“We’ve come to look at some property,” I said. There were several realty signs staked around a nearby palm tree. The gate was big, wrought-iron, and impressive.

“Which address?”

I looked down at my printout and rattled off the addresses for Scali and Callahan. She again asked for our names.

“I’m Bill Buckner,” I said. “And this is Mookie Wilson.”

She wrote down the names and walked back into the guard shack. Hawk didn’t say a word but was smiling, which for Hawk was as good as slapping his knee.

A couple seconds later, the big metal gate swung open and I drove in as if our names had been Rockefeller. “Always helps to tell the truth,” I said. “We did come to see the properties.”

“Bill Buckner,” Hawk said. “Ha.”

The developer of the Esperanza Marina did a lot to maximize the space of the lots. The Mediterranean Revival houses were jammed so close together, you could pass a jar of peanut butter from window to window without ever stepping outside. The light stucco façades were topped with red barrel tile roofs. Some of the houses had names like Joe’s Last Stand or The Carlisles’ Reward.

“White people make me laugh,” Hawk said.

“Black people don’t name their houses?”

“Shit,” Hawk said.

Scali’s address was along Seagull Way, apparently the premier address of the development, as all the units faced the marina and onward to the Gulf. I pulled in front of a mailbox in the shape of a full-size dolphin. Hawk and I got out of the car and looked up to admire a three-story house.

“Look better when they put the windows in,” Hawk said.

The windows were covered in Visqueen that popped and bucked in the hard wind. When I walked up and peered inside, I saw that plywood still lined the floors and it didn’t seem any of the fixtures had been installed. There was a pneumatic nail gun on the floor along with a level. The front door was locked, a realtor’s key box on the handle.

“Maybe he ran out of money,” Hawk said.

“Or maybe he’s in no rush.”

We walked a block over to the next address. The contractor had only recently poured the foundation of Callahan’s place. The house had a realty sign staked out front. It was a different company from the one his wife and Scali’s owned.

“What’s it mean?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I only thought they spent a lot of time down here.”

Between the two addresses, a long dock jutted out into the inlet lined with sailboats and Boston whalers, some larger live-aboard boats. A few of the big deep-sea fishing boats looked to be about fifty or sixty feet, made by Bertram and Hatteras, which was about the extent of my knowledge of boat makers. The engines on many were running, bubbling up seawater behind them. A guy who had skin the texture and color of shoe leather was filleting fish on a dock, ripping out the spine and guts to the sound of rock music blaring from the boat. He had the sleeves cut out of a T-shirt that read FLORA-BAMA and a long cigarette hanging from his lips.

“You wouldn’t happen to know which boat belongs to Joe Scali?”

“Who?”

“Or a guy named Callahan?” I said. “He’s from Boston.”

He looked up from his work, hands bloody to the elbows, and pointed a couple times down the dock. He took a long drag from the cigarette and pulled it slow from his lips. “That one of the judges?” he said, smoke escaping his mouth.

“It is,” I said. “We’re here to inspect his barnacles.”

“That seventy-seven-foot blue Hatteras down there,” he said. “Biggest boat in the marina. Can’t miss it.”

“Nice,” I said. I looked to Hawk.

Hawk whistled at the hulking shape of the ship. “Pretty,” he said. “Cost a few bucks?”

“A few bucks?” the leathery man said. “How about a few million? I joke with them about it when they’re down here. I don’t think they’ve taken it out all year. The thing is brand-new. The captain is the luckiest guy I know. Doesn’t have to do much but hose down the deck.”

“Callahan fly down a lot?”

“Every few weeks,” he said. “Never see them here at the same time. What’s the other one’s name?”

“Scali.”

“He’s kind of a weirdo,” he said.

“Yep, that’s him.”

“Gives me the creeps,” he said. “Those weird purple glasses he wears.” He flung some fish guts onto the deck and a couple seagulls fought over the mess. “He’s always yelling at folks who own the boats. Says they aren’t following the rules. I don’t think he knows one end of a boat from another. All he and his wife do is sleep aboard and get drunk.”

I thanked the man. The man put the cigarette, now smeared with fish blood, back to his mouth and resumed work.

Hawk and I stood at the bow of the judge’s ship. The fighting chair reached up tall into the sky. Nautical flags flapped from stiff wires. The controls were covered in a tarp and, below deck, sealed with a padlock. I didn’t need to get on board anyway.

Hawk crossed his massive arms across his chest. He shook his head and read the boat’s name. “Reel Justice,” he said. “Boston, MA.”

“Poetic,” I said.

“You think that developer in Boston supplementing the judges’ paychecks?”

“I do.”

“And that some way he’s buddies with the DeMarcos?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“How many kids does Scali have to send to Fortune Island to buy a boat that big?”

“A few hundred.”

“So this is all about kids for cash.”

“Sure seems that way,” I said.

“I’d sure like to take those men fishing,” he said. “Use their asses as bait.”

38

We returned to the Vinoy hotel and ate lunch poolside. I had on nothing but a pair of running shorts and my Sox cap. I rarely wore the Sox cap in Boston. Too much competition. But deep down in Florida, in enemy territory, it stood out like a beacon of hope. This time of year, the place was crawling with Yankees fans. I finished off the last quarter of a club sandwich and drank some Yuengling on tap.

“Man could get used to living down here,” Hawk said. A lot of glistening bodies sunbathed by the pool while he worked on a tall Bloody Mary, taking inventory.

“Maybe Scali and Callahan will take you yachting.”

“I don’t think they want me in their club.”

“Bobby Talos has a boat in Boston,” I said. “Keeps it at the Boston Harbor Hotel.”

“We can pay him a visit when we get back.”

“Not if his attorney has anything to do with it,” I said. “Ziggy Swatek just left me a pretty nasty voice mail at my office. He threatened to sue for harassment.”

“We didn’t threaten Talos,” Hawk said. “Not yet.”

“He said I threatened Mr. DeMarco and his business partners.”

“In other words, those crooks.”

“Well,” I said. “Yeah.”

“This the attorney from Tampa?”

“Apparently he has offices in Boston, too.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Ziggy,” I said. “Swatek.”

“You’re making that up.”

I shrugged and drank some more beer. A woman in a skimpy purple bathing suit and very large sunglasses shimmied by. It seemed as if Hawk had lost his train of thought.

I coughed. “As I was saying.”

“Hmm,” Hawk said. “I could get used to this.”

The pool was sprawling, with a man-made waterfall cascading and plenty of space for bodies to laze about on floats. Palm trees swayed. Cables on the marina boats clanked in the warm wind. The sky was big and blue, with fat white clouds only momentarily obscuring the sun. A waiter appeared. I asked for another beer.

“Maybe we should pay ol’ Zig a visit,” he said.

“Confront him with what we know?”