Billy Povich: Loot The Moon Part 17

Just singin in my brain ...

The woman jumped his back from behind and Scratch went down.

Bang. Forehead to pavement.

Brief hiatus from reality.

He thought he blacked out for a split second, but he must have been away longer than that. By the time he remembered there was no Plan C, the man was there, and the guys knee had found Scratchs throat.

"Were going to talk," he informed Scratch. He was panting, and Scratch took pleasure in knowing he had made the guy work for it.

"I got nothing to say to you."

The woman pleaded, "You have to help us."

"Guess again, Miss Speedy McFly," Scratch taunted. He still could not comprehend how the h.e.l.l she had caught him.

The man sighed. He ground his knee in a painful little circle, and looked off into the starless night for a moment. Then in a calm voice suitable for a lecture on monetary policy or greenhouse gas emissions, the intruder told Scratch: "Over my life I have made many bad wagers based on some wild hunches. The National League and the money line in several World Series, for instance." He pa.s.sed fingers through his hair, and seemed to relive a painful memory. "On occasion I have lacked sufficient funds to finance these mistakes of judgment. Whenever that happened, I would be visited by some of the most s.a.d.i.s.tic and creative debt collectors in New England. These men have ma.s.sive, mutant fists, propelled by chemically enhanced muscles-steroids, human growth hormone, EPO-whatever. They have been schooled inside the states finest correctional facilities in the arts of damaging somebody elses body. They are men of pain. The Pica.s.sos of torture. Men who think youll s.h.i.+t silver if they squeeze your skull hard enough. Over the years they have taken turns brutalizing me in ever more clever and original ways. Take it from me, these are experiences you never forget."

The guy interrupted himself with an ironic chuckle. He offered a sad smile to the woman.

Then darkness gathered on his face.

He turned hard to Scratch and informed him: "I have learned a lot from these men. And now you and I are going to talk."

twenty.

Billy learned quickly that Gary Gleason was afraid to be called his real name, and that the Q&A would go more smoothly if Kit and Billy just called him Scratch.

"I had nothing to do with the judge," Scratch claimed for the third time. He dabbed a damp washcloth on the sc.r.a.pe on his forehead.

He had decided to talk.

Funny thing about threats-they often worked, even a bluff with no true violence backing it up. Though Billy might have brought himself to slam Scratch around a bit to make the threat more realistic, hed never have damaged him.

But Scratch didnt know that.

The three of them had walked together to the bloodstained apartment, for privacy. Billy had forced Scratch onto the sofa in the hallway. Billy stood in the bathroom doorway; Kit guarded the route to the kitchen. Scratch seemed vaguely intimidated by Kit; he shot puzzled glances her way.

Kit unnerved Billy, too. He could not have tortured Scratch into talking, but he suspected Kit might have.

"Is that your blood all over the kitchen?" Billy asked.

Scratch pulled up his sleeve to reveal a forearm wrapped in cloth tape. "Sore but getting better," he said. "A clean wound."

"Who attacked you?"

"I thought that you did." Scratch looked past Billy into the bathroom. "And that you had come back tonight to finish the job. How did you find me?"

"We found the apartment," Kit said. "Why was Adam Rackers getting his mail here?"

"He had moved in. Adam had some problem with his old landlady."

"What problem?" Billy wanted to know.

"He didnt want to pay her the rent." He grimaced as he gently squeezed his wounded arm.

"So how did you guys make your livings?" Billy asked. Scratchs eyes suddenly shot toward the bedroom, as if he were contemplating a second run for freedom. Billy cut off the thought: "Look, Gary-Scratch, I mean, whatever-were not cops."

"Just tell us," Kit demanded.

"We know you two werent trading international stocks down on the exchange, or selling real estate on Ocean Drive, so where did the money come from?" Billy asked.

Scratch looked from Billy to Kit, and then back to Billy. He cleared his throat. "None of this would be admissible in a court of law," he said, "because youre holding me as your prisoner. Its not a confession by free will. Case law is very clear on this point."

"Oh, f.u.c.k you and start talking," Kit said sharply. "This aint a deposition."

Scratch refused to look at her. He frowned and wiped sand off a wet spot on his knee, where he had rolled over in the street after Kit had tackled him. Then he explained, "Adam was my wingman when we pulled our street hustles. I dealt the cards, so to speak, and Adam set up the marks. He was so good at it, pretending to be excited when I let him win. Even people who a.s.sumed it was a scam were taken in by Adam. He was a great, great f.u.c.king actor."

"Rackers played the stranger in the crowd," Billy said, "who won money from you at three-card monty?"

Scratch nodded. "Something like that. Most scams need two elements-somebody to set the terms and a second person to drive up the price. Its about creating demand. Making people believe theyre getting a good deal." He smiled, reliving old victories.

"Rackers had a lot of burglaries on his record too," Billy said.

"He was great in tight s.p.a.ces, and could slip through a window faster than most people can run through a door," Scratch said. His little testimonial sounded like a eulogy. "Ive seen him slide up old drainpipes that a squirrel wouldnt have trusted. He was an urban cliff climber, like maybe he was raised by mountain goats."

"Then why was his police record so long?" Kit said. "Howd he get caught so often?"

"Sometimes he was as smart as a goat too."

Scratch pulled his legs up and rested his heels on the sofa. For an instant, some fatherly instinct in Billy wanted to order those dirty shoes off the furniture, but Billy reminded himself that this was not his house, and Scratch Gleason was not Bo Povich.

Scratch continued, "Adam was a stupid f.u.c.k sometimes, no common sense. He always a.s.sumed things would work out for the best. He couldnt see the hazards of a particular job, and didnt plan for contingencies. You cant just a.s.sume that everybody keeps their best silverware in a suitcase in the curio cabinet, right? You cant just a.s.sume that a middle-cla.s.s house wont have a silent alarm-things like that." He clicked his tongue. "But managing risk is something I understand, so the partners.h.i.+p worked ... mostly."

"Youve been in jail too, havent you?" Kit asked.

"Aw s.h.i.+t," he said, "nothing but a few months of shock time from some hard-a.s.s judge who thought hed scare me straight. What he did was scare the recklessness out of me. Did me a favor. Made me a better crook than I ever was." He flashed a yellow-toothed smile at Kit. "Thats why I insisted we unload as much merchandise as possible over the Internet. Its slow and labor-intensive for us, but anonymous and safe so long as you s.p.a.ce out the items." He made a chewing motion, as if he had gum, and suddenly seemed to be enjoying himself. People do love to boast about what theyre good at.

Billy snapped his fingers twice to get Scratchs attention, as he would to a dog. Scratch glared at him for breaking the mood. Billy demanded, "Tell us about Rackerss connection to Judge Harmony."

Scratch turned his palms up at Billy, as if to push away any accusation. "I told you I had nothing to do with that. Adam never mentioned going back to Harmonys place."

Going back ... ?

Billy and Kit exchanged urgent looks.

Her eyes narrowed in rage. Her fists clenched, as if she were holding two imaginary ice picks.

Scratch watched their faces in horror, realizing he must have slipped up, but not yet seeing how. His eyes wandered, looking backward over the past few seconds, until his eyelids slowly closed, his lips tightened, and understanding spread over his face. He lowered his head into his hands. "I never actually went into the judges condo," he said, speaking in the general direction of Billys shoes. "And I never even saw the beach house, or even knew about it. That was all Adam."

They waited in silence for a few moments. There was no need to pepper Scratch with any more questions. Hiding behind his hands, he gave them what they had come for: "A couple weeks before Adam shot the judge, he had an idea to break into some pricey condos downtown, you know? Some corporate apartments and executive city homes, that kind of thing."

"Judge Harmonys condo," Kit said.

"Adam ran the addresses through a real estate database," Scratch explained. "The judge was on TV all the time-had written all them books. He had big dough. So yeah, his place was a good mark. I didnt even know he had another house in Charlestown. And I didnt know he had a wife or a kid, none of that. We cased the building a few nights. Not just Harmonys apartment, the whole complex, but we noticed the judges schedule. He traveled a lot. Spent half his nights in some other bed, hmmm? Rich men like a change of scenery sometimes. They get bored easy."

Billy thought of Nelida and Jerod, the judges secret second family.

Change of scenery, all right.

He thought of his father, too, looking to see the scenery beyond this world. The old man was bored with who he was, and what he had to do to survive. Just like the old mans marriage-when he got bored, he skipped. Billys mind played with the odd sight of his father at a hotel bar in a faraway city, milking a whiskey, flas.h.i.+ng his blue eyes and testing pickup lines on the Grim Reaper.

Miss Reaper, havent we met before?

If we had, youd know it.

You have lovely bone structure.

Call me Grim.

"You listening, man?" Scratch asked. "Cause I dont wanna tell it all over."

Billy extinguished the daydream. "You watched the judges place. Fine. Saw a bunch of executives taking their comattas home for the evening. What happened the night of the break-in?"

"Adam did the entry. A thing of beauty. Used the condos landscaping to his advantage. s.h.i.+mmied a thirty-foot white birch. At the top, he leaned his weight toward the building, bent the tree, and rode it like a parachute to a second-story balcony. Once he let go, the tree snapped back-no ladder for us to hide. See? Youd be surprised how many paranoid people put three deadbolts on the front door but dont lock the slider to the balcony." He clapped a hand on his knee and marveled, "My G.o.d, Adam was f.u.c.kin talented. We were such a great team, man. We could steal anything. Adam once told me, 'Together, we could loot the moon.

"On this night at the condos, I stayed below with a garbage bag. Adam went in and out of the apartments. The balconies are only about four feet apart, so he just stepped across the railings. About half the places were open. Hed duck in while I kept watch. He didnt dare use a light, so hed just grab what he could find in one or two minutes and send it down to me in a pillowcase on twenty feet of twine. Most of the stuff was c.r.a.p, but this was like beachcombing. You dig up a dozen bottlecaps for every silver dollar." He chuckled and sneaked a peak at Billy, who glared the grin right off Scratchs face.

"At Harmonys apartment, he was inside a long time. Felt like five full minutes, but might have been less. He came out in a hurry. Jumped back down."

"He jumped?" Kit asked, incredulous. "From the second story? Dont be bulls.h.i.+tting us, Gary."

Scratch cringed at the use of his real name. "Its not such a hard jump," he insisted. "The floor of the balcony is twenty feet off the ground. Adam was almost six feet tall, and closer to eight feet when he hung by his arms. That means when he was hanging from the bottom of the balcony, his shoes were twelve feet from the ground. Big whoopee. He landed on damp dirt and cedar chips. Adam made jumps better than that all the time. We both did. Anybody could. Just dont forget to roll on impact." He looked up to see if anybody challenged his math. n.o.body did.

"I pulled him up when he landed," Scratch continued, adding a shrug to indicate this was where the story got fuzzy. "He told me he almost got caught, that somebody got the drop on him, and we had to bug outta there. Like I said, Im the cautious one, so I started to run. Adam grabbed my s.h.i.+rt and told me to chill. 'Lets just walk and not attract attention, he said. He told me not to look back. Just keep walking. When we got back home, he wasnt interested in going through the s.h.i.+t we stole. Told me to split it myself, because he trusted me."

"And was that unusual?" Billy asked.

Scratch rolled his eyes. "Were crooks, man."

"Forget I asked," Billy said, feeling a little silly.

"Adam and I didnt work together much after that," Scratch said.

Billy smiled at his semantics. Didnt work together. Since when was stealing and running street cons considered work? Hammering rivets or teaching sixth grade is work. Even typing obituaries in the middle of the night-as glamorous as peeling vegetables, and nearly as well paying-at least offered a firm claim on honest work.

"We both always did solo jobs-nothing we ever talked about, you see? So I didnt think much about it, until Adam got himself killed in that car wreck." He leaned his head back and looked up to a ceiling stained with blotches of mildew, like a fading Jackson Pollock masterpiece in green, black, and brown.

"I never could have imagined Adam doing something violent like that," Scratch said. "That wasnt his personality. Maybe the judge threatened him, and Adam wrestled the gun away, um ... and then shot him accidentally, or in self-defense."

Kit mocked him with a snort and a laugh.

"Thats the only explanation I can think of," Scratch offered.

"Its bulls.h.i.+t," Kit barked. "Think again."

Scratch seemed to tire of Kits acerbity. "I knew Adam," he informed her with a jab of a pinkie in her direction. "My wingman wouldnt have killed anybody. He was harmless ... . At least the way I knew him he was." Scratch spread his hands. "He slept right here on this sofa, for Christs sake. Would I have let a killer sleep in my pad? Adam was spiritual. He thought of himself as the good thief."

"Saint Dismas," Billy said.

"Hey ... how did you know that?"

Billy ignored him. He took a step backward into the bathroom and looked over the sofa. What a strong spine Rackers must have had to sleep on that sagging thing. He imagined Rackers stretched out there, asleep with no sheet, under a threadbare cotton thermal blanket. Billy couldnt help thinking that a legal giant such as Judge Gilbert Harmony should have been slain by somebody more impressive.

Of course, Harmony had been killed by somebody bigger-whoever had hired the triggerman. Though Billy had doubted Martins theory in the beginning, he had come to believe it as strongly as his winning hunches. His eyes settled on the wooden storage trunk set like an end table at the side of the sofa.

"Is that his?" Billy asked.

"Nothing valuable left in there," Scratch said. They stared at him, and he shrank defensively. "What was I supposed to do? He owed me his half of the rent. So I hocked his Harry Winston wrist.w.a.tch. Do you think hes squirming in the coffin, wondering what time it is?"

Billy brushed a pile of T-s.h.i.+rts off the box and flipped open the lid. Shoes and papers, old receipts, compact discs, hardcover books, and a hundred other odds and ends filled the box halfway, like an oversized junk drawer. Billy plucked a stubby plastic cylinder from the mess and held it to his eye.

"Is that it?" Kit asked.

"Is what?" said Scratch.

"A loupe," Billy explained. He tossed it to Kit, who s.n.a.t.c.hed it and studied the lines in her own palm. "Its for examining precious stones-diamonds, for instance."

"We didnt have any stones," Scratch said, cautiously. He seemed to detect a trap in Billys tone. "Adam and me liked home electronics and high-end clothing ... common household stuff. One-of-a-kind items, like family heirlooms, are too hard to sell. See? Internet auction sites have ten thousand identical digital music players for sale, and who knows which ones fell off the back of a truck? You guys sailing on my drift? Im first mate on the good s.h.i.+p Anonymous."

"Are heirlooms really hard to sell?" Billy asked. "Or just too dangerous?" He stared a hole in Scratchs forehead.

"Put it this way, theres a buyer for everything if you dare to take the risk. I was the cautious one, remember?"