Among Thieves (8 page)

A week later her mother came home, stoned again, with another man. That was when Sally realized fully for the first time that
no one would ever really protect her. After that, she learned how to protect herself at all costs, and few people messed with
her more than once.

The knock on the door came again. “Everything okay in there?” the lawyer called once more, an edge of concern in the voice.

“Fine,” she responded. She was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants that doubled as pajamas.

“Can I open the door?” he asked.

“It’s your door.”

The door slid open slowly and every muscle in her body went tight, the fight-or-flight response well conditioned. He looked
nervous as he stuck his head in the room, keeping his feet in the hallway. He stood there for a moment, leaning awkwardly.
“I have a TV,” he finally offered.

“Cutting-edge,” she replied.

“I don’t watch it much, but you’re welcome to watch whatever you want.”

She shook her head. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

He nodded. “Do you have everything you need? You want a glass of water or something?”

She shook her head again.

“Okay. If you need anything, give a shout.” He looked at her again for another moment, as if waiting for a response. Then,
clearly realizing that the conversation was over, he pulled his head back and closed the door.

She waited a couple of seconds before she got up and walked quietly over to the door, pushing in the small round button on
the knob until she heard the lock engage. It wouldn’t keep him out if he was determined to get in, but it might buy her a
little time if necessary.

She walked back over to the bed, shaking the blanket out of its folds and pulling it over her. She didn’t sleep under covers—they
made her feel trapped.

She turned off the light and lay back, staring up at the ceiling, running through all her options in her head. It didn’t take
long for her to conclude that she didn’t have any.

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.

“Don’t mess with me.”

Those were the first words Lissa Krantz spoke to Sally Malley. Finn brought Sally into the office at seven-thirty the next
morning. He, Koz, and Lissa were all early risers, and the office was usually busy for a couple of hours before most lawyers
at other firms got to their desks. Lissa was already sitting at her computer when Finn ushered the bleary-eyed girl through
the front door.

“I have to drive her to school over in Southie,” Finn said by way of greeting. “I figured Koz and I could head over and talk
to Vinny Murphy, as long as I was going in that direction anyway.” He looked down at the girl as though he’d forgotten for
a moment that she was still with him. “This is Sally,” he said. “Sally, this is Lissa.”

Lissa nodded.

Sally said nothing, plopped down in one of the uncomfortable chairs against the wall. The tiny firm was thriving financially,
but Finn hadn’t yet plowed any of his profits back into the office décor. An architect had drawn up ambitious plans, but Finn
hadn’t had time to follow through. The office still consisted of one large open space where both Finn and Lissa had desks.
Kozlowski’s office was in the back.

“Koz in?” Finn asked.

“His office,” Lissa responded.

“I’ll be right back.”

Lissa wasn’t sure whether Finn was speaking to her or the girl. In either case, he disappeared into the back without another
word. Lissa looked over at Sally. She wore thick black work boots, a black skirt over leggings and an oversized sweatshirt.
Nothing about her demeanor or her wardrobe invited interaction. She was looking back at Lissa, scowling slightly. Neither
of them said anything for a few moments; they just stared at each other, seeing who would crack first. In the end, it was
the girl.

“You’re pretty,” she said to Lissa. “Is that how you got the job, or can you type, too?”

“Don’t mess with me,” Lissa replied.

“You’re tough, then?” Sally asked.

“Only compared to some. And only when pushed.”

The girl said nothing.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Lissa said.

“Why? He’s not dead.”

“I know.”

“So, why are you sorry?”

Lissa considered the girl and the question in equal measure. She liked both, she decided. They both seemed brutally honest—a
quality, in Lissa’s experience, that was hard to come by. “I don’t know,” Lissa said. “I guess I was just assuming his arrest
might be hard on you. I was trying to offer some sympathy. You can take it if you want. Or not. Up to you.”

“You gonna tell me it’s all gonna be all right now?”

“No.”

“Good. I hate it when people say shit like that.”

“So do I.”

They lapsed into silence again, the girl slouching down deep into the chair, her brow furrowed, looking stymied by Lissa’s
refusal to play the traditional establishment role of coddling adult.

“So, what do you do around here?” Sally asked after a moment.

“I’m a lawyer,” Lissa replied. “I work with Finn.”

“Really?” The girl seemed both impressed and skeptical.

“Yeah, really.”

Finn and Kozlowski came in from the back room. Lissa was amused by Sally’s reaction to seeing Kozlowski for the first time.
His size was imposing, and while his features hinted at a time when he might have been handsome, the long, deep scar on the
side of his face gave him a distinctly menacing appearance.

“Sally, this is Tom Kozlowski,” Finn said.

She sat up a little straighter but didn’t respond, trying to dispel any impression that she was intimidated. Lissa could tell
it was an act, though. Kozlowski said nothing.

“Right,” Finn said. “We have to drop you off at school, and then Mr. Kozlowski and I have some business we have to deal with
together. My car’s a little small for the three of us, so I figure we can take Koz’s car.”

Lissa could see the girl go a shade paler at the thought of riding with Kozlowski. She stood. “You two have a lot to deal
with today. I have a doctor’s appointment later, but other than that I’m not that busy, so why don’t I take Sally to school?”
She wasn’t sure who looked more relieved, the men or the girl.