Among Thieves (39 page)

They wound around onto a narrow driveway out back that hairpinned by the edge of the water, following the back of the building
to a narrow drive in between the two structures. Halfway down, Bulger said, “Park here.”

Devon stopped the van.

“Get out.”

Devon did as he was told; Bulger followed. He looked around nervously as he walked to the back of the van and opened it up.
The two of them leaned in and grabbed hold of the crate, hoisted it up, and carried it toward the only door Devon could see.
Once there, they set it down and Bulger took out a key. He opened the door and held it with his foot while the two of them
moved the crate inside. Then he let the door slam, and they were swallowed up in darkness so complete Devon wondered for a
moment whether he was dead. He felt around with his hand on the wall and found a switch, flipping it. A jaundiced light flickered
on. “Turn the fuckin’ light off,” Bulger hissed. Devon looked at him, confused, but turned the light off. A moment later,
Bulger flipped on a flashlight and slipped it under his arm. It was a weak light, creating little more than gray shadows,
but it was enough for them to maneuver down the long, narrow passage. “Down at the end,” Bulger said, and the two of them
walked jerkily down the hallway.

There was little that Devon could see, but then he was pretty sure he wasn’t missing much. Narrow blue sliding doors lined
the hallway, each of them lonely and silent. They reminded Devon of prison cells stacked up side by side; a mausoleum of solitary
confinement, the screams of the occupants silenced and forgotten.

When they arrived at the end of the hallway they put the crate down and Bulger used his flashlight to locate another key and
unlock the door. He reached down and grabbed hold of the handle at the bottom of the door, sliding it open. Motioning to Devon,
he picked up one end of the crate again, carried it inside the little storage room, and then pulled the door down behind them.

The room couldn’t have been more than six by ten, only slightly bigger than a jail cell, and it had no ventilation, no insulation.
Devon could see their breath as they exhaled, caught in the weak light still cast by Bulger’s flashlight. In the center of
the room stood a narrow wooden box, about five feet tall, eight feet long, and three feet wide. Devon’s first thought was
that it resembled a coffin.

Bulger opened the door to the box from one end; it had a metal clasp that held a swinging door closed. Devon had never seen
anything like it. The interior was lined with a rich, luxurious cloth. It looked like silk, but a deeper silk than he’d ever
seen. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Mind your fuckin’ business,” Bulger said. “There’s a hammer in the van. Get it, and get the fuckin’ crate open.”

Devon did as he was told. It took a few minutes for him to pry off the lid to the crate, but once he did, he could hardly
believe his eyes. There, inside the crate, were all of the paintings and drawings he and the Irishman had taken from the Gardner
Museum years before. “Holy fuck,” Devon said.

“You ain’t kiddin’,” Bulger agreed.

The last time Devon had seen the paintings they were rolled up and piled on a table at the auto body shop. Now they were mounted
on wood, and they looked well cared for.

“I thought the Irishman paid you for these,” Devon said.

“He did. We’ve tried twice to move them out of the country, but there’s still too much fuckin’ heat. I’m holding them for
our friends until it’s safe. In the meantime, we gotta take care of them. You don’t stretch ’em out, and they crack,” Bulger
said. “This box is like a humidor; it’ll keep out the moisture and protect ’em. These things get ruined and they’re fuckin’
worthless.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“I know a guy,” Bulger replied. “I had him make it. That’s all you need to fuckin’ know. Now hand them in to me, one at a
time.”

It took just a few minutes for them to transfer the paintings to the box. Bulger closed the door and latched it.

Bulger turned to Devon. He had his knife in one hand and a set of the keys to the storage facility in the other. The knife
turned menacingly in his hand. “There are three sets of keys to this place,” he said. He tossed the key in his hand to Devon.
“Now you got one, and I got one.”

“What about the third?”

“You don’t need to worry about the third,” Bulger said. Without warning, he reached out and grabbed Devon by the throat, pushing
him into the wall. “You even think about fuckin’ me on this, and I’ll do things you can’t even imagine, you got that?” He
held the knife less than an inch away fron Devon’s right eye. “I’m more serious than you’ll ever fuckin’ know.”

“I don’t understand,” Devon said. “Why do I need the key?”

“Because if I’m not around, someone’s got to get our Irish friends their shit if they show up lookin’ for it.”

“What about the other guy?”

Bulger laughed. “He’s not in a position to help out our friends.” He turned serious again. “Three of us,” he said. “That’s
all there is that know about this place. And I know the other guy ain’t gonna fuckin’ cross me; so if this shit disappears,
you’re the only guy I’m comin’ after.”

“I wouldn’t fuck you,” Devon said.

Bulger kept the knife where it was for another minute. Then he pulled it back and put it away in its sheath. “Good,” he said.
“Now help me get this fuckin’ crate back to the van.”

Devon started helping with the crate. “Why me?” Devon asked after a moment.

Bulger laughed. “I don’t trust nobody who isn’t scared shitless of me,” he said. “Some other guys, they might think they could
take me. They might think, if things ain’t goin’ my way, that’s their chance. You ain’t gonna think that way no matter what
happens, are you?”

Devon looked down. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not, Mr. Bulger.”

Bulger looked at him and smiled. “I told you once before, call me Jimmy,” he said.

Bulger dropped Devon off back at his apartment and peeled away. Devon never saw him again. A day later, rumors began to spread
that the Justice Department had obtained sealed indictments against Bulger’s Winter Hill Gang. Bulger himself was tipped off
by his FBI handlers and slipped away before he could be arrested. In the fifteen years since, no one ever called on Devon
to get the paintings.

Devon finished telling them everything. They were sitting in the living room. Devon was on the battered, fraying sofa, his
shoulders sunken. Finn was sitting on a plain wooden chair, looking at him. Kozlowski was standing against a wall.

“You made the offer to sell the paintings,” Finn said.

Devon nodded. “Two weeks ago. I went to the self-storage place. I took the paintings out and took pictures of them, and I
scraped a few flecks of paint off two of them so I had the proof. I put them back where they were. Then I put the word out
that they could be bought.”

“And you were the one who called the cops to tip them off about the job you were doing at Gilberacci’s. You wanted to get
arrested.”

He nodded again. “I didn’t know what the fuck to do,” he said. “When I started this, I thought Bulger was the only worry,
and I figured it was worth the risk, ’cause there’s no fuckin’ way he was coming back now. But after I put the word out about
the paintings, I started hearing talk about some Irish guy coming to town to look for them. I figured it had to be the guy.
I knew him nineteen years ago—knew what a sick fuck he was. I panicked. I figured the safest place for me was in jail, and
I knew you’d be able to get me out eventually when things calmed down. It seemed like the only thing to do.”

“Not only that, but you knew with us working for you, you could find out what was going on. You sent us out to find out whether
Murphy and Ballick had been killed, so you’d know whether the rumors you heard were true.”

“I did it for Sally,” Devon said. “To keep her safe.”

“Good thinkin’,” Kozlowski said.

“Fuck you!” Devon yelled. “What was I supposed to do? I was sittin’ on more money than any of us have ever seen! I wasn’t
givin’ that up without a fuckin’ fight!”

“How much are you asking for them?” Kozlowski asked.

“Twenty-five million.”

“A bargain for art worth half a billion,” Finn said.

“I’m not greedy,” Devon said.

“No,” Finn said. “Just stupid.”

Devon looked down. “Yeah. Just stupid.”

Finn rubbed his face. “Why?” he asked. “You kept it quiet for eighteen years. Why risk it all now?”

“I never had a daughter before,” Devon said. “She deserves better than what I can do for her. She’s so fuckin’ smart, y’know?
She could be anything if she got the chance. She’s the only thing in my life I’ve done that’s any good. I wanted to do right
by her.”

“Well, now you’re gonna have the chance. You’re gonna give up the paintings to get her back.”

Devon shook his head. “I’ll give myself up to get her back. The paintings are hers. She keeps them. At least she can get the
reward for them; that’s five million. That’s more than I could ever give her. It’s more than I’m worth.”

“Don’t be stupid, Devon,” Finn said. “She needs a father more than she needs five million dollars.”

Devon looked up at him and laughed. “You been watching too many fuckin’ after-school specials, Finn,” he said. “I’m a piece
of shit. She’d be better off without me. That’s not self-fuckin’-pity, I know what I’m talkin’ about. With money like that,
she can start a life. A real life. Not the gettin’-by shit I can give her.”

“You may be right,” Kozlowski said. “She may be better off without you. I don’t know. I do know that it doesn’t matter, though;
we’re giving him the paintings.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the only way to keep her safe.”

Devon looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Koz is right,” Finn said. “Shit, Devon, you’ll end up telling Kilbranish where the paintings are anyways; he’ll get it out
of you.”

Devon shook his head. “I can take the pain. I won’t tell him shit.”

“Oh, Jesus, Devon, think about it! You couldn’t keep from telling us after I blew you a fuckin’ kiss. You really think you’re
gonna stand up to what this psycho will do to you? You’ll promise to tell him if he promises not to hurt Sally, and he’ll
promise. And then, you know what? He’ll kill her anyway, just to cut the trail off. Even if you somehow manage to keep you
mouth shut as he slices your nuts off—and you won’t—you think that’ll end this for him? You think he’s gonna pack his shit
up and head back to Ireland humming a happy fuckin’ tune? No, he’ll go after Sally just to find out if she knows anything.
Then he’ll come after me, and he’ll come after Koz, and he’ll come after Lissa on the chance that you’ve told us something—which,
by the way, you have.”

“I’ve got enough to do in my life,” Kozlowski said. “I don’t need to spend my time hunting down some whacked-out leprechaun
just to protect my people.”

The realization spread over Devon’s face. “But then Sally has nothing!” he cried, in agony. “She’ll have shit!”

“She’ll have you,” Finn said.

“Same fuckin’ thing.” He was sobbing now. His head was down and his shoulders were shaking silently.

“Maybe,” Kozlowski said. “But it’ll have to do. It beats being dead.”

No one said a word for a few moments, and Devon’s silent outburst died down. Finally, he pulled his hands away from his face.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, we’ll do it your way. How do we do it?”

Finn and Kozlowski looked at each other. “First,” Finn said, “we wait for Kilbranish’s call. He said he was calling at six.
Then we set up a meeting to trade the paintings for Sally.”

Special Agent Hewitt was parked on Devon Malley’s street, facing east. He’d been tailing the lawyer all day. He followed him
to court and ducked down in the back of the courtroom during the bail hearing. He watched as Finn, Malley, and Kozlowski went
to pick up the other car, and he followed them to Southie.