I sat down. Hawk sat down. The secretary brought in some coffee in a ceramic cup stamped with the firm’s logo and set it in front of me. She turned and left as Sydney Bennett entered holding an identical mug of coffee and took a seat across from Swatek. Swatek removed his pink suede shoes from the desk and leaned back in his chair, waiting for us to explain his options. He didn’t look very excited.

I sipped some coffee. Hawk pressed his hands together, both index fingers touching his chin. Hawk did most negotiation in silence.

After several moments of all of us staring at one another, Sydney tapped her pen on the legal paper and said, “Two of Mr. DeMarco’s employees were badly injured by your actions. They required medical attention.”

I wanted to high-five Hawk. But I restrained myself.

“Call the police,” I said. “And I’ll call a friend at the Globe. I’m sure he’d be interested to know how the Mob is bankrolling a crooked developer and two crooked judges into selling kids to the prison system.”

“I got no idea what you’re talking about,” Zwatek said. “I represent Mr. DeMarco. Are you saying he’s in the Mob? You want me to file slander charges, too? Jesus.”

Hawk grinned. Sydney Bennett’s face drained of color.

“Let’s cut the crap, Zig,” I said. “Jackie DeMarco has a hell of a rep. His dad had a record that would stretch from Boston to L.A. I don’t really give a rat’s ass whether he’s selling his bootleg TVs from China or heroin from Mexico. I came across him because of a man named Bobby Talos, whom you also represent.”

Ziggy sat up straighter. He fingered his open collar and the little tuft of white hair sprouting from his shirt. He shrugged. “I have lots of clients.”

“He’s a sleazy millionaire developer who’s figured out a scam with two greedy Blackburn judges, who also own a piece of DeMarco’s bar in Ybor City,” I said. “I want the judges. I don’t care about DeMarco.”

“I don’t know anything about Blackburn,” he said. “All I know is you beat two men senseless yesterday at Mr. DeMarco’s bar.”

“You’re wrong,” Hawk said.

Zig looked to Hawk.

“Man got to have sense before he can be robbed of it.”

“Funny,” Zig said. “Hilarious. Sydney, get the police on the phone, tell them I have two men who tried to stick up a restaurant in Ybor City. We got your ass on tape.”

Sydney didn’t move. She was biting her lower lip.

I pulled out my cell phone and twirled in on the conference call. “You still taking the Globe on Sunday, Hawk?”

“Nah, man,” he said. “I prefer The Wall Street Journal. Check up on my investments.”

“Go ahead,” Sydney said. “I specialize in libel.”

Her words didn’t have a lot of starch in them. Hawk cut his eyes toward me and then back at her and Zig.

“Tell DeMarco to stay out of this,” I said. “This has to do with Bobby Talos and his prison out on Fortune Island. He’s been greasing the palms of Joe Scali and Gavin Callahan so long they’ve gotten sloppy. They’re going to bring all of this down, and Jackie is going to be following in the old man’s footsteps making marinara and linguine at Walpole.”

“You’re full of shit,” Swatek said.

“Man did go to law school,” Hawk said. “Impressive vocabulary.”

“This thing is so incestuous it reads like a Greek play,” I said. “How many other shell companies do they have besides the ones fronted by their wives?”

Swatek scratched his cheek. He looked to Sydney, who took a deep breath and turned away, and then back at us. He swallowed and said, “This meeting is over.”

“Hold on,” Sydney said, raising a hand as Ziggy stood. “What do you mean, ‘selling kids’?”

“Scali sentences kids in Blackburn for jaywalking,” I said. “Or if they forget to wash their hands after using the bathroom. Each kid’s incarceration is worth about eighty grand a year to the Bobby Talos Hilton.”

Sydney Bennett’s jaw tightened. She pointed the end of a cheap pen my way. “I think you’re crazy.”

“Must be fun taking a ride on the Reel Justice,” Hawk said. “Wind in your hair, champagne in hand.”

“We don’t know anything about judges from Blackburn or Lawrence or Lowell,” Ziggy said. “This meeting is fucking over.”

“What about the cops?” Hawk said.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I wanted to be arrested again.”

Ziggy stood and marched to the door. He opened the conference room wide, back pressed to the wall as we exited. He did not look us in the face or speak as we passed. He straightened his aqua coat and looked away. Back in the conference room, Sydney Bennett had her head in her hands, brown hair dropping over her fingers and face. Her yellow legal pad sat empty in front of her.

Hawk had disappeared around the corner.

I turned back to Ziggy Swatek and said, “Loved you in Lord of the Rings.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said.

I made the hand motion for him to call me and followed Hawk to the elevators.

41

I had not spoken to Epstein for some time, not since I’d found out something rotten about his predecessor in Boston last year. The predecessor was supposedly under investigation while Epstein remained in charge of the FBI’s Miami office. I was shocked to learn he loved the Florida weather but hated the crime.

Hawk and I hadn’t even left Tampa by the time he’d called back.

“Epstein?” Hawk said.

Hawk was driving the Expedition. I sat in the passenger seat as we cruised along Bayshore Boulevard, passing mansions, palm trees, and attractive people jogging along the waterfront. We kept the windows down.

“Yep,” I said. “A guy named Jamal Whitehead is meeting us.”

“Jamal?” Hawk said. “This the special brother in charge?”

“Could be a white guy named Jamal.”

“How many white guys you ever met named Jamal?”

“A lot of them on Cape Cod,” I said. “Very preppy.”

“Haw.”

We killed the next three hours cruising around Tampa and the bayfront, ate Cuban sandwiches at a place called Brocato’s, and Hawk bought a box of cigars at a place called King Corona. He was smoking a Partagas Black when Special Agent Jamal Whitehead walked out onto the open deck of Jackson’s on Harbor Island. Hawk had also finished off a half bottle of Moët & Chandon Imperial while I had just started my second Yuengling.

We shook hands all around and introduced ourselves. Whitehead was a few years younger than us, a medium-sized guy with a strong handshake and a good smile. He wore a gray suit with blue ticking stripes, a light blue shirt, and a navy tie. As with most Feds, his lace-up dress shoes gleamed. When he sat down, Whitehead let out a lot of air, all but saying it had been a hell of a day.

“Epstein says if you two are here, I better watch my ass.”

“He’s such a sweet guy,” I said.

Hawk blew out some smoke and reached over to pour some more champagne. “Maybe we just on vacation.”

“Epstein says you two don’t take vacations,” he said. “He said something about you checking into the DeMarco family interests?”

I shrugged and offered my empty palms. Guilty as charged. I asked Whitehead if he’d like a drink, but he declined. He said he had to get home and let his dog out.

“What kind of dog?” I said.

“Would you believe a Yorkie?”

Hawk raised his eyebrows. I shook my head. “Secret’s safe with us.”

“I will take one of those sticks,” he said to Hawk. “If you have another.”