David Hosp - Among Thieves

“Koz-” Finn protested, but Stone cut him off.

“Don’t worry,” Stone said. “I know Devon. He’s got nothing to do with this.”

“What makes you say that?” Finn asked.

“ Devon ’s a thief, not a murderer. Right circumstances, he might be able to push a button on a guy-maybe even pull the trigger himself if he was scared enough. But that’s as far as he’d go. He wouldn’t be a part of what went down here. He’s not the brutal type, and this was brutal.”

“How so?” Kozlowski asked.

“Vinny was worked over before he was killed. Whoever did it knew what they were doing. Lots of pain, but nothing that would kill until the final shot. Very fucked up. They used chains, they broke bones. They did stuff to him you only read about.”

Finn frowned. “Why?”

“That’s the question.” Stone looked at Kozlowski. “You got any thoughts?”

Kozlowski shrugged. “I don’t know enough about the man’s business to tell. He chose a livelihood that makes this sort of thing a risk.”

“True,” Stone said. “But this doesn’t seem like just a turf war. There’s something more. Something I can’t figure out. They didn’t do anything to conceal the body or make it difficult to identify him. They left him in a heap in his place of business. There’s only one reason to do that.”

“They wanted to send a message,” Kozlowski said.

“That’s the only thing I can come up with,” Stone agreed. “But to who?” He thought about the message written in blood, but decided it would be disclosing too much.

“That’s your problem, not mine,” Kozlowski said. “I don’t get paid by the city anymore.”

“We should go,” Finn said. There was an edge in his voice.

Kozlowski put his hand out first this time. “If I hear anything on the street, I’ll pass it on if I can,” he said.

Stone shook his hand. “I’d appreciate anything I can get.”

Finn was already heading back toward his car, and Kozlowski followed him. He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. As he started to lean down to get in, he looked over the soft top and spoke again. “Stone,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“The civies look good on you, but it’s not the clothes that make the cop.”

“You taught me that one already.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not still true.”

Finn started the car, whipped it around in a mangled three-point turn, and pulled out into the street. He didn’t say anything until Stone had faded from the rearview mirror. “What do you think?” he asked then.

“Bad luck for Murphy,” Kozlowski replied. “Bad luck for Devon, too.”

“Anything else?”

Kozlowski sighed. “You mean, do I think this has anything to do with Devon?” It took him a moment to answer. “I don’t see how. Even if Murphy set Devon up and dropped a dime on him for some reason, Devon hadn’t been picked up by the cops yet when Murphy’s ticket got punched, so he wouldn’t have known to be pissed yet. Where’s the motive? Plus, the level of violence doesn’t fit. Stone’s right about that, it wouldn’t be Devon ’s style, even if he wanted to kill the man. He’s not a psychopath.”

“I don’t disagree,” Finn said. “We’re still shit outta luck with no place to go.”

“Murphy definitely isn’t going to be of any help at this point.”

“Clearly not.” Finn blew out a long breath as the lines of Southie’s row houses flashed by, each corner dividing one block from the next with identical pizza parlors, pubs, and liquor stores. “Sounds like he went out in a bad way.”

“Unlike all those good ways to go out? He played the game. He had it coming.”

“Maybe. I knew him. He wasn’t all bad.”

“Right. Hitler liked dogs and kids. I’m still not gonna shed any tears for him.”

The scenes kept rolling by, and as they passed a bodega on West Broadway, Finn spotted three young Irish-looking men tumbling loudly out the door, slapping each other on the back, laughing. They wore jeans and sweatshirts, and they pulled out cigarettes in unison. Construction workers, Finn thought, on their way to the work site, a little late for the job but without any real care in the world. Or boyos, back from a night of mischief, stopping off for a quick bacon-and-egg sandwich before heading back to their apartments to sleep for the first time in days. There was no way to tell the difference from the driver’s seat of Finn’s car.

“Coulda been me,” Finn said. “I was in the game.”

“You were a kid,” Kozlowski said, waving his hand. “Besides, you got out.”

“I got lucky.”

“That’s not luck. Not in this world.”

“A lot of it’s luck. I think about the people I ran with; the stuff we did. Then I think about what I do now. I’m not sure there’s a difference in the end.”

“There’s a world of difference.”

“Is there?”

Kozlowski looked at him and shook his head. “Goddamned Irish. Angst-ridden to the core, every last one of you. Why the hell is that?”

“The Irish are cursed with brains. You’re Polish, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe not. So, what now?”

Finn shrugged. “I guess I’ll drop you off at the office and head over to Nashua Street to see Devon. Maybe there’s someone else who can give us some information.”

“Sounds good.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. Then Kozlowski said, “You’re gonna pay for the Polish crack. You know that, right?”

Finn smiled. “I figured. I couldn’t resist.”

“So, are you, like, dating that guy?”

Sally’s elbows were on the dented metal table, a fried-egg-and-bacon sandwich hanging from her fingers. As Lissa suspected, Finn hadn’t fed the girl any breakfast. There was a diner near the office, and still almost an hour before Sally had to be at school.

“Which guy?” Lissa asked, sipping her coffee, feigning ignorance.

“The guy you kissed. The guy with the fucked-up face.”

“You shouldn’t swear.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m buying you breakfast.”

“Everybody swears.”

“Not at breakfast.”

Sally took a huge bite of her sandwich and yolk dripped down her chin, splattering on the table. She didn’t seem to notice. “So, are you dating him?” Her mouth was full and more yolk trickled down her face.

Lissa pulled a napkin from the dispenser on the table next to the ketchup bottle and put it on the table in front of Sally. The girl picked up the napkin and moved it over next to her plate, careful to keep it as far away as possible from both the egg on the table and the egg on her face. “That’s a personal question,” Lissa said.

“Not really,” Sally argued. “If I asked you when was the last time you guys had sex, or what he was like in bed, that would be a personal question. All I asked was whether or not you were dating.”

Lissa took another napkin from the dispenser and reached over toward Sally, moving the girl’s plate so that she could mop up the egg on the table. She was tempted to go after the girl’s face, but thought better of it. “Are you sure you’re only fourteen?”

“Half the girls in school are pregnant,” Sally said. “It’s not like I don’t know about sex. You want to ask me anything?” She looked up at Lissa through her uneven, razor-cut bangs, a challenge in her eyes.

“Yeah,” Lissa said. “I’m dating him.”

The girl kept looking at her, as if deciding whether to believe her. Finally she lowered her eyes to her sandwich and took another bite. “Cool.”

“So, how long have you lived with your father?” Lissa changed the subject.

“A year,” Sally replied. “Maybe a little less. My mom split. Couldn’t handle the pressure anymore.”