Hawk produced another cigar from inside his coat pocket and handed it over to Whitehead. Whitehead stood for a moment, removed his suit coat, loosened his tie, and undid his top button. He had his own punch built into his lighter. Soon I felt like I was seated at the table of Cuban revolutionaries.

“So you know the DeMarcos?” I said.

“We’re not on a first-name basis,” he said, cigar in his teeth. “But I know them and they know me. ’Specially Jackie.”

“He’s active down here?” I said.

Whitehead looked to Hawk and then to me. He gave a slow, delicate nod. From where we sat we had a nice view of the sunset where the river and channel met. A few boats puttered past the wide brick patio. The downtown reflected the sun’s orange glow in mirrored glass.

“What got you into the DeMarcos?” he said.

There were other tables near us. But no one who looked connected with organized crime. Most looked like business professionals who’d walked over from the convention center. Some wore nametags.

“We ran into the DeMarcos,” I said. “I was looking into a corrupt judge out of Blackburn, Mass. He sentenced the son of my client to nearly a year in juvie.”

“What’d the kid do?”

“Set up a Twitter account for his vice principal,” I said. “Announced the guy had gotten his dick trapped in a VCR.”

Whitehead laughed loud. Hawk laughed, too, although he’d already heard the story.

“What’s the judge’s name?” Whitehead said.

“Joe Scali.”

Whitehead puffed on his cigar as he thought. I probably would have seemed more thoughtful with a smoke in my hand, too. Somehow a cold bottle of beer did not produce the same effect. He nodded a bit to himself. “Epstein said I can trust you.”

“What about me?” Hawk said.

“Epstein wasn’t so sure,” Whitehead said. “Said it depends on the company you keep.”

Hawk sipped his champagne. “Fair enough.”

“But since he’s in such excellent company,” I said, “perhaps you might lead us in the right direction.”

“I don’t know Scali,” he said. “But I do know of a judge from Massachusetts named Gavin Callahan.”

“Bingo,” I said.

Whitehead stared at me.

“Sorry. Sometimes I’m judicious about using the term.”

The federal man checked his watch and then looked back to us, enjoying the fine weather, the sunset, the smoke.

“Why Callahan?” I said.

“He and the DeMarcos are in cahoots,” Whitehead said. “You must know that since you tossed a few of their people around in Ybor City.”

“You saw that?”

“Some of our people did.”

“You wouldn’t have special agents in bikinis,” I said. “Serving hot wings.”

Whitehead grinned and removed the cigar from his lips. He just smiled and shrugged a bit. A soft breeze passed over us. The sun was going fast; boaters were coming from the bay and back into the channel. “Callahan and the DeMarcos are old family friends,” Whitehead said. “Callahan was friendly with the old man, and apparently that extends to the new generation in Boston.”

“Classic,” Hawk said.

“Kind of missed those guys,” I said.

“Yeah, that guy Broz kind of shut down the old Mob,” he said. “But the new ones, the younger ones, might even be worse. I used to work out of the New Orleans field office and got to know the old guard down there. This may not make a lot of sense, but some of them had a code about them. Does that make any sense?”

I nodded. Hawk didn’t speak or make a gesture.

“These new guys,” Whitehead said. “They have to be tougher and meaner, worse than the Asians or the Mexicans. You get soft with the Mexicans and you’ll end up with your heart on a plate of enchiladas.”

“Ouch.”

Hawk finished off the champagne and plunged the empty bottle into an ice bucket. The sunset reflected off his sunglasses.

“Besides being in cahoots,” I said.

Whitehead shrugged. “They operate some seemingly legitimate businesses together,” he said. “If you believe it’s ethical to have a judge into strip clubs and bars.”

“But of course.”

“We’re pretty sure he’s on the take,” Whitehead said. “Besides the businesses we know about, Callahan receives huge payments for renting out his condo through a local attorney.”

“That wouldn’t happen to be Ziggy Swatek, Esquire.”

Whitehead nodded, puffing on the cigar.

“Is this the condo that hasn’t been built yet?” I said.

“Say,” Whitehead said, grinning. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“What if I were to tell you that I don’t think that money is coming from the DeMarcos but through one of Zig’s other clients,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to be interested in some major money laundering, racketeering, and bribes? All across several state lines.”

“That would definitely up the ante,” Whitehead said. “Fill up more pages on the indictment.”

“We should probably keep in touch,” I said. “I’m not sure how the DeMarcos fit into the scheme. But we’re pretty sure about a guy named Talos sending kickbacks through Zig’s office.”

Whitehead nodded, leaned forward, and ashed his cigar. In a low voice over the table, he said, “I might know someone who can help us make that connection.”

I nodded.

“A contract killer who worked a bit with Jackie,” he said. “He’s sort of a nutjob trying to work out a plea deal. Not the kind of guy we want on the stand. But some of what he tells us deals with work he did in Boston. Interested?”

I looked to Hawk and nodded. “All ears.”

“Okay,” Whitehead said. “He’s at Coleman. That’s not far from Orlando. I can set you up for tomorrow.”

We all shook hands and he left just as the sun disappeared behind us. I ordered another beer to clear my mind. “Champagne?”

“You buying?”

“Sure,” I said. “Why not? Neither of us is getting paid.”

There wasn’t much to Fortune Island. It wasn’t that big, really only large enough to hold the three pod buildings, a cafeteria, and administrative offices. There was the West Shore with the beach, a couple acres of newly planted trees to the south, and a few mounds that the kids called the hills to the east. The hills had really just been trash mounds when the island was used as a landfill. Now it sprouted brown grass over the shit they shipped out of Boston. Someone had staked signs along the peaks saying it was now a natural habitat. Mainly the little mounds served as buffers from the wind. No one liked the wind out on the island.

The winter sun had set early. The boy sat with Dillon Yates on a bench watching a pickup game of basketball. They had already eaten dinner. This was supposed to be their rec period under the blaze of some hot lights set in the middle of the pods.

“Robocop make you swim today?” Dillon said.

The boy shook his head.

“I wondered where you were,” Dillon said. “They cut you from our beach crew.”

“I got to unload shit from the boats,” he said. “I did that all day.”

“He mess with you?”

The boy nodded. He didn’t want to tell Dillon, or anyone else, about the things said and implied by Robocop. The man had some serious mental-health issues.

“Don’t ever be alone with him,” Dillon said. “I told you when you got here.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“I think he messed with Tony Ponessa just like that,” Dillon said. “When Tony first got here. Now he is, or was, his favorite son.”