by David Hosp
Finn was an exceptional trial lawyer, and he could work wonders in front of a jury, but he hated the business of law. The administrative contortions required to make sure that bills to clients got out the door and paid with some semblance of regularity; to ensure that vendors were satisfied enough to keep the lights on and the computers humming; and to see to it that he, Kozlowski, and Lissa had nominal health insurance were enough to stretch him beyond his capacity for minutiae. He had a part-time assistant who came in two days a week to help him with the process, but it was unquestionably the worst part of being on his own. At his old firm, he’d been responsible only for keeping track of his time; the firm had fully staffed departments devoted to making sure the mundane details were attended to. He hadn’t realized what a benefit that had been.
As it was, dealing with administrative hassles took up much of his Thursday and Friday that week. He negotiated discounts for a couple of clients unhappy with their bills, made sure that no invoices were over thirty days past due, and spent two hours trying to get some expensive new software, designed to be more efficient, to work. By late Friday afternoon, he was worn out and could muster little motivation to embark on any new tasks. Instead, he offered to buy the first round at O’Doul’s.
“Sounds good to me,” Lissa replied when he made the offer. A beer clearly held more appeal to her than the research project she had been gnawing on throughout the day.
“Koz!” Finn called to the back office.
“What?” The reply was barked, and Finn was reminded of the dark mood the private detective had fallen into in recent days.
“We’re going for beers. I thought you might want to join us, if you can manage a civil word or two.”
Kozlowski walked out of his office and leaned against the door. His frown seemed indelible. “Only girls drink beer. Men drink booze.”
“I’m a girl,” Lissa said, looking at Kozlowski. The emphasis was evident to Finn, but it seemed to escape Kozlowski’s attention.
“So’s he, apparently.” Kozlowski nodded toward Finn.
“Ooooh,” Finn said. “I get it, I drink beer—so I’m a girl. Good one. You know, at least when I’m in a shitty mood, I can still be funny.”
“Still?”
“See, that’s better.” Finn grabbed his coat. “Why don’t you join us? I’ll order you a Scotch, and Lissa and I will try not to give you cooties, okay?”
Kozlowski shook his head. “Can’t right now. I’ve still got some work to do.”
“You sure?” Lissa pushed. “We’ll get you a scotch, and I’ll try my hardest to give you cooties.”
Kozlowski again failed to see through her transparency. “Later,” he said. “Gimme an hour, and maybe I’ll try to meet you guys over there.” He walked back into his own office.
“Right.” Lissa sighed. “Fuck.” She looked at Finn. “Fuck,” she said again. “You know? I mean . . . ?”
“I know,” Finn said. “Fuck. Come with me. I’m still buying.”
“Fuckin’ right you’re buying. I’m getting plastered.” She shook her head in disbelief as she picked up her purse.
“Sounds good to me,” Finn agreed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you good and drunk. What’s that like?”
She shrugged. “Not really that different. Although I’ve been told I swear a lot when I’m drunk.”
“Compared to what?”
“Compared to normal, I guess.”
Finn paused as he opened the door for her. “Seriously?” He looked at her, frightened.
“Fuckin’ A.”
“No, seriously?”
“Kozlowski was right,” she scoffed. “You are a fuckin’ girl.” She walked past him and out into the darkness as he hurried after her.
z
East Boston was the Hub’s afterthought. Nestled against Logan International Airport, it sat bleak and lonely across the harbor from downtown, Southie, Charlestown, and all the other sections of the city that polite society considered part of civilization. It was dominated by small blue-collar clapboard row houses set flush to the sidewalk. As with almost every area in Boston, a steady and varying stream of immigrants had flushed through the neighborhood over the years. It had started with the Irish and continued with the Italians and Germans, but had in recent years given way to a new wave of recent arrivals, many from Asia and South and Central America.
Mark Dobson sat in the front seat of his BMW 325 across the street from the Church of St. Jude, a few blocks from the water and a stone’s throw from Logan. Its name, taken from the patron saint of lost causes, seemed prophetic as Dobson looked out at the boards that darkened its windows. Built in the early 1900s with contributions from the impoverished residents, it had once sat at the edge of tidal flats, looking out on the short cinder-block runways of the original airport sunk into the marshy expanse at the edge of the harbor.
Over the years, the flats had been reclaimed by landfill, and the airport had grown, attracting storage depots and industrial developments that crowded in on the little religious outpost. The church had survived for a century, supported by its parishioners, who contributed cash when they could afford it and sweat equity when they couldn’t. In 2004, though, the Boston archdiocese, facing a cash crisis brought on by mismanagement and liability from lawsuits over pedophilia charges, announced that it would close the place down. It made sense from a business perspective. The tithing of the poor provided an insufficient economic justification for keeping the church open, and there were other parishes in East Boston that could absorb those who still frequented it. Angry residents staged sit-ins and filed lawsuits, but in the end, there was little they could do, and the doors were closed. Now it sat on a lonely parcel of land waiting to be sold; waiting to be swallowed up by the secular interests of economic development.
Dobson had no idea what he was doing here, exactly, but this was his only lead, and he refused to let Salazar down. After absorbing everything he could from Macintyre’s file, Dobson had headed out to Billerica to demand some answers from his client. He’d gotten answers. Answers he hadn’t expected. Answers he wasn’t sure he believed. But he couldn’t let it drop; he was in this until the end, even if meant he had
to sit in his car on this deserted street, watching this deserted church, until he froze to death.
Oddly, the notion excited him. Having spent a few years holed up in the firm’s law library doing legal research and writing briefs for megaglomerates in securities and tax litigations, he felt good being out in the real world, doing real work for a real flesh-and-blood client.
He smiled as his teeth chattered, and he pulled his coat tighter around himself. Perhaps being a lawyer was what he was really meant to do with his life after all. And besides, he thought, it’s not like the cold will kill me.
z
Finn was still on his first beer as Lissa put down her second. She drank like someone twice her size and seemed to hold it better. Finn considered being shocked but quickly realized there was little about her that would surprise him at this point.
“What the fuck?” she said, looking at him as she leaned forward on her stool against the bar. She raised her hand to order another.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize we were racing,” Finn replied, lifting his glass to polish off what beer remained. He nodded to the bartender and tipped his glass.
She shook her head. “I’m not talking about your drinking—although now that you mention it, you might want to hike your skirt up if you don’t want the hem to drag in the mung. No, I’m just pissed at the Neanderthal you keep in the back office.”
“Koz?”
“No, the other one, genius.” She rolled her eyes as she wrapped her petite hand around a fresh beer and poured a third of it down her throat. Putting the glass down, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. It was a pretty mouth, Finn thought, no matter what kind of language came out of it. “I mean, shit, what the fuck do I have to do, throw myself at the guy?”
“You mean more
than you already have?”
“Fuck you.” She glared at Finn. Then she stood up and flattened her sweater and skirt against her body. “Look at me,” she said. She raised her arms above her head to accentuate her athletic curves.
Finn shaded his eyes. “I think that would be a violation of all sorts of employment laws.”
“Fuck you. I’m not gonna sue you. I’ve seen your receivables; it’s not worth my fuckin’ time. Just look at me,” she ordered him. “Is there something hideous about me or anything?”
“Clearly not,” Finn said, looking though the gaps of the hand he still held in front of his face.
She dropped her hands and put them on her waist, rolling her hips slightly as she struck a seductive Marilyn Monroe pose. She smiled and licked her lips seductively. “Can you honestly tell me there’s a straight man this side of the South End who wouldn’t kill to get close to this?”
Finn noticed several of the men at the bar shifting restlessly as they watched her. “No, I can’t,” he said. “I can tell you that a few of the guys at the bar look like they’re ready to kill to get close to that, and I don’t feel like being the one they pick on to prove it.”
She straightened up and let her shoulders slump as she plopped back down on her bar stool. “So what the fuck is wrong with Tom Kozlowski that he doesn’t want to take a shot at me?” She picked up her beer. Then, as a thought struck her, she leaned in and said in a confidential tone, “You don’t think he’s gay, do you?”
Finn snarfed a mouthful of his beer at the notion, drawing an annoyed look from the bartender. As Finn wiped his face with a napkin, he began to wonder whether he’d make it out of the bar without having someone take a swing at him. “Gay? Koz? No, he’s definitely not gay.”
“Well, then, what the fuck?”
Finn put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s got nothing to do with how you look,” he reassured her. “Trust me. It’s just that Koz is a nineteenth-century man trying to cope with a twenty-first-century world. To say that he’s traditional doesn’t even begin to do his condition justice. Honor and honesty and respect—and stoicism about them all—are at the core of the man. That’s just who he is.”
“I know,” Lissa agreed. “That’s what I like about him. He’s solid. Other guys try to project an image of themselves, and then when you really get to know them, you realize too late that it’s all a fucking mirage. You can wave your hand, and it passes right through the image of who you thought they were. With Tom, there’s no posturing, no pretense.”
“Please, can we call him Koz? Calling him Tom makes it seem like this conversation is actually happening.”
“I’m just saying I think he is exactly who he seems to be.”
“Only more so, I suspect,” Finn said.
“Exactly. So what the fuck am I doing wrong?”
“You have to understand, things are pretty black and white in his world. I think he works more at the ‘me boy, you girl’ level. I’m just not sure he knows what to make of someone like you.”
“What the hell does that mean? ‘Someone like me’? That’s a shitty thing to say.”
“You know exactly what it means. You’re an intelligent, independent, modern woman. I’m not sure you fit into any mold that his brain can deal with.”
“Who said it was his brain I was interested in?”
“There. See, that’s what I’m talking about. I’m not sure, for example, that the idea of a woman with a libido is something he’s ready for.”
She shook her head. “You’re wrong. Women can sense these things. He’s more than ready for it.”
Finn shrugged. “Then, of course, there’s your vocabulary.”
“What the fuck are you talking about now?”
“Exactly.”
She paused, and Finn could tell that she was playing her words back in her head. Then she picked up her beer and took a contemplative sip. “Fuck you. I don’t think you’re giving Koz enough credit,” she said sullenly.
The voice came from behind them, over her shoulder. “That’s been the problem my whole life. People don’t give me enough credit.”
They both turned to see Kozlowski as he sidled up between them. Finn noticed Lissa’s face go white. “Koz,” he said. “How long have you been standing there?”
“I just walked in. Why? How long have you been badmouthing me?”
Lissa’s face instantly went from white to red, and Finn had trouble choking back a laugh in spite of the awkwardness. “Pretty much since we got here.”
“Really? Anything important I should know about?”
“Naw. We were just speculating about whether or not you were gay,” Finn said. Lissa kicked Finn hard in the shin, and he let out an involuntary yelp.
“Wishful thinking on your part, no doubt,” Kozlowski grunted to Finn, though there was good humor in his tone for once, if you knew where to look for it.
“No doubt,” Finn agreed.
“What do you want to drink?” Lissa offered, clearly desperate to change the subject.
“Scotch,” Kozlowski replied.
“Any particular flavor?”
He looked at Finn. “This asshole buying?”
Finn nodded.
“Then whatever’s most expensive.”
Chapter Ten
The three of them drank at the bar for another hour before Finn decided it was time to call it an evening. He had to stop by the office to pick up some work before heading home, and he wasn’t in for the long haul. He assumed he was the glue keeping the three of them together and that his departure would kill the gathering, but he was wrong.
“You want to stay for one more?” Lissa asked Kozlowski as Finn stood up. Finn viewed it as far too aggressive a move, and he cringed for her as he waited for the cavalcade of excuses to pour forth from the private detective: I have to get home or my frozen dinner may spoil. The History Channel is replaying my favorite episode of Weapons of the First World War. It’s my night to host the retired homicide detectives’ book club.
“Sure” was the response Kozlowski actually gave.
“Seriously?” Finn was unable to disguise his shock, and he could feel the sting of Lissa’s stare.
“Problem?” Kozlowski asked.
“No.” Finn felt like his tongue was too big for his mouth all of a sudden.
“Have a good weekend, then.”
“Fine. You two, too. Also.” Finn stood there like an idiot. Then, without another word, he turned and walked to the door.
He shook his head all the way back to his office. Was it possible that he’d been wrong about Kozlowski? The notion of the detective together with Lissa was too weird for his mind to grasp, but why? Kozlowski was older but not outrageously so. And in many ways, they might be good for each other. Something about it just seemed so odd. It couldn’t actually work between the two of them, could it?
Finn was still wrestling with the notion as he approached the office. In New England, night falls early in December, and it was pitch-dark out even though it was just past six o’clock. As he took out his key and slid it into the lock, a shadow emerged from around the corner of the little building.
“You Finn?”
Finn looked up. The man was standing directly in front of a streetlamp, making it difficult to see anything other than his general shape. It seemed like a large shape, though. “I am.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About a case. Not here, though. Inside.”
Finn squinted, trying to get a better look at the man. He was tempted to tell him to come back on Monday during normal working hours, but he’d lost so much time on administrative matters over the previous two days that he felt guilty. A couple of years on his own had taught him that you had to pounce on any potential new business without hesitation. You never knew where the next meal was coming from, and hustle was 70 percent of surviving as a solo practitioner. “Okay,” he said. “Come on in and we’ll talk.” He open
ed the door and stepped inside, holding it open behind him to let the man in.
“So, you need a lawyer?” Finn took off his coat and threw it over a hook on the wall.
“Not really,” the man replied.
Finn turned to get a good look at him. The impression from the street had drastically underestimated his size. He’d seemed large, but he was in fact huge. He had to be at least six and a half feet tall, though neither thin nor gawky. He had massive shoulders from which hung long solid slabs of muscle ending in hands the size of baseball gloves. His neck, which rose from a giant cask of a torso, was as thick as a telephone pole and looked as solid. As he took off his hat, a shock of red hair stood on end, and his complexion was ghostly white. He looked young, early twenties at most, but he had the eyes of someone much older. “You look familiar,” Finn said. “Have we met?”
“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.
