Among Thieves

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 go

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 Fi

“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 Fi

Fi

Kozlowski looked back and forth between the two men.

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

Fi

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

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 Fi

“Yeah,” Fi

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

“I got nothing,” Fi

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it was a waste of time. There’s nothing we’re go

“Why not? Did you see him?”

“Yeah, I saw him,” Fi

“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 go

“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 wa

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

“Yeah, I know,” Fi

“You worry too much, Fi

“Yeah.”

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

“I’m not worried about the money,” Fi

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

“I saw your apartment when I picked Sally up,” Fi

“Don’t ever judge a book by its fuckin’ cover, Fi

Devon heard Fi

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,” Fi

“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 go

“I’m pretty sure she’s heard that before,” Fi

“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.