I nodded.

“You ever heard of a judge named Joe Scali?” I said.

Vinnie shook his head.

“Callahan?” I said.

Vinnie shook his head some more.

“Bobby Talos?” I said.

Vinnie didn’t shake his head this time. He reached for the bottle, poured out a little more grappa. God help him. He sipped it slowly. The ball rolled again downstairs. More pins were knocked down and scattered.

“He on the same team?” I said.

“Don’t know,” Vinnie said. “Depends on the money. I’ve done business with him before. Mainly just to make sure things run smooth.”

“No union issues.”

Vinnie sipped some of the grappa. His eyes were hooded and withdrawn. Hawk picked up the bottle and examined the label.

“Nice to know if the DeMarcos are in with Bobby Talos,” I said.

“I bet.”

“It would help me,” I said.

Vinnie shrugged again.

“I’d consider it a favor,” I said.

Vinnie didn’t speak. He examined the color of the grappa refracting in the neon light. It looked to be the most interesting liquid on the planet.

Hawk stared at Vinnie. And Vinnie looked to Hawk and then back to me. He shook his head with disappointment.

“Goddamn, Vinnie,” Hawk said. “History is a bitch.”

Vinnie put down the glass. He righted his tie. He looked to both of us and shook his head some more. “For crissake,” he said. “I’d really like it if you didn’t get me killed.”

29

Two days later, Iris Milford showed up at my office. She looked bright and pretty, holding a smile that hid some terrific secret.

“You look like a woman who knows things.”

“You have no idea.”

“Perhaps some things you’d like to share?”

“Just the secrets of the world, baby.”

“In that case, take a seat.”

I’d just returned from a lunchtime workout at the Harbor Health Club. I was properly tired, four miles on the treadmill at a nice clip and a few rounds on the heavy bag and shadowboxing. The knee was coming along. My right punch was like the kick of a frisky mule.

“You’re not too busy?” she said.

“Gisele is stopping by later for fashion tips,” I said. “Later, I plan to rearrange the bullets in my gun.”

“Thought it best to drive to the city,” she said. “Of course, I look for any excuse to leave Blackburn.”

“Have they put up the wanted posters yet?”

“Of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Just a few,” she said. “You look better in person.”

“Hard to capture the nose,” I said, touching the flattened end.

“Looks like too many people captured that nose.”

I winked at her and pulled a clients’ chair from the wall. She sat and I returned to my desk. After the time off, my legs felt like Jell-O.

“I had to write about your arrest,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“You had to do your job.”

“I quoted several people who called the claims outrageous,” she said. “You have a lot of friends in high places. A lot of cops. Even more called after the arrest.”

“You don’t know where you truly stand until you’re accused of propositioning a teenybopper.”

“They’ve gone way too far.”

“I think that started a while back.”

“How’s the boy?” she said. “Dillon?”

“Still on Fortune Island,” I said. “It’s out of Scali’s hands now. He’ll be free in a few days.”

“How about the girl, Beth Golnick?”

“I tried to call her, but her cell number is no good. Wasn’t too keen at stopping by her house unannounced.”

“You do know her mother works in the courthouse?”

“Nope.”

“Probate,” she said. “Along with the bogus drug arrest to scare her, they probably scared her mom to get to her. Ain’t easy being a single woman in Blackburn. Jobs are hard to find. Lots of connected families and friends.”

I nodded. “Did you at least use a good photo of me?”

She tossed down a small scanned mug shot. It wasn’t pretty. “Figure you might want to hold on to this,” she said. “You know. One day we’ll all laugh.”

“Tell me when that day comes.”

Iris shook her head. She crossed her legs, a stylish boot swinging back and forth. She wore a white cashmere sweater under a high-necked black coat. Bracelet-sized gold hoops dangled in her ears. She peered around my office, checking out my place of work with a reporter’s eye. Her eyes lingered on framed pictures on the wall.

“Vermeer,” she said. “Always wanted to go to Amsterdam.”

“It’s nice,” I said. “But a friend bought them at an exhibit at the Fine Arts Museum.”

“One day.”

“When the kids are grown?”

“Shit,” she said. “I got grown kids and grandbabies. And I got a sorry-ass pension and a sadder retirement.”

“At least you love your work.”

“Some days,” she said. “When you make things right.”

“Doesn’t last long,” I said.

“Never does,” she said. “Only live for the moment. Order is an illusion.”

“Who said that?”

“Probably some dead white man.”

I smiled at her. She smiled back. Our first meeting at the university seemed eons ago. “Would you like some coffee?”

She shook her head and reached into a large black leather purse for a reporter’s notebook. She took her time flipping to the right page before glancing up at me. “You mentioned the judges were living beyond their means?”

“Yep.”

“So I took that as a clue,” she said. “I checked out the property records of how much they paid for their homes.”

“So did I,” I said.

“Nice digs,” she said. “Almost a mil for Scali. Two-point-five mil for Callahan.”

I leaned back into my chair and set my feet onto the edge of the desk. The features section for the Globe lay spread out where I’d left it. Arlo & Janis. “Perhaps they have family money?”

“Maybe,” Iris said. “Each house in the name of their wives.”

“Maybe it’s a statement.”

“Or maybe they’re hiding something,” she said. “So I checked into both of them. Victoria Scali and Barbara Callahan own a travel agency in the city. With another office in Tampa.”

“Okay,” I said. “So the wives are more successful than the men.”

“Do you want me to explain my second husband?”

“Do I want you to?”

“Nope,” she said. “Last I heard, the son of a bitch was living in Costa Rica.”

“Maybe the women are a tax dodge?”

“The business is small,” she said. “But they keep an office in a high-rise off Atlantic.”

She read off the address and the name of the business. Being a trained detective, I wrote both down. “Okay,” I said.

“I guess it doesn’t mean much.”

“Or maybe it means everything,” I said.

“How do we know?”

“I’ll work some investigatory magic,” I said, feigning my Liberace movements on the keyboard. Or more likely Dave McKenna.

“And if that doesn’t work?”

I nodded. “Keep pushing till I piss someone off.”

“You’re coming back to Blackburn,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

“Wild horses couldn’t deter me.”

“It ain’t the wild horses I’m worried about,” she said. “It’s the Blackburn PD and Scali’s goons.”

“If something happens to me, do you promise to write a glowing obit?”

“If only the paper had the space.”