Black Diamond (20 page)

The chances were good that the only words Boyle ever spoke to him were curses or orders. Nonetheless.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“I agree with you, Kevin. Now I'm going to tell you something that's not for publication. Did you ever meet Vince Scully?”

The mere name put the wrinkles back in his forehead. I didn't need an answer.

“See, Vince Scully took up with another gang behind Mr. Boyle's back. Mr. Boyle heard about it. I was with Vince Scully last night. They slit his throat wide open from ear to ear.”

I added the appropriate gesture.

Vestiges of shock and fear grew in Kevin's beady little eyes. He'd probably thought of Vince Scully as invincible.

“Now, here's the deal. When you threatened me with a gun this morning and tried to force me to go to Belle Isle Park, you were acting on the orders of a man who's also turned traitor to Mr. Boyle. That makes you part of the conspiracy.”

I figured whoever took Scully's place as Manny Gomez's contact had to be linked to the mob that controlled Black Diamond and kidnapped Erin. And those were definitely not Boyle's troops.

“I'm thinking of the gaping slit in Vince Scully's throat. I can't help wondering how Mr. Boyle will react to your working for his enemies.”

“The hell I am! I'm just doin' what I'm told!”

He was on his feet. His telltale pate was passing through magenta. His voice was up two octaves. That triggered a raspy voice from upstairs.

“Kevin, will you for the love of—?”

“Yeah, yeah, Ma. Go to sleep.”

He pulled his chair over and leaned about six inches from my face. He was down to a hissing whisper.

“What the hell am I supposed to do? I get a call before the damn sun is up. He says he's callin' for Mr. Boyle. I do what I'm told.”

“Just sit down, Kevin. Cool down. Have some coffee. There's a way out of this. Just relax.”

The last thing I wanted at that particular moment was for Kevin to go into cardiac arrest.

“I'm the only one in Boyle's outfit who knows about this. It's distinctly in your interest to have me keep my mouth shut. Are we in full agreement?”

He saw the possibility and nodded.

“Then tell me one thing, and my lips are sealed. When is the next time you go to the North Station?”

His eyes bulged. I think the thought of disclosing information
about his most secret mission frightened him almost as much as the specter of Scully with his throat slit. Thank God, the operative word was “almost.”

He leaned closer. “If this gets out—”

“It won't. When? Say it.”

He wiped away brow sweat with his sleeve.

“Tonight. Five o'clock.”

I patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you. That'll be our little secret.”

I started down the porch steps, when a thought struck home. I caught Kevin as he was opening the front door.

“Oh, one last thing. Who called you this morning?”

He looked to both sides and hustled over to me in three quick steps. He was spitting the words out between locked teeth.

“What the hell more you want from me? I don't even know who the hell you are.”

“Sure you do. I'm the one you tried to kidnap this morning at gunpoint on orders from a traitor to Mr. Boyle. I'm the one who's keeping you alive, remember?”

He just froze.

“Who was it, Kevin?”

Another look both ways. It came out in a hiss. “Sean Flannery.”

“And what exactly did he have waiting for me at Belle Isle Park?”

“I don't know. I swear it. I was just supposed to get ya there.”

“Uh-huh. But chances are it wasn't an invitation to a tea dance. Right?”

“I gotta get in.”

He was back across the porch and through the door before I could get another syllable out of him, but that was enough. I remembered Sean Flannery as the stakeout who relieved Vince Scully in front of Colleen Ryan's house after the kidnapping. I couldn't help wondering,
“Mr. Boyle, how many traitors do you have in that rat pack of yours?”

Like it or not, it was time to move into the big league. We'd been dismissing Billy Coyne's major sweat over something bigger than Hector Vasquez as Billy's problem, not ours. It finally dawned on me that that kind of thinking could be dangerous. If we kept limiting our concern to an isolated piece of the puzzle, we'd go on blundering like mice in a maze that only see as far as the manipulator lets them see.

I went into Mr. D.'s office to make my pitch that afternoon. He dropped what he was working on, stretched back in his oversized desk chair, folded his arms over his suspenders, and gave me the go-ahead nod.

“Point one, Mr. Devlin. Someone in Ireland went to great lengths to conceal Black Diamond's natural speed. Why? No-brainer. So they could ship him to the United States and make a killing on his first race. Suffolk Downs is a good choice. It's a small-time track. Mostly mediocre, unpredictable horses. If a long shot comes in out of nowhere, it's not like it doesn't happen every day. They pick Mass-Cap day when all the attention is on the big race. Nobody much cares what happens in the early races. It's a perfect setup all around. Black Diamond has long odds, twenty to one, and that's no surprise given his reported workout times and poor breeding. They can bet the farm. How'm I doing, Mr. Devlin?”

“No disagreement yet.”

“Then let's play another line. That same race happens to be fixed by Boyle and the Boston mob for Hector Vasquez's horse, another long shot, to win the race. There's no indication that the Irish gang
behind Black Diamond let Boyle in on their scam. On the other hand, since Vince Scully appears to have been secretly working for both mobs, he undoubtedly informed the Irish mob behind Black Diamond that Boyle had the fix in for Vasquez's horse. In fact, that may be why the Irish mob picked that particular race for Black Diamond. Boyle didn't put the fix on Danny because Black Diamond didn't seem to be a threat, based on his workout record. So if the other jockeys pull their horses to give Vasquez's horse the win, it's a genuine lock for Black Diamond. The Irish mob knows Black Diamond can beat Vasquez's horse on natural speed like he's standing in cement.”

Mr. D.'s eyes were closed, but I knew it was all going in. “Perfect logic.”

“All right. Now here's where the logic goes sour. On the day of the race, the Irish mob behind Black Diamond goes to the extreme length of kidnapping Danny's daughter. Why? To get Danny to win the race on Black Diamond? No. He was going to do that anyway. It had to be to get him to lose the race. Why? After all they went through to make a bundle on Black Diamond's first race, why would they want Danny to lose? It makes no sense. For some reason, all of a sudden on the day of the race, both Boyle and the Irish mob had the same interest. They both wanted Danny to lose the race.”

“I'll give you this, Michael. You're right. It defies logic. At least on what we know so far.”

“And it gets worse. When Danny squeaked Black Diamond through on the rail at the eighth pole, he was apparently going for the win in spite of everything. So either Boyle or the Irish mob had to knock Danny out of the saddle to keep him from winning. That throws us two more curves. Which mob was it that caused Danny's spill? Or was it both? And, even more perplexing, how did they do it?”

“You're assuming, of course, that there's not a simple answer to that last question. I might add, one that does not defy logic.”

I knew what he was getting at. I just looked at him.

“You don't want to hear it, do you, Michael?”

I knew that he was suggesting that the simplest answer would be that our client, Hector Vasquez, used his whip to jab Danny out of the saddle. Nothing in the films showed that he didn't. But to accept it would be to concede that Mr. Devlin was right in the debate that began the day I met him. I'd be admitting that clients do lie about their innocence to get the lawyer to fight harder, and therefore a lawyer should never build a defense on a belief that the client is telling the truth about his innocence. Mr. D. called it an invitation to being blindsided. As he says, the jury has to presume the defendant is innocent until proven guilty; defense counsel doesn't.

“Face it, Michael. If Vasquez is guilty, and if we can't establish reasonable doubt, which, by the way, is looking more difficult all the time, our best service to the client may be to get the best bargain for a guilty plea. Heaven knows the D.A. is panting to cut a deal for the testimony of Vasquez against Boyle's mob.”

“True, Mr. Devlin. But if he is telling the truth, and he's not guilty, even with probation, which is not likely, it would mean a criminal-felony record and probably loss of his jockey's license. That's assuming Boyle's people let him live long enough to ride again anyway.”

Mr. D. just held up his hands and shrugged. I think it was a comment on my gullibility.

“Besides, I want to try one more approach before suggesting a guilty plea to Vasquez. There are too many jagged edges to this thing.”

“What kind of approach?”

I could hear a perceptible protective shift in Mr. D.'s tone—protective of me. To avoid unwanted limitations, I decided to keep it vague.

“It's still a bit sketchy. I'll keep you up to date.”

“Damn it, Michael! Every time you do that, I get another ulcer. These are not boy scouts we're up against. What are you up to now?”

“A walk in the park. Nothing my mother couldn't handle.”

I neglected to tell him that the kind, loving, caring woman of faith he knew as my mother had had an upbringing in a neighborhood in Puerto Rico that could rival marine boot camp.

He took a few seconds to digest the mother comment. His respect for her cooled the heat of the moment. He went back to being quietly strategic. I made a mental note to remember that little ploy.

“There's another reason we have to get this game together soon, Michael. We have a preliminary hearing before Judge Peragallo this afternoon at four. I got a call from his clerk this morning. I want you there. He's going to be looking to set a trial date. Angela Lamb'll be trying to pressure us into a plea with a trial in the next couple of weeks. It's fish or cut bait time.”

I must have had a look that conveyed my reaction to a two-week trial date.

“What is it?”

“We need more time. At least three weeks. I may have to go out of town for a bit.”

“There you go again. Where are you going this time? If you get yourself hurt, your mother and I'll both have your head on a platter.”

His phone rang. He answered it and handed the receiver over to me. I thanked God it was my secretary, Julie, rescuing me with word that Tom Burns was on my line. After I left Kevin Murphy, I had asked Tom to have a man keep an eye on locker 512 at North Station and tail anyone who made a drop there.

“Shall I transfer it to Mr. Devlin's office?”

“Not on your life, Julie. I'll be right there.”

I remembered the question I had left hanging.

“Possibly Ireland, Mr. Devlin. What could happen to me in the land of your ancestors?”

It was an exit line, delivered over the shoulder as I passed quickly out of his office to take the call.

I closed the door of my office and picked up the phone.

“Go, Tom.”

“Pay dirt. Got a pen?”

“Shoot.”

“That could be a prophetic phrase. This even has my head spinning. Your man dropped the valise in locker five twelve. He left the key at the news shop. My man followed him back to his office.”

“Right. Which is where? And who is it?”

“Top of the Fidelity United Trust Building on State Street. Are you hearing this?”

“Tom, you're dragging this out. Who is it?”

“This is not just dramatic effect. I want your full attention.”

“You have it. For the love of Pete, who is it?”

“Colin Fitzpatrick.”

He paused for some reaction from me. I had none.

“Refresh me.”

“CEO of the largest investment firm in New England. He burps and the stock market gets indigestion. You listening, Mike? This man is a walking pillar of power and money.”

“I hear you.”

“Not when you say it that way. I'm talking power beyond anything you can imagine. Want a translation? Whatever the hell you're planning, back off.”

My little bucket of confidence in what was shaping up as a plan was being drained by the gallon. I needed at least to bluff my way into a false sense of optimism.

“Like they say, Tom, the bigger they are—”

“—the harder they squash little gnats like you.”

I took a deep breath. “I'll be all right. In the words of Sir Galahad, ‘My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.'“

“Oh shit, Mike. That's the kind of crap that could get your parts in six different suitcases.”

When I stepped out of the building onto Franklin Street, Tom's words were slowly seeping into my sense of reality. I'd been able to
dismiss the almost bombing of my Corvette outside of Daddy Hightower's as a once and done incident. I'd even been suppressing the thought of what I could have walked into in Belle Isle Park. But I'd never heard Tom speak like that, and we'd come through some hairy tangles together. His tone, even more than the words, was stripping away my mental firewalls.

On the walk to the garage, I could actually feel myself fighting down a good case of the jumps every time I melded into a sidewalk crowd, rounded a corner, or, in particular, contemplated turning the key to start my Corvette. Each of them brought up a little volcano of stomach acid.

I had to block it out or I'd be useless to everyone. I remembered the wise words of John Wayne. “Courage is being scared to death, and saddling up anyway.”