David Hosp - Among Thieves

“Upstairs,” Ballick said, nodding toward a rickety plywood staircase in the corner. “Mikey,” he called to one of the men bent over the bloody sink. The man stood and looked over his shoulder. Finn could see the muscles rippling under a thin T-shirt. “Keep an eye on the guy outside.” Ballick walked to the stairs and the entire building seemed to list to one side as the heavy man headed up.

The upstairs was only marginally less retch-inducing. The walls were open to the studs, and Finn could see patches of mold along the walls and on the ceiling. The stench from below seemed just as powerful. There was a small desk in the center of the room-painfully small for a man of Ballick’s girth-and a few rusted folding chairs placed haphazardly around. Stacks of newspapers and filing cabinets stood along one wall.

“Nice office,” Finn commented.

“Not what you’re used to, Counselor?”

“Actually, my office isn’t much bigger. Better ventilated, maybe.”

“With all the money you must be making these days?”

“I make a lot less than you do. Appearances notwithstanding.”

Ballick sat down behind the desk and slid open one of the bottom drawers, pulling out a thermos. He took the cup-shaped top off and turned it upside down on the desktop, then unscrewed the cap and poured out some of the contents. A thin wisp of steam wafted up. “I’ve never given much of a fuck about appearances,” Ballick said as he lifted the cup to his lips.

Finn nodded and pulled a chair over, sitting in front of the desk. “Me neither.”

“So?” Ballick said. “You said you wanted to talk. Talk.”

Kozlowski was leaning against the side of the building, close to the doorway so that he might hear it if things got loud upstairs. He’d have felt much better if he could have seen Finn and heard exactly what was going on. It was unlikely that Ballick would do anything. There were too many people around, and it wouldn’t be worth his effort. Still, Kozlowski felt uneasy.

The door opened and a man stepped outside. He was in his late twenties, a little taller than Kozlowski, with a shaved head and a goatee. An apron hung from his shoulders, covered in blood and fish guts, and his T-shirt, presumably once white, was splotched with yellow and gray. The arms that protruded from the sleeves were covered in green-black prison tattoos; cables of muscle and treads of veins shifted as he moved.

He paused as he adjusted to the light, his hand to his eyes, looking for something. Then he turned in Kozlowski’s direction. It took a moment for the recognition to flash in the man’s eyes, but once it did, it morphed instantly to hatred.

“Muthafucka,” he said. He was only a few feet from Kozlowski.

“Mikey Sullivan,” Kozlowski said. He nodded to the man. “How you been?”

“Fuck you care, Kozlowski?” the man said.

“C’mon, Mikey. I care. It makes me feel good when I know that the people I put away have been rehabilitated. Nice to see you got yourself a real job. Can’t say too much for your employer, but hell, I guess you gotta take what you can get. You just gut fish for Ballick, or you gut other things, too?”

The man took a half-step back, his hand going to the pocket at the front of his apron. “You ain’t on the job no more, from what I hear.”

“True.”

“So, what the fuck are you doin’ here, Kozlowski?”

“Maybe I’m just checking up on you. Maybe this is how I like to spend my days.”

“Maybe you made a mistake. Maybe you ain’t so fuckin’ tough without a badge.”

“Maybe,” Kozlowski said. He took his weight off the side of the building and secured his footing. He had a good idea what was coming.

“Maybe we’ll see,” the man said. He drew his hand out of the apron pocket, and Kozlowski could see the knife. It was long and thin and covered with blood. Then Sullivan lunged.

“ Devon ’s in a difficult spot,” Finn said.

“Yeah, so?” Ballick replied. “Fuck’s it got to do with me? Fuck’s it got to do with you, for that matter?”

“He’s my client,” Finn said. “I was wondering if there would be anything anyone could tell me that might help him out. Hypothetically speaking.”

“Hypothetically speaking?”

“Yeah.” Finn decided to tread lightly. “I’m not looking for you to say anything that might implicate yourself in any criminal activity. On the other hand, you may be able to give me some information that I could trade on his behalf.”

“What kind of information?”

“Information about who was involved in setting up the robbery at Gilberacci’s. Devon says there was inside involvement-that Johnny Gilberacci helped plan the whole thing.”

“Don’t know shit about it.”

“I understand,” Finn said. “But let’s just say for a minute-again, hypothetically-that Johnny Gilberacci was involved.”

“Okay, let’s say that.”

“If I had some way of confirming it, I’d have something to trade to the DA to cut a deal for Devon. You see what I’m saying?”

“No.”

Finn took a deep breath and regretted it immediately as the stink of fish swarmed his sinuses. “Well, as it stands now, I’ve got nothing to bargain with. If we had some concrete information it would change things.”

Ballick took another sip from the plastic cup. “And you want me to give you something that would help you prove this thing with Johnny Gilberacci?”

“It wouldn’t have to come directly from you. If there’s some way to do it so that I can get something-anything-to give to the DA, or even just to get him curious, there might be something I could do for Devon.” Ballick leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t be here at all, but Devon only talked to Murphy about the job, and he’s dead now.”

“Hypothetically.” Ballick’s stare was cold.

“No,” Finn said slowly. “That’s not a hypothetical. On the other hand, his death could give us an opportunity. Let’s say that you weren’t involved in the robbery, but you were aware that Murphy and Gilberacci were. If you had anything that would tie the two together-without implicating yourself-that would go a long way toward helping Devon.” Ballick didn’t respond. Finn suddenly felt out of his depth. He cleared his throat. “Maybe there’s nothing you can do,” he said. There was still no response. “I just figured that Devon ’s one of yours. He’s made a lot of money for people over the years. I thought, maybe, you’d want to help him if you could.”

“You thought wrong. Devon hasn’t been one of mine for years. Plus, a rat’s a rat, no matter whose cheese he’s eatin’. I ain’t no rat.” In the moment of silence that followed, Finn thought the stench of fish might overwhelm him. “You know why I agreed to talk to you?”

“Because I’m Devon ’s lawyer?”

Ballick shook his head. “I don’t give a fuck about Devon. Devon ’s done. He’s a loser. He’s a punk. Always has been. I don’t owe him shit. Murphy should never have hired him on this Gilberacci’s thing.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why did you agree to meet with me?”

Ballick coughed, and Finn could hear the rumble deep down in his chest. “I remember you from twenty years ago. You were a punk back then, too. But you were always straight. Word was you’re still straight today. I wanted to see for myself.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You shouldn’t. You fuckin’ disappoint.”

“Sorry.”

“You want me to roll on a guy you think I’m doing business with. You come in here with your ‘hypotheticals’ and expect me to play rat so you can get a deal for your boy. I don’t live in the hypothetical world; I live in the real fuckin’ world. In my world, a man says what he means and gets shivved if he don’t. Devon got himself where he is today, and there ain’t shit I can do to help him. He’s your problem, not mine.”