Among Thieves

Chapter Eleven

Eddie Ballick loved the sea as much as he was capable of loving anything. There was something about the unforgiving nature of the deep gray waters off the northern shores of the Atlantic that made him feel as though he had a place in the world. As a young man in the 1970s, he’d worked as a hand on the swordfish boats out of Gloucester. On his tenth run his boat ran into a squall and foundered. Three of the six-man crew had gone down with the ship. He, the first mate, and one other had survived for three days in a tiny raft, riding through some of the roughest seas of the season, before they were rescued. Since that time, Eddie Ballick feared nothing.

He’d never planned to enter a life of crime. But fishing jobs could be hard to come by, particularly for a hand who had already been on one doomed ship. There was never a suggestion that he was at fault, but it didn’t really matter; sailors are a superstitious lot, and in the minds of many, Ballick was a jinx.

Jobless, and without any friends or family to speak of, Ballick drifted through his early twenties. He was a big man-not tall, but solid, with bones as thick and strong as petrified branches, held together with thick slabs of muscle. He found work as a bouncer at one of the roughest bars, where some of the city’s connected hung out. It wasn’t long before some of them recognized the potential in a strong young man without fear.

Ballick was a perfect fit for Boston ’s criminal underworld. He had a disdain for other human beings that allowed him to cross lines of cruelty even some of his colleagues found troubling. He lived to live, without any care given to how long or how well. As a result, his rise through the ranks of Boston ’s organized crime in the eighties and nineties had less to do with any active ambition, and more to do with an oddly indifferent efficiency. Within five years, he owned the bar where he’d first been hired to run the door. It was rumored that his former boss was buried under the parking lot out back.

The bar was only one of Ballick’s quasi-legitimate businesses. For him, the crown jewel in his mini-empire was a run-down fishing shack at the edge of the water at the southern tip of Boston, just north of Quincy. It was the only place he cared about, and it was where he spent most of his time. It wasn’t much to look at: a small, rickety two-story building ready to slide into the edge of Quincy Harbor.

Ballick was sitting in a cheap aluminum folding chair at the corner of the building, watching the activity on the pier closely, when Finn and Kozlowski arrived. He looked as if he fit in there, and as if he would have a hard time fitting in anyplace else. He was in his late fifties, with a large round head fringed with matted white hair. A fisherman’s beard traced a smooth oval from ear to ear under his chin, and the only parts of him that seemed to move at all were his eyes. Boats were pulled up along a nearby pier, some of them already unloading their catches in the mid-afternoon sun. A few of Ballick’s buyers from the shack moved along the pier, watching over the unloading process, calculating their needs and the respective purchase prices in their heads.

“Eddie Ballick,” Finn said as he approached. He’d called earlier to tell Ballick he was coming; Ballick was known to be a man who abhorred surprises.

Ballick turned his head; the rest of his body remained still. He said nothing.

“I’m Scott Finn. Devon Malley’s lawyer. We spoke earlier.”

Ballick looked past Finn toward Kozlowski. “You didn’t say you were bringing someone with you.”

“Sorry,” Finn said. “This is Tom Kozlowski. He and I-”

“I know who he is,” Ballick said. “He’s a cop.”

“He’s no longer with the department,” Finn said. “He’s a private detective now.”

“He’s still a cop,” Ballick said. “Now he’s just a cop without a badge.”

Ballick’s head turned back toward the pier. “I only got a few minutes. I’m busy.” He shifted in his seat and brought his hands together on his lap. Finn had never seen thicker fingers. “Scott Finn,” he said. “I remember you.”

“I didn’t know whether you would,” Finn said.

“Looks like the other side is working out for you.”

“I suppose.”

“Fuckin’ shame.”

Finn was noncommittal. “In some ways, maybe.”

“And now you want to talk to me about Devon Malley.”

“It would be helpful.”

Ballick frowned. Then he got to his feet slowly. “We’ll talk inside,” he said. “Cop stays out here.”

Finn followed him around the corner of the building and through an undersized door that looked as though the hinges might fail soon. One room took up the entire first floor. It was concrete from wall to wall, and along the back there was a long sink where men in bloodstained sweatshirts and aprons worked steadily with long, thin gutting knives, slicing into the bellies of fish carcasses stacked in holding bins. With each casual flick of their wrists, innards spilled into the sinks and were washed down through an open drain that emptied into a trough in the cement along the wall, and were carried out through a chute in the corner of the building that led into the harbor. The sights and smells brought a rush of bile into Finn’s throat, but he managed to suppress the gag reflex.

“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.”

The lunge would have been effective had Kozlowski not anticipated it. It was aimed straight at his abdomen, which in most circumstances would have maximized the likelihood of catching him. He’d set his feet, though, and he stepped back and swiveled his torso effectively, twisting just out of the knife’s reach.

Once he was sure he hadn’t been cut, Kozlowski knew the fight was over. The lunge had put Sullivan off balance, weight forward, head down. He was an easy target.

Kozlowski grabbed his wrist with his left hand, just below the knife, and pulled it forward, throwing the man even farther off balance. Then he swung his knee up hard into the outstretched arm, hyperextending the elbow. He was hoping to hear the pop of ligaments and cartilage, but he wasn’t that lucky. It was enough, though, that Sullivan gave out a pained scream and dropped the knife.

Kozlowski raised his right fist and brought it down on the back of Sullivan’s neck. So much of the man’s weight was forward that he fell to the ground on his stomach at Kozlowski’s feet. “Didn’t they teach you to fight any better than this in Walpole?” he asked. “You must’ve gotten your ass kicked up there every day, huh?”

“Fuck you!” Sullivan screamed. He scrabbled toward the knife, which had fallen just a few feet away. Kozlowski cut him off, though, and brought his foot down on the man’s wrist with all his weight just as he was reaching for the weapon. Sullivan screamed out in pain. He recovered quickly, though, and rolled onto his side, swinging his free hand at Kozlowski’s crotch.

The blow glanced off Kozlowski’s thigh, missing its mark. It was close enough, though, that Kozlowski decided it was time to end the matter. Still standing on the man’s arm, he reached into his coat and pulled out his gun. As Sullivan struggled on the ground to free himself, Kozlowski leaned down and put the muzzle against his cheek. Sullivan went still instantly.

“Looks like six years went by too fast for you to learn anything, Mikey,” Kozlowski said. “Shame. All that taxpayer money wasted.”

“Just do it, piece of shit!” the man yelled. “You ain’t even a cop piece of shit no more, so do it! Put a bullet in my fuckin’ head an’ you go off to the fuckin’ MCI! Let’s see how you like it on the inside, I’m sure they’ll love your ass in there! You ain’t shit anymore!”

Kozlowski raised the butt of his gun and drove it into the man’s forehead. The man let out a cackle. “Do it! Muthafucka do it!”

Kozlowski put the barrel of the gun back to the man’s cheek and pulled the hammer back.

“What’s your angle on this?”

Ballick had finished drinking from his thermos, and he lit a cigarette. Finn looked around at the ancient newspapers on the floor and the half-rotted wood in the studs on the walls. He wondered how the place hadn’t burned down. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You’re a hot-shit lawyer. You can pick and choose your clients. Devon ’s got no fuckin’ money, so what the fuck you care what happens to him?”

“He’s a friend,” Finn said.

“Bullshit. You two weren’t even friends back in the day. I’d bet ten large you haven’t talked to him in a fuckin’ decade. Besides, Devon ’s got no friends. So what’s your interest?”

“He’s got a daughter. I’m trying to help him out.”

“You fuckin’ his daughter?”

“She’s fourteen.”

“Makes me more curious about your answer.”

Finn shook his head in disgust. “It’s not like that. Her mother split. If Devon goes in, she’s got no one to take care of her.”

“So what? How’s that your fuckin’ problem?” Finn didn’t answer. “Well, fuck,” Ballick continued, “if it’s the daughter you’re worried about, give her my phone number. I’m sure I could find work for her.”

“Doing what?”

Ballick shrugged. “She’d make more if she was a little younger. The hard-core perverts think of thirteen as some sort of a fuckin’ cutoff. Still, if she’s cute and she looks young enough, she could lie. Girl like that under the right circumstances can make a shitload of money.” He smiled and his eyes grew smaller.

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Like what? I didn’t make this fucked-up world, I just work here.” Ballick shook his head in mock pity. “Girl like that, that kind of background and fucked-up parents, she don’t end up with me she’ll end up with someone worse. Why not me?” He chuckled.

Finn leaned in toward the table. “Maybe I need to be clearer. Stay away from the girl. If I find out you’ve been anywhere near her, I swear to God…”

“You swear to God what?” Ballick asked. He’d lost his sense of humor. “You threatening me, Counselor?” He opened the desk’s top drawer and pulled out a revolver, put it down on the desk. “Let me explain something to you: I got a lotta shit to worry about in my life. You ain’t any part of it. You got that? You wanna come in here and tell me what to do? You wanna threaten me? Maybe I should be clearer. I ever see you again and you won’t have to worry about Devon ’s kid anymore, ’cause I’ll put a bullet in your fuckin’ brain. That clear enough? You ain’t a part of this world anymore; don’t go playin’ like you are.”

“Stay away from her. I’m serious.”

Ballick stood. “No, I’m fuckin’ serious.” He picked up the gun and pointed it at Finn. “This conversation’s over.”

Kozlowski’s finger trembled, tightening on the trigger. “Get the fuck up.”

Sullivan got to his feet. Kozlowski twisted his arm and faced him toward the side of the building. “Hands on the wall,” Kozlowski said. “You’ve done this before, spread ’em.”

Sullivan assumed the familiar pose, leaning forward on the building. “What the fuck you gonna do? Arrest me?”

Kozlowski kicked at the man’s feet. “Farther apart, asshole.” He stuck the barrel of the gun into the man’s back and bent over as he used his free hand to frisk him. His hand slid over the blood and fish guts that covered the apron.

“You can’t arrest me,” the man taunted. “You’re not a fuckin’ cop no more.”

Kozlowski straightened up and put the gun at the base of the man’s skull. “Who said anything about arresting you, Mikey? You been in twice already. Consider this my own version of the three-strikes rule.” He pushed the gun harder into the man’s head, until his face was rubbing against the building’s raw wood siding.

“You can’t fuckin’ kill me!” the man yelled.

“No? Why not?”

The door banged open and Finn stepped out. Ballick followed him, holding a gun. He looked at Kozlowski. “You see what I mean?” he said to Finn. “Once a cop, always a fuckin’ cop.” He raised his gun and pointed it toward the back of Finn’s head. “Okay, if you’re the cowboy, I guess that makes me the fuckin’ Indian. You wanna play?”

“It’s not my fault,” Mikey pleaded with Ballick.

“Shut up, you worthless piece of shit. What do you think, cop? Should we waste ’em both?”

Kozlowski uncocked his gun and lowered it. Ballick did the same.

“Too bad,” Ballick said. “For a second we both had a chance to do some fuckin’ good here today.”

Kozlowski grabbed Mikey by the back of his shirt and pulled him off the building, then shoved him toward Ballick. “Maybe next time.”

Ballick looked at Mikey. “Thanks for keepin’ an eye on this guy.”

“I’m sorry, Eddie.” Mikey barely got the words out before Ballick whipped the gun around, catching him in the face with the butt. He went down instantly.

“I said shut the fuck up.”

“Let’s go,” Kozlowski said to Finn.

Finn nodded and the two of them started walking toward their car. “Hey lawyer-man!” Ballick called out. Finn turned. “You should get to know your fuckin’ client a little better. He’s playin’ you. Swear to God, he’s playin’ you better than I’m gonna play his little girl when she shows up on my doorstep lookin’ for food.”

Kozlowski looked back and forth between the two men.

“You’re not part of the game no more!” Ballick yelled. “You remember that!”

Finn and Kozlowski got into Finn’s car and Finn pulled out.

Kozlowski looked at him. “So, how’d it go?”