Among Thieves

Chapter Six

Devon Malley lay on the cot in his cell. It had been two decades since he’d spent real time in jail, but the rhythms came back to him quickly. In some ways, they’d never left him. There was a certain comfort to it all. There were few decisions to make in jail. They told you when to get up, when to eat, when to shower, when to shit. If you knew how to protect yourself, it was a simple existence. The trick was keeping your sanity.

Prison was the safest place for him now. He wasn’t one of those saps who couldn’t survive on the outside-he valued his freedom. But the streets held dangers over which he had no control. In jail, he could keep his back to the wall and his mouth shut. That would be enough to keep him alive. In the meantime, he had Finn on the outside, looking into things for him. It would only be a few days, and then he’d know for sure what he was facing. He could handle the jail time until then.

The only thing he missed from the outside was Sally. When her mother had brought her to his apartment over a year ago, Devon nearly panicked. He couldn’t imagine living his lifestyle with a kid hanging around. He’d hated the idea. But after a while, he came to see that she was smart and tough-everything he would have hoped for her to be. He took pride in that; pride in her. Were it not for the fact that he missed her now, jail would be a breeze. Still, he knew he had no choice. It was better for her, too.

As he lay there, the sounds of the jail filled his ears. Those around him rustled in their cages. Some slept soundly, snoring or talking through their dreams. Others were grunting openly as they relieved their sexual frustrations. There was no etiquette about that in jail-men did what they had to do. He didn’t mind. The only sound that haunted him was the crying. There was always one, a first-timer usually, new to the system. Sometimes it was on their first night; other times they managed to hold themselves together until after there was a trial and a verdict-or a plea bargain that sealed the fate just as tightly-and all hope was destroyed. Then the fear and the pain seeped out in low sobs. It made Devon ’s skin crawl. The criers would be taught a lesson the next day; the other prisoners would see to that. For now, though, the dismal sound had to be endured.

Devon did everything he could to block it out. He hummed softly to himself, he focused on the ceiling, he thought about the women he’d slept with in the past. Nothing worked. The sobbing cut through everything else. It wasn’t until he lost himself in memory that it disappeared.

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.