34

Two days later, Hawk and I arrived at Tampa International and took a monorail to the terminal. Our luggage and guns were waiting for us in baggage claim. The guns had been safely locked away for travel, forms filled out to say they were unloaded, the ammo sealed in boxes. The conveyers spit out the bags first. Hawk traveled with a Louis Vuitton hard-case that probably cost more than my SUV.

“You get that in Chinatown?” I said. “Almost looks real.”

“Haw,” Hawk said, lifting up the case and flicking up the telescopic handle.

My travel bag was black nylon and made by Rawlings, with a tag on it like a catcher’s mitt.

We rented a Ford Expedition, nice and roomy for men of a certain size. Guns and luggage were stowed away and the hatch shut with a tap of a button. It was bright, sunny, and in the low eighties as we hit the exit ramp, Hawk in his designer sunglasses, designer jeans, black T-shirt, and a gray scarf.

I was dressed for work. Jeans, blue pocket tee, and New Balance running shoes. I stowed my leather jacket away as soon as we landed.

“Where to?” Hawk said.

“How about we just reconnoiter.”

“How about some lunch before that reconnoiter begins?”

“We are of like mind.”

I followed signs over the Howard Franklin Bridge to St. Petersburg. The judges’ wives owned rental properties north of St. Pete, where they also listed their travel agency. The sun was shining so big and bold that it made me squint as we hovered over the water. I put on my sunglasses to adjust my Boston vision and followed I-275 past the city and curved toward a sign that read BEACHES.

I let the windows down and Hawk inhaled deeply. I followed the signs until I hit the Gulf of Mexico. We stopped in a little community called Pass-A-Grille and parked in front of a gray gable-front restaurant I’d been told of called The Hurricane.

We sat at a picnic table under a big umbrella. It didn’t take too long before I was enjoying the sunshine and drinking Sam Adams on tap. Some habits were hard to break. Hawk asked for a top-shelf margarita.

“You think a grouper sandwich taste like cod?” Hawk said.

“Grouper isn’t as fishy and tastes sweeter,” I said. “How about a fried grouper sandwich and some fries?”

Hawk nodded. He sipped the margarita.

“I have addresses close to here,” I said. “I’d like to see how a couple of judges from Blackburn, Mass., live on the coast.”

“Looks just like Nantucket with palm trees.”

“Less picket fences.”

“No lighthouses.”

I finished my beer and ordered another. Hawk sipped his margarita. “Main thing I want to know is about this local lawyer and the DeMarcos,” I said. “Be nice to find out what a nice Boston family has cooking.”

“Reason you brought me.”

“Some might object to me asking questions.”

“Or maybe they open the door wide,” Hawk said. “I can kick back at the hotel and entertain ladies in bikinis.”

“What if we’re out of season for ladies in bikinis?”

“They’ll show up,” Hawk said. “Always do.”

I nodded. The grouper sandwiches arrived and they did indeed taste better than cod and even haddock. But it still wasn’t as good as a lobster roll. Hawk ate with mannered grace, touching the edge of his lips with a napkin.

“Better not get tartar sauce on that scarf.”

“I’ll send you the bill.”

“As agreed, all expenses paid.”

The wind was warm and smelled of salt. I finished my sandwich and the beer. We both sat in silence for a long while listening to the surf and enjoying the sense of thawing out. A well-proportioned woman in a small red bikini rode a bike past the restaurant. Hawk did not ogle, but gave a simple nod. “What’d I tell you?”

Back in the rental, we followed the highway north along the coast to a small community called Dunedin about ten miles away. We kept the windows down and the sunroof pulled back. The main street was long and pleasant, one-story brick storefronts of boutiques, art galleries, and mom-and-pop restaurants. The address I had for the travel agency was right off Main, the business called Destinations Inc. Catchy.

I had checked out their website before we left Boston. I had called the business from there and got an answering service. When we pulled up into a small strip mall, we found an empty office space. A paper sign in the window read DESTINATIONS INC., with the same number I had called. Peering into the window, I could see only a single black desk, no chairs, nothing hanging on the wall.

“This what you detectives call a clue?” Hawk said.

“Maybe they’re not into aesthetics.”

“Or maybe this be what we thugs call a shell,” Hawk said.

“Damn, you’re good.”

“Now what?” Hawk said. “Check on the bad guys?”

“Hard to know who is who,” I said. “How about we check in to the hotel and get changed. Nobody looks tough wearing a scarf.”

“Babe, I could wear a pink dress and it wouldn’t matter.”

“I shudder to think,” I said.

They gave him medicine that made him sleep. The boy had dreams, weird dreams, that took him home and back with his forgotten mother. He thought about his dad with his back turned. Danielle was there watching, but not speaking. He remembered waking up shaking and a big black woman bringing him more pills. She walked him to the bathroom and then back. And after a few hours, or a few days, he woke up. The mattress was wet with sweat. He was having another dream and he awoke with his breath caught in his throat.

He sat up.

And there was the guard. The one Dillon called Robocop. He stood at the end of the boy’s bed holding the stick with the nail in the end. He’d been watching the boy sleep.

There was something unnatural about the man. He was wiry thin but corded with muscle. He had a skeletal face with the eyes that burned a weird, almost neon, blue. He palmed the stick in his hand. A long twisted row of black-and-blue tattoos snaked from under his T-shirt down one arm.

“What do you want?”

The man didn’t answer him. He tightened his jaw, eye twitching.

“What?” the boy said. The words felt weird and tight coming from his cotton mouth. These might’ve been the first words he’d spoken in days, and everything felt hollow and weird. His mind was still half in a dream and his arms shook just holding himself upright. He felt like he’d just run a marathon.

“Don’t you ever make me look bad again.”

“Excuse me?”

“In front of the other boys,” he said. “Don’t do it. When I saw you on the boat, I knew you’d be trouble. I seen a lot of you come and go off this island. It’s up to me who stays. You go when I say it.”

The boy tried to remember the man’s real name. All he could think of was Robocop. He hadn’t seen the man without sunglasses since that first night on the boat. The way the man had stared, appraised him, made him feel uncomfortable then. His mind rushed with thoughts of explaining that Tony Ponessa had jumped him. That this wasn’t his fault. He’d meant no disrespect. But he stopped himself. He looked at the man. Maybe he did mean some disrespect. This man just wanted to break him.