Among Thieves

Chapter Twelve

The guard’s voice echoed off the walls of the central area at the jail. “ Devon Malley! Phone call!”

Devon knew it had to be Finn. Phone calls only came in to inmates if there was an emergency, or if it was a lawyer. Other than that, calls had to be placed by the inmates themselves during specified times. He headed to the long, narrow corridor off one side of the cell block. A guard was there to open the door for him. “Number three,” he said. Along the wall of the corridor were several phones spaced evenly apart. Devon went to the third one in the line and picked up the handset. “Finn?” he said.

“Yeah,” Finn replied.

“Did you see him?” Devon held his breath waiting for the answer.

“I got nothing,” Finn replied.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it was a waste of time. There’s nothing we’re gonna get from Ballick.”

“Why not? Did you see him?”

“Yeah, I saw him,” Finn said. “He wouldn’t give us anything even if he had something to give.”

“But you saw him? You spoke to him?”

“Yeah.”

“In person?”

“Yeah. What the fuck does it matter? Weren’t you listening? He’s not gonna help us. He wouldn’t give up Gilberacci even if he could. What the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing,” Devon said, smiling to himself. “He say anything else?”

“Yeah, he said that you don’t do any work for him anymore. He told me you’re playing me. You wanna tell me what that’s all about?”

“That’s nothing. Eddie’s always been a hard case, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Finn said. “That wasn’t it, though. There was something else. I need you to be straight with me, Devon, if you want me to keep representing you.”

“You worry too much, Finn. You’ve got to trust me a little more; everything’s gonna be okay. The arraignment’s tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. You get me out, and I’ll get you the money I owe you.”

“I’m not worried about the money,” Finn said.

“Yeah, right. A lawyer not worried about money. Who the fuck you think you’re dealing with, Finn?”

“I saw your apartment when I picked Sally up,” Finn said. “I know you can’t pay me. Not if that’s the shithole you’ve been living in.”

“Don’t ever judge a book by its fuckin’ cover, Finn. I just need you to get me out on bail. I’ll take care of everything else.”

Devon heard Finn sigh on the other end of the line. “We’re in pretty good shape as far as the hearing goes. I’ll get there a little early and we can talk through any questions you have. The most important thing will be for you to keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.”

Devon laughed again. “Right. You’re the boss.”

“I’m serious about that, Devon. Judges don’t like to hear from smartass defendants. Nothing pisses them off faster,” Finn said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be good,” Devon replied. “And I swear to God, I’ll get you your money when all this is done.”

“Whatever.”

“How’s Sally?”

“She’s fine. She’s fourteen.”

“Yeah, I know. Fucked up as it sounds, though, she’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Will you give her a message?”

“Sure.”

“Tell her I’m getting out tomorrow. Tell her everything’s gonna be fine. Tell her to trust me.”

“I’m pretty sure she’s heard that before,” Finn said.

“She has,” Devon admitted. “This time it’s true, though.” He hung up.

As he walked back to his cell, he took his first deep breath of the day. Ever since he’d heard about Murphy’s murder, his chest had felt constricted. Now he had real hope. Perhaps the past would remain in the past after all.

Devon would have waited a little longer. The St. Patrick’s Day fete in the building next door was winding down, and in a matter of a half hour the risk of being seen would have gone down dramatically. Being seen wasn’t necessarily fatal to the job-undoubtedly the four young men who had passed by them on the street had seen them-but it increased the risk of something going wrong. The Irishman was not going to be restrained anymore, though, so Devon got out of the car.

It was unseasonably warm. It had been down in the thirties the night before, but by midday it was well into the sixties, and by the time the sun went down the temperature had passed seventy degrees. Devon had spent some of the day walking the city, trying to clear his head before the job. Drunk girls were walking around in loose T-shirts, and the bars opened their windows to let the people breathe. The city was so packed you could hardly move on the streets, and the heat brought out the best and the worst in everyone. St. Patrick’s Day was like that in Southie. It was like Christmas and New Year’s all rolled into one with a keg of green beer to top it off. Devon never liked it. It was amateur hour out at the bars, with every rich prick from the colleges or the suburbs with an Irish grandmother or maid walking around screaming “Kiss me, I’m Irish,” like they had any real fucking idea what it meant to be Irish.

Devon met up with the Irishman at around ten, and they went over the plan again. That took about twenty minutes. Then they sat in the Irishman’s apartment, saying nothing. Devon turned on the television and started watching some of the NCAA tournament, but Irish turned it off. He didn’t seem to be much of a hoops fan.

At eleven-thirty, they put on the police uniforms Vinny had gotten for them-real ones, not some costume-shop fakes, complete with guns and utility belts-and pasted on cheesy fake mustaches. Then they headed out.

The drive over to the Fens took a little time. Devon was careful to stop at the lights and keep to the speed limit; the last thing he wanted at that point was to get pulled over. Not that anyone was likely to pay them any attention; there were still so many people out on the street drunk off their asses. That was good in the sense that the real police would already be overwhelmed responding to reports of drunk and disorderly behavior, bar fights, and traffic accidents. Devon had tried to keep Irish as relaxed as possible, but had only been successful for a time. Now he was at a half-jog, trying to keep up with the man as they made their way the short distance from the car to the museum.

The warm weather made their overcoats seem more out of place. It was the one part of their uniforms that wasn’t authentic, and Devon hoped that the security guards wouldn’t notice. There was little they could do about it; the coats were necessary to conceal some of the tools they would need to do the job.

They walked up to the back door and rang the bell. It was one o’clock, and it took a minute or two for someone to answer. The voice on the intercom sounded as if it belonged to a kid. “Hello?” he said.