back from
the crown. He was leaning back in the chair, but had an aggressive energy about him, as if he was coiled and ready to attack.
“Devon, this is Jimmy Bulger,” Murphy said.
It was an unnecessary introduction; everyone knew Bulger. Many knew him better as “Whitey,” though he hated the nickname.
It had been given to him as a boy with bright blond hair. Those who valued their lives at all called him Jimmy. Those who
valued their lives more called him Mr. Bulger.
Devon nodded. “Mr. Bulger,” he said.
“Vinny tells me you been doin’ good work for him. That right?”
“Vinny doesn’t lie.” It was a stupid thing to say and he was smiling when he said it, which was a mistake. Bulger didn’t like
people smiling unless he told them to.
Bulger’s eyes went dead. He looked as if he was going to put a knife in Devon’s heart. “Wipe that fuckin’ smile off your face
or I’ll cut your fuckin’ lips off and stick ’em up your ass,” he said. “I didn’t ask you if Vinny lies; I already know Vinny
fuckin’ lies. I know he lies, because I tell him to lie. I asked you if you do good fuckin’ work.”
“Yeah,” Devon said. He tried to sound as if he weren’t scared, but he wasn’t smiling anymore. “Yeah, I do.”
Bulger looked at him for a little while. Then he turned to the man Devon didn’t recognize. “This is a friend from Belfast.
The two of you are gonna do a job together. You piss him off, and I’m gonna fuckin’ hear about it. Okay?”
“Yeah,” Devon said. “Okay.”
Bulger looked at the Irish guy. “Okay?”
The man stood up and walked over to Devon, stood right in his face, so their noses were almost touching. Devon was taller,
but the man had a crazy look to him—not the manic, uncontrolled crazy that so many in the game had, but a quiet crazy; a dangerous
crazy. He was wiry in the way Devon didn’t mess with. “Is he Irish?” the man asked Bulger in a thick accent.
“Born and raised in Southie,” Bulger said. “Makes him more of a fuckin’ mick than you.” Murphy and Ballick laughed at that.
Everyone laughed at Bulger’s jokes.
The Irish guy didn’t laugh. He just looked at Devon. Finally he said, “Okay.”
“I expect you to do good work for me,” Bulger said to Devon. “You think you can do that? Keep doin’ good work? ’Cause if not…”
Bulger’s voice trailed off.
“I can do good work, Mr. Bulger,” Devon said. “What place we talkin’ about?”
“We’ll come to that, don’t worry,” Bulger said.
“Okay.” Devon looked at the Irish guy, his new partner. “You got a name?”
“No names,” the man replied.
Devon looked at Murphy. “What am I supposed to call him, he doesn’t got a name?”
“Who the fuck cares,” Bulger said. “Call him ‘Irish’ for all it fuckin’ matters.”
Devon looked at the guy. “That work for you?”
The man said nothing.
“Good,” Bulger said. “Irish it is.” Everyone just sat there, saying nothing. “Understand your role in this,” Bulger said after
a moment. “Your job is to get Irish here into the place. That’s it, got it?”
“What place?”
“Don’t you get fuckin’ smart with me!” Bulger screamed. For a moment, Devon thought he was dead. Then Bulger cleared his throat
and calmed down. “You get this done, and I’ll take care of you. You fuck this up, and I’ll only see you once again. You understand?”
“Yeah, Mr. Bulger, I understand.”
Bulger looked at Devon as if he were something to be scraped off his shoe. Then he gave a carnivorous smile; the kind of a
smile that shows more teeth than necessary. “Call me Jimmy,” he said.
Chapter Seven
“Don’t mess with me.”
Those were the first words Lissa Krantz spoke to Sally Malley. Finn brought Sally into the office at seven-thirty the next
morning. He, Koz, and Lissa were all early risers, and the office was usually busy for a couple of hours before most lawyers
at other
the crown. He was leaning back in the chair, but had an aggressive energy about him, as if he was coiled and ready to attack.
“Devon, this is Jimmy Bulger,” Murphy said.
It was an unnecessary introduction; everyone knew Bulger. Many knew him better as “Whitey,” though he hated the nickname.
It had been given to him as a boy with bright blond hair. Those who valued their lives at all called him Jimmy. Those who
valued their lives more called him Mr. Bulger.
Devon nodded. “Mr. Bulger,” he said.
“Vinny tells me you been doin’ good work for him. That right?”
“Vinny doesn’t lie.” It was a stupid thing to say and he was smiling when he said it, which was a mistake. Bulger didn’t like
people smiling unless he told them to.
Bulger’s eyes went dead. He looked as if he was going to put a knife in Devon’s heart. “Wipe that fuckin’ smile off your face
or I’ll cut your fuckin’ lips off and stick ’em up your ass,” he said. “I didn’t ask you if Vinny lies; I already know Vinny
fuckin’ lies. I know he lies, because I tell him to lie. I asked you if you do good fuckin’ work.”
“Yeah,” Devon said. He tried to sound as if he weren’t scared, but he wasn’t smiling anymore. “Yeah, I do.”
Bulger looked at him for a little while. Then he turned to the man Devon didn’t recognize. “This is a friend from Belfast.
The two of you are gonna do a job together. You piss him off, and I’m gonna fuckin’ hear about it. Okay?”
“Yeah,” Devon said. “Okay.”
Bulger looked at the Irish guy. “Okay?”
The man stood up and walked over to Devon, stood right in his face, so their noses were almost touching. Devon was taller,
but the man had a crazy look to him—not the manic, uncontrolled crazy that so many in the game had, but a quiet crazy; a dangerous
crazy. He was wiry in the way Devon didn’t mess with. “Is he Irish?” the man asked Bulger in a thick accent.
“Born and raised in Southie,” Bulger said. “Makes him more of a fuckin’ mick than you.” Murphy and Ballick laughed at that.
Everyone laughed at Bulger’s jokes.
The Irish guy didn’t laugh. He just looked at Devon. Finally he said, “Okay.”
“I expect you to do good work for me,” Bulger said to Devon. “You think you can do that? Keep doin’ good work? ’Cause if not…”
Bulger’s voice trailed off.
“I can do good work, Mr. Bulger,” Devon said. “What place we talkin’ about?”
“We’ll come to that, don’t worry,” Bulger said.
“Okay.” Devon looked at the Irish guy, his new partner. “You got a name?”
“No names,” the man replied.
Devon looked at Murphy. “What am I supposed to call him, he doesn’t got a name?”
“Who the fuck cares,” Bulger said. “Call him ‘Irish’ for all it fuckin’ matters.”
Devon looked at the guy. “That work for you?”
The man said nothing.
“Good,” Bulger said. “Irish it is.” Everyone just sat there, saying nothing. “Understand your role in this,” Bulger said after
a moment. “Your job is to get Irish here into the place. That’s it, got it?”
“What place?”
“Don’t you get fuckin’ smart with me!” Bulger screamed. For a moment, Devon thought he was dead. Then Bulger cleared his throat
and calmed down. “You get this done, and I’ll take care of you. You fuck this up, and I’ll only see you once again. You understand?”
“Yeah, Mr. Bulger, I understand.”
Bulger looked at Devon as if he were something to be scraped off his shoe. Then he gave a carnivorous smile; the kind of a
smile that shows more teeth than necessary. “Call me Jimmy,” he said.
Chapter Seven
“Don’t mess with me.”
Those were the first words Lissa Krantz spoke to Sally Malley. Finn brought Sally into the office at seven-thirty the next
morning. He, Koz, and Lissa were all early risers, and the office was usually busy for a couple of hours before most lawyers
at other
Similar Books
