David Hosp - Among Thieves

There was little that Devon could see, but then he was pretty sure he wasn’t missing much. Narrow blue sliding doors lined the hallway, each of them lonely and silent. They reminded Devon of prison cells stacked up side by side; a mausoleum of solitary confinement, the screams of the occupants silenced and forgotten.

When they arrived at the end of the hallway they put the crate down and Bulger used his flashlight to locate another key and unlock the door. He reached down and grabbed hold of the handle at the bottom of the door, sliding it open. Motioning to Devon, he picked up one end of the crate again, carried it inside the little storage room, and then pulled the door down behind them.

The room couldn’t have been more than six by ten, only slightly bigger than a jail cell, and it had no ventilation, no insulation. Devon could see their breath as they exhaled, caught in the weak light still cast by Bulger’s flashlight. In the center of the room stood a narrow wooden box, about five feet tall, eight feet long, and three feet wide. Devon ’s first thought was that it resembled a coffin.

Bulger opened the door to the box from one end; it had a metal clasp that held a swinging door closed. Devon had never seen anything like it. The interior was lined with a rich, luxurious cloth. It looked like silk, but a deeper silk than he’d ever seen. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Mind your fuckin’ business,” Bulger said. “There’s a hammer in the van. Get it, and get the fuckin’ crate open.”

Devon did as he was told. It took a few minutes for him to pry off the lid to the crate, but once he did, he could hardly believe his eyes. There, inside the crate, were all of the paintings and drawings he and the Irishman had taken from the Gardner Museum years before. “Holy fuck,” Devon said.

“You ain’t kiddin’,” Bulger agreed.

The last time Devon had seen the paintings they were rolled up and piled on a table at the auto body shop. Now they were mounted on wood, and they looked well cared for.

“I thought the Irishman paid you for these,” Devon said.

“He did. We’ve tried twice to move them out of the country, but there’s still too much fuckin’ heat. I’m holding them for our friends until it’s safe. In the meantime, we gotta take care of them. You don’t stretch ’em out, and they crack,” Bulger said. “This box is like a humidor; it’ll keep out the moisture and protect ’em. These things get ruined and they’re fuckin’ worthless.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“I know a guy,” Bulger replied. “I had him make it. That’s all you need to fuckin’ know. Now hand them in to me, one at a time.”

It took just a few minutes for them to transfer the paintings to the box. Bulger closed the door and latched it.

Bulger turned to Devon. He had his knife in one hand and a set of the keys to the storage facility in the other. The knife turned menacingly in his hand. “There are three sets of keys to this place,” he said. He tossed the key in his hand to Devon. “Now you got one, and I got one.”

“What about the third?”

“You don’t need to worry about the third,” Bulger said. Without warning, he reached out and grabbed Devon by the throat, pushing him into the wall. “You even think about fuckin’ me on this, and I’ll do things you can’t even imagine, you got that?” He held the knife less than an inch away fron Devon ’s right eye. “I’m more serious than you’ll ever fuckin’ know.”

“I don’t understand,” Devon said. “Why do I need the key?”

“Because if I’m not around, someone’s got to get our Irish friends their shit if they show up lookin’ for it.”

“What about the other guy?”

Bulger laughed. “He’s not in a position to help out our friends.” He turned serious again. “Three of us,” he said. “That’s all there is that know about this place. And I know the other guy ain’t gonna fuckin’ cross me; so if this shit disappears, you’re the only guy I’m comin’ after.”

“I wouldn’t fuck you,” Devon said.

Bulger kept the knife where it was for another minute. Then he pulled it back and put it away in its sheath. “Good,” he said. “Now help me get this fuckin’ crate back to the van.”

Devon started helping with the crate. “Why me?” Devon asked after a moment.

Bulger laughed. “I don’t trust nobody who isn’t scared shitless of me,” he said. “Some other guys, they might think they could take me. They might think, if things ain’t goin’ my way, that’s their chance. You ain’t gonna think that way no matter what happens, are you?”

Devon looked down. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not, Mr. Bulger.”

Bulger looked at him and smiled. “I told you once before, call me Jimmy,” he said.

Bulger dropped Devon off back at his apartment and peeled away. Devon never saw him again. A day later, rumors began to spread that the Justice Department had obtained sealed indictments against Bulger’s Winter Hill Gang. Bulger himself was tipped off by his FBI handlers and slipped away before he could be arrested. In the fifteen years since, no one ever called on Devon to get the paintings.

Devon finished telling them everything. They were sitting in the living room. Devon was on the battered, fraying sofa, his shoulders sunken. Finn was sitting on a plain wooden chair, looking at him. Kozlowski was standing against a wall.

“You made the offer to sell the paintings,” Finn said.

Devon nodded. “Two weeks ago. I went to the self-storage place. I took the paintings out and took pictures of them, and I scraped a few flecks of paint off two of them so I had the proof. I put them back where they were. Then I put the word out that they could be bought.”

“And you were the one who called the cops to tip them off about the job you were doing at Gilberacci’s. You wanted to get arrested.”

He nodded again. “I didn’t know what the fuck to do,” he said. “When I started this, I thought Bulger was the only worry, and I figured it was worth the risk, ’cause there’s no fuckin’ way he was coming back now. But after I put the word out about the paintings, I started hearing talk about some Irish guy coming to town to look for them. I figured it had to be the guy. I knew him nineteen years ago-knew what a sick fuck he was. I panicked. I figured the safest place for me was in jail, and I knew you’d be able to get me out eventually when things calmed down. It seemed like the only thing to do.”

“Not only that, but you knew with us working for you, you could find out what was going on. You sent us out to find out whether Murphy and Ballick had been killed, so you’d know whether the rumors you heard were true.”

“I did it for Sally,” Devon said. “To keep her safe.”

“Good thinkin’,” Kozlowski said.

“Fuck you!” Devon yelled. “What was I supposed to do? I was sittin’ on more money than any of us have ever seen! I wasn’t givin’ that up without a fuckin’ fight!”

“How much are you asking for them?” Kozlowski asked.

“Twenty-five million.”

“A bargain for art worth half a billion,” Finn said.

“I’m not greedy,” Devon said.

“No,” Finn said. “Just stupid.”

Devon looked down. “Yeah. Just stupid.”

Finn rubbed his face. “Why?” he asked. “You kept it quiet for eighteen years. Why risk it all now?”

“I never had a daughter before,” Devon said. “She deserves better than what I can do for her. She’s so fuckin’ smart, y’know? She could be anything if she got the chance. She’s the only thing in my life I’ve done that’s any good. I wanted to do right by her.”