deal until they came back for more. And then more again.”

“And the DeMarcos?” I said.

“The who?” Ziggy said, smiling and buttoning up.

“One step at a time,” Jamal Whitehead said. “One step at a time.”

“Jackie was going to have Sydney killed,” I said. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“Yeah,” Ziggy said. “It means I’d have to look for a new partner who wouldn’t put my dork in the broiler.”

I shook my head. Ziggy tucked his pink shirt into his black pants. His face was red and sweaty. I handed the strange little man a hand towel. He just looked down at it like he didn’t know how to use it.

“Always a lovely sight to see a man saving his own ass,” Whitehead said, checking his watch.

I just watched Ziggy the way you might examine an animal at a zoo. Endlessly fascinating.

A folding table had been set up in the middle of the condo. On the table, six laptop screens showed various locations around the boat, cameras mounted on neighboring slips. Whitehead leaned in and studied the screens, the other Feds making the final prep for the meeting. In panoramic clarity, I watched Joe Scali board the fishing boat and run into the wheelhouse. He had on a polo shirt and shorts showing off his short, skinny legs. He was alone, closing an umbrella and surveying the gulf with a big smile, before opening up a cooler and pulling out a cold beer. Miller Time. He drained half the bottle while sitting up high in the captain’s chair.

“You gonna stick around?” Whitehead said. “Gonna be a hell of a show.”

I shook my head. “I better get back to Boston.”

“More with the DeMarcos?”

“Nope,” I said. “Just a promise to keep.”

53

I didn’t sleep, making two phone calls and changing clothes before driving down to the Seaport to meet Sergeant Danny Long, harbormaster for the Boston Police. One day you’re staring out into the deep green of the Gulf of Mexico and the next at the choppy gray waves of the Boston Inner Channel. Long waved me aboard and shook my hand as I set foot on deck. He was built like a heavyweight from another century, with a big Irish head, smiling green eyes, and a lot of thick black hair. He had on a heavy coat, as Long mentioned today was cold as a bastard. A blue ball cap noted he was indeed harbormaster.