Innocence (10 page)

“No,” the young man said.

Finn shrugged. “Well, if you don’t need a lawyer, I’m not sure how I can help you.”

“Mr. Slocum sent me.”

An alarm charge ran through Finn. This was not a good sign. “Why?” he asked.

“He said he’s considered your offer to settle this divorce.”

Finn stood in the center of the large central office space, only a few feet from the giant. The man had an odd resolve about him; he looked neither excited nor nervous.

“And?” Finn asked. “Does he have a response?”

The man nodded. Then he took two quick strides toward Finn— surprisingly graceful, almost balletlike strides for a man his size—and swung one of his massive arms, driving a sledgehammer fist into Finn’s abdomen so hard that Finn thought he felt it push its way through his organs and connect with the front side of his spine.

Finn doubled over and fell to his knees as the giant took two steps back. For over a minute, Finn was unable to move or make a sound, and he seriously considered the possibility that he was going to die. He’d taken plenty of beatings in his youth, and dished out his fair share as well, but he was sure he’d never been hit this hard. He’d heard stories of guys taking a punch to the head that killed them, and he wondered whether it was possible to have the same result from a gut shot.

Gradually, he regained the ability to move, if only slightly, and his lungs expanded enough that he was at least making some noise as his jaw worked up and down in what he’d initially thought would be his silent death scream. Had his attention not been dedicated to weighing the odds of his survival, Finn probably would have been fascinated by his assailant’s reaction. He was watching Finn with what looked like concern, and he seemed almost relieved when Finn started showing some signs of life again.

It was another minute or two before Finn could straighten himself and speak, still on his knees. “I’ll take that as an indication that the offer’s been rejected,” he coughed out, wiping his mouth and looking for blood as he drew his hand away from his face.

“I don’t want to do this,” the young man said quietly.

“Good. That makes two of us,” Finn said, placing one foot on the ground while still supporting his weight with his other knee.

“I’m serious.”

Finn could tell he was. “So don’t do it,” he offered. It seemed simple enough.

“No choice. Mr. Slocum wants this resolved. He’s willing to double what Mrs. Slocum would’ve gotten under their prenup. My instructions are to make sure that’s acceptable to you. Tonight.”

A light sweat had broken out on Finn’s forehead, and he put his hand up to mop it off. “Four thousand a month?” He considered it.

“It’s more than I make,” the young man said. “And she don’t have to do anything to earn it.”

Finn shook his head. “She won’t go for it.”

“I’m sure you can convince her. If not, I can.” The young man crossed his arms. “It’s the way it’s gotta be. You agree now, and I don’t have to do anything more to you. Shit, I’ll even take you to the bar on the corner, buy you a beer, so you know I’m not such a bad guy.”

Finn nodded, leaning his weight forward onto an arm slung across his knee. “Help me up,” he said, exhaling loudly.

The young man was visibly relieved. He uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, leaning down to pull Finn off the floor. As Finn came off his knee, he drove his head up, snapping it forward into the man’s face as he was bent over, sending him stumbling back.

Finn was sure that would end the altercation. He’d been in enough fights to know that a solid head butt to the face was generally enough to put even the stubborn brawlers down. Sometimes there was some finishing work left to do—a quick kick between the legs to close the deal, or maybe a blow to the back of the head with a heavy object—but it was always a mere formality.

Finn got to his feet and moved in for the kill, watching and waiting for the man to go down to the floor in front of him and present an easy target. But something remarkable happened: The man didn’t fall. He stumbled back a yard or so, his hands to his face, but he stayed on his feet. After a couple of seconds, he pulled his hands away, and all Finn could see was a trickle of blood running from his nose. Other than that, he looked unfazed. That was the moment Finn realized he was in trouble.

“That was a mistake,” the man said simply.

“I’m getting that feeling,” Finn replied.

“That was a really big mistake.”

“Yes, I think we’re agreed on that point.”

He was unbelievably quick for such a huge man. His hand shot out, grabbing Finn by the throat. Another hand came up and attached itself to the front of Finn’s shirt, lifting him up off the ground.

“Wait,” Finn protested. “You haven’t heard my counteroffer.”

The young man tossed Finn over the desk and into the exposed brick wall. Finn landed hard and at an awkward angle, wrenching his knee. He had no opportunity to evaluate the damage, though, as his tormentor came around the corner of the desk and reached down to pick him up again. Finn felt like a character in some twisted fairy tale as he was lifted off the ground once more. All that was missing was a beanstalk.

The giant heaved him across the room and pinned him against a section of drywall. He held Finn with one hand while he pulled the other back and swung his enormous fist at Finn’s face. It took all of Finn’s strength to break free enough to duck his head slightly, so the blow glanced off his ear, the fist smashing into the drywall and blowing a hole through the plaster and paint.

As the young man pulled his hand out of the wall, Finn knew this was his last chance, and he swung his own fists twice at the man’s stomach. It was like punching a sandbag; the man gave no indication that he’d even noticed Finn’s efforts. He pulled Finn’s head up again, holding him firmly under the chin this time, and Finn caught a glimpse of the gaping hole in the wall from the first blow. He shuddered as he understood the damage that was about to be inflicted on his face. He suddenly regretted that he’d skimped on his health plan.

The door to the street groaned open and slammed shut. “What the fuck?”

Finn had never been so happy to hear Tom Kozlowski’s voice.

The young man didn’t seem particularly concerned, but he was at least distracted enough to pause in his assault. That was something, Finn thought. “Get outta here, old-timer,” he said to Kozlowski. “This isn’t your business.”

“I work with him,” Kozlowski said. “So I think it is my business. Besides, I forgot my keys back there in my office, and you’re blocking the door, so it’s definitely my business.”

The huge man flung Finn to the ground. “Fine,” he said. He moved quickly toward the ex-cop, so quickly that Kozlowski didn’t have time to pull out his gun. That was bad news, Finn thought. Koz was a rock, but he was probably seven inches shorter than this behemoth, and was giving away at least a hundred pounds and a quarter decade to boot. Finn had serious doubts that Kozlowski would last much longer than Finn had in a hand-to-hand battle with the young man.

Finn watched as the man pulled his arm back and swung at Kozlowski’s head. Koz ducked it easily, then kicked out hard with his heel, connecting with the inside of the man’s right knee. Finn heard an ugly popping sound as the man wobbled, roaring in pain. He fell to one knee in front of Kozlowski, looking up at him in anguish. Kozlowski didn’t hesitate. With remarkable efficiency, his fist shot out and slammed into the man’s Adam’s apple. The man went silent, his eyes wide with terror and his hands flying to his throat as he toppled heavily to the floor. He lay there, flopping like a beached shark, helpless, as Kozlowski stood over him.

Finn got to his feet and walked over to Kozlowski. “Is he dead?”

Kozlowski shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Will he be?”

“Don’t know. Don’t think so.” Koz leaned over and tried to pull the man’s hands away from his neck. “Let me see.” The man pushed Kozlowski’s hands away, still struggling in panic to breathe.

Kozlowski pulled out his gun and put it to the man’s forehead. “I have to figure out whether you need an ambulance,” he said. “Now move your hands or I’ll shoot you.” The man relented and took his hands away from his throat, and Kozlowski leaned in close to take a look. “Nope,” he said, standing up. “Nothing’s broken; the windpipe’s just choked off temporarily.” He spoke directly to the man on the ground. “Relax. Struggling makes it worse. You’ll be able to breathe in a minute or two.” Kozlowski kept his gun out and his eyes on the man lying on the ground, who was starting to get some air back into his lungs. “Unsatisfied client or angry husband?” he asked Finn.

Finn shook his head. “Messenger from Slocum.”

Kozlowski nodded. “Ah. Playing hardball? I take it he thought your last offer was unreasonable?”

“Apparently.”

“So? Should we call the police, or should I just shoot him? Send a message back?”

The man on the floor, who had regained enough breath to prop himself up on an elbow, choked out a plea. “No, please!”

Finn shook his head. “He’s kidding.” He looked at Kozlowski. “You’re kidding, right?”

Kozlowski shrugged.

“Let’s talk to him a little first,” Finn suggested. “Then we’ll figure out the best plan.”

“Fine with me. It’s your wall he put a hole in, not mine. I just rent.” Koz looked down at the young man. “Can you get up and sit in a chair?” The man nodded. “Okay, you understand that if you do anything to make me even a little nervous, I’ll shoot you, right?” The man nodded again. “Good. Get up. Slowly.”

The man rose and sat in a chair against the wall.

“What’s your name?” Finn asked, leaning against his desk.

“Charlie.”

Finn shook his head. “Full name?”

Charlie hesitated. “Charlie O’Malley,” he said after thinking it over.

Finn chuckled. “I thought you looked familiar. You’re related to Michael O’Malley, aren’t you?”

Charlie nodded.

“You remember Big Mick?” Finn asked Kozlowski. Kozlowski shook his head. “Big Mick O’Malley,” Finn repeated. “He ran a crew out of Charlestown. Great guy. He saved my ass a dozen times back when I was a kid running with Tigh McCluen in the eighties.” He looked at Charlie. “He your father?”

Charlie shook his head. “Uncle.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Dead.”

Finn frowned. “Shit. How?”

“Cancer.”

“Too bad. Beats a bullet in the head, I guess. And now you’re following him into the family business? Doing a little muscle work?”

Charlie shook his head. “Like I told you, I don’t want to be doing this. I don’t have a choice.”

“Why not?”

He folded his arms. “Three years ago, I was out riding with a friend. Not even a friend, really, just a guy I knew. He got into a hassle, and we ended up getting pulled over. He had half a kilo of smack in his bag in the back. I did two years for it.”

“Why?”

“It was my car. The guy lied and said it wasn’t his bag. Cops didn’t know and didn’t care. Long as someone went away, it was all the same to them. Now I’m out on parole, and Slocum’s one of the few people who would sponsor a guy like me—give me a job—which is a condition of my parole. He sponsors a lot of ex-cons.”

“Sounds like a prince,” Kozlowski commented.

Charlie nodded. “A regular fuckin’ Gandhi. But it all comes with a price. He tells me to do something, I gotta do it.”

Finn scratched his head. “Who’s your parole officer?”

“Hector Sanchez.”

Finn looked over at Kozlowski. “Name mean anything to you?”

Kozlowski nodded. “I’ve dealt with him. Not a bad guy. Overworked, overstressed, but reasonable for the most part.”

Finn considered his options. “You really looking to get out of the life, or are you just bullshitting me?”

“I swear. I don’t want this.”

“What do you want?”

Charlie looked embarrassed. Finn thought it was an odd expression for such an enormous man. “I want to be a musician.”

“A musician?” Finn stifled a laugh.

“Sounds weird, right? I’m pretty good, though. I used to sing at the church, and my grandfather taught me some guitar when I was little.”

“Bullshit. You were never little.”

“When I was in the can, the only good thing was they let me keep a guitar, and I got to practice. I’m not lookin’ to be a star or nothing. I’d just like to play at bars. I’d be good at that.”

Finn was bewildered. He looked at Kozlowski, who shrugged back at him. Finally, Finn said, “All right, here’s the deal. We’ll put in a call to Sanchez. I’ll also find you another job. You stay away from Slocum; don’t go back to work.”

“Why would you do all this?”

“Like I said, your uncle bailed me out of a lot of jams when I was young. Maybe this is my chance to pay some of those debts back. Besides, this shit doesn’t really involve you; it involves me and Slocum. Give me a phone number, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Charlie looked back and forth between the two other men. “Seriously? That’s it? I just walk out of here?”

“You could stay, I suppose, but it would seem weird,” Finn said.

“Slocum’s gonna be pissed. He’ll send someone else after you.”

Finn considered that. “Are there any other guys like you who are unhappy with what Slocum’s making them do?”

Charlie shrugged. “A few, I guess.”

“Introduce me to them. Then let me deal with Slocum, and just wait for my call.”

Charlie stood up and walked to the door. “This is fucked up.”

“You’ll find that more and more as you get older,” Finn said. “Enjoy it when it goes your way.”

Chapter Eleve
n

Saturday, December 15, 2007

Saturday evening Lucinda Gomez lit the candles in the window of her first-floor parlor overlooking the desolate East Boston street where she lived. It was a ritual of hers, one she had been looking forward to for over a month. Every year she began decorating for the holidays on the second Saturday before Christmas, and the first symbolic step was to light the candles in the window. She would light them every evening between now and January 2. Three weeks of holiday celebration were enough, in her mind; she couldn’t condone the overzealousness with which some strung their red and green the day after Halloween, commercializing the birth of the Savior. They probably weren’t even real Christians, and she was sure Jesus would be appalled.