David Hosp - Among Thieves

Devon got the call in February, in the dead of winter, years before. It was Murphy. “We’ve got a job for you, Devon,” he said.

“What sort of a job?” Devon asked.

“Your sort. Meet me at the Body Shop tomorrow morning at ten.” Devon asked no more questions. Murphy wasn’t the type to be questioned. Devon showed up the next morning fifteen minutes early.

There were four of them in the room, not including himself. Devon had worked for Murphy and Ballick before. They were sitting on chairs against the wall. The third he’d never seen before: a thin man with jet-black hair and dark, angry eyes sitting in front of Murphy’s desk. At the desk on that day was a fit man in his early sixties with silver-white hair pulled back from the crown. He was leaning back in the chair, but had an aggressive energy about him, as if he was coiled and ready to attack.

“ Devon, this is Jimmy Bulger,” Murphy said.

It was an unnecessary introduction; everyone knew Bulger. Many knew him better as “Whitey,” though he hated the nickname. It had been given to him as a boy with bright blond hair. Those who valued their lives at all called him Jimmy. Those who valued their lives more called him Mr. Bulger.

Devon nodded. “Mr. Bulger,” he said.

“Vinny tells me you been doin’ good work for him. That right?”

“Vinny doesn’t lie.” It was a stupid thing to say and he was smiling when he said it, which was a mistake. Bulger didn’t like people smiling unless he told them to.

Bulger’s eyes went dead. He looked as if he was going to put a knife in Devon ’s heart. “Wipe that fuckin’ smile off your face or I’ll cut your fuckin’ lips off and stick ’em up your ass,” he said. “I didn’t ask you if Vinny lies; I already know Vinny fuckin’ lies. I know he lies, because I tell him to lie. I asked you if you do good fuckin’ work.”

“Yeah,” Devon said. He tried to sound as if he weren’t scared, but he wasn’t smiling anymore. “Yeah, I do.”

Bulger looked at him for a little while. Then he turned to the man Devon didn’t recognize. “This is a friend from Belfast. The two of you are gonna do a job together. You piss him off, and I’m gonna fuckin’ hear about it. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Devon said. “Okay.”

Bulger looked at the Irish guy. “Okay?”

The man stood up and walked over to Devon, stood right in his face, so their noses were almost touching. Devon was taller, but the man had a crazy look to him-not the manic, uncontrolled crazy that so many in the game had, but a quiet crazy; a dangerous crazy. He was wiry in the way Devon didn’t mess with. “Is he Irish?” the man asked Bulger in a thick accent.

“Born and raised in Southie,” Bulger said. “Makes him more of a fuckin’ mick than you.” Murphy and Ballick laughed at that. Everyone laughed at Bulger’s jokes.

The Irish guy didn’t laugh. He just looked at Devon. Finally he said, “Okay.”

“I expect you to do good work for me,” Bulger said to Devon. “You think you can do that? Keep doin’ good work? ’Cause if not…” Bulger’s voice trailed off.

“I can do good work, Mr. Bulger,” Devon said. “What place we talkin’ about?”

“We’ll come to that, don’t worry,” Bulger said.

“Okay.” Devon looked at the Irish guy, his new partner. “You got a name?”

“No names,” the man replied.

Devon looked at Murphy. “What am I supposed to call him, he doesn’t got a name?”

“Who the fuck cares,” Bulger said. “Call him ‘Irish’ for all it fuckin’ matters.”

Devon looked at the guy. “That work for you?”

The man said nothing.

“Good,” Bulger said. “Irish it is.” Everyone just sat there, saying nothing. “Understand your role in this,” Bulger said after a moment. “Your job is to get Irish here into the place. That’s it, got it?”

“What place?”

“Don’t you get fuckin’ smart with me!” Bulger screamed. For a moment, Devon thought he was dead. Then Bulger cleared his throat and calmed down. “You get this done, and I’ll take care of you. You fuck this up, and I’ll only see you once again. You understand?”

“Yeah, Mr. Bulger, I understand.”

Bulger looked at Devon as if he were something to be scraped off his shoe. Then he gave a carnivorous smile; the kind of a smile that shows more teeth than necessary. “Call me Jimmy,” he said.

“Don’t mess with me.”

Those were the first words Lissa Krantz spoke to Sally Malley. Finn brought Sally into the office at seven-thirty the next morning. He, Koz, and Lissa were all early risers, and the office was usually busy for a couple of hours before most lawyers at other firms got to their desks. Lissa was already sitting at her computer when Finn ushered the bleary-eyed girl through the front door.

“I have to drive her to school over in Southie,” Finn said by way of greeting. “I figured Koz and I could head over and talk to Vinny Murphy, as long as I was going in that direction anyway.” He looked down at the girl as though he’d forgotten for a moment that she was still with him. “This is Sally,” he said. “Sally, this is Lissa.”

Lissa nodded.

Sally said nothing, plopped down in one of the uncomfortable chairs against the wall. The tiny firm was thriving financially, but Finn hadn’t yet plowed any of his profits back into the office décor. An architect had drawn up ambitious plans, but Finn hadn’t had time to follow through. The office still consisted of one large open space where both Finn and Lissa had desks. Kozlowski’s office was in the back.

“Koz in?” Finn asked.

“His office,” Lissa responded.

“I’ll be right back.”

Lissa wasn’t sure whether Finn was speaking to her or the girl. In either case, he disappeared into the back without another word. Lissa looked over at Sally. She wore thick black work boots, a black skirt over leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. Nothing about her demeanor or her wardrobe invited interaction. She was looking back at Lissa, scowling slightly. Neither of them said anything for a few moments; they just stared at each other, seeing who would crack first. In the end, it was the girl.

“You’re pretty,” she said to Lissa. “Is that how you got the job, or can you type, too?”

“Don’t mess with me,” Lissa replied.

“You’re tough, then?” Sally asked.

“Only compared to some. And only when pushed.”

The girl said nothing.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Lissa said.

“Why? He’s not dead.”

“I know.”

“So, why are you sorry?”

Lissa considered the girl and the question in equal measure. She liked both, she decided. They both seemed brutally honest-a quality, in Lissa’s experience, that was hard to come by. “I don’t know,” Lissa said. “I guess I was just assuming his arrest might be hard on you. I was trying to offer some sympathy. You can take it if you want. Or not. Up to you.”

“You gonna tell me it’s all gonna be all right now?”

“No.”

“Good. I hate it when people say shit like that.”

“So do I.”

They lapsed into silence again, the girl slouching down deep into the chair, her brow furrowed, looking stymied by Lissa’s refusal to play the traditional establishment role of coddling adult.

“So, what do you do around here?” Sally asked after a moment.

“I’m a lawyer,” Lissa replied. “I work with Finn.”

“Really?” The girl seemed both impressed and skeptical.

“Yeah, really.”

Finn and Kozlowski came in from the back room. Lissa was amused by Sally’s reaction to seeing Kozlowski for the first time. His size was imposing, and while his features hinted at a time when he might have been handsome, the long, deep scar on the side of his face gave him a distinctly menacing appearance.