The Rizzoli Contract

I first met Bobby Rizzoli in the visiting room of MCI Concord, an ugly medium-security prison set in the idyllic hills of eastern Massachusetts. I’d heard his voice on the phone, sure, seen his face on the news, but I wasn’t ready for the sheer physicality of the guy. He swaggered through the inmates’ entrance with self-conscious muscularity, addressing the guards by name and razzing the duty officer with calculated charm. He was not so much led in as accompanied. The pallid guards hung on his movements, their faces gaudy with deference. Other prisoners drifted in furtively, tense but ignored, clutching packs of cigarettes and blinking like cave-dwellers in the harshly lighted room. But Bobby moved like the high school jock who knows the coach will get him off detention. He was loose and poised. As he signed the visiting-room log he was careful not to search me out. From the get-go I could see this was a guy who played all the angles.

The duty officer nodded in my direction and we shook hands.

"Harry Donohue," he said.

"That’s me."

"Your brother work for the state? Good-looking guy?"

"Owns a clothing factory. Even uglier than me."

We dragged two ailing plastic chairs to an alcove, away from the smokers, fondling couples, and grubby kids in Kmart jackets. A streaked window looked onto the prison yard. Two black guys in institutional overalls were sweeping leaves from the basketball court, and a distant guard tower sat squat against the October sky. Bobby busied himself with the lame chair, but I could tell he was sizing me up. He was, after all, a crooked cop, a notorious burglar, a conman – someone well used to sidelong appraisal.

Television had misled me about his appearance. He was broader than I expected, with biceps that suggested he was making good use of the prison gym. In court he had worn a suit and tie and bifocals so incongruous they seemed to proclaim his guilt. Now he sat across from me in Patriots sweatshirt, chinos, and deck shoes without socks. He would have looked right at home mixing drinks on his boat in Revere or flipping steaks at a police barbecue. He had a classic, straight-edged Roman nose and bristling black hair carefully combed up and away from his brow. His mouth was soft, almost delicate, and seemed always on the verge of speech. His color was good, though the ridges of his cheeks were lined with broken capillaries. He had to be at least fifty, but didn’t look it. Elbows on his knees, he looked at me carefully with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Jimmy O’Leary sends his regards," I said.

"That prick."

"Likes you too."

"Right."

"One thing: he knows you can make some money with me."

"And you with me."

"There’s the beauty of it."

He ran a hand slowly across his hair and glanced at the bored guards.

"O’Leary knows anything about money, how come he’s still grubbin’ for the state when he could be sockin’ away big bucks at Edwards & Angell?"

"Jimmy’s doin’ all right."

"Jimmy fuckin’-doin’-all-right did his part to send me down here for ten, let’s not lose sight of that."

In spite of the gruffness and vulgarity there was a charm that had not reached me over the telephone. His eyes were very expressive – they seemed to fix on my own yet take in the rest of me at the same time. They hinted that his words were for show, that the real message was subtle and open and even warm. There was grace in his bearing. He reminded me of the Sicilians who ran the fruit and vegetable stores in my old neighborhood and spent languid Saturdays at the Brighton Barbershop, kibitzing and studying themselves in the bright mirrors. I knew his story was marketable; now I could see he was as well.

"I want De Niro to play me."

This comment he lobbed at me, eyes flinty.

"Let’s get the book written first," I said. "Film rights’ll take care of themselves."

"Got the feel, know what I’m saying? The real guinea touch."

He made a che sera gesture with his hands and mugged gently, mouth downturned and eyes creased, a passable impression of De Niro in Raging Bull. I could see he was hooked.

"We do this right, there’ll be interest out of Hollywood. No question."

"Think they’ll let me outta here to do the ‘Tonight Show’?"

"Not for me to say. I’m sure Jimmy could help."

He looked beyond me at the milling visitor’s room, at the drab decor and peeling walls, at the slovenly guards with their cop-wannabe expressions and ill-fitting uniforms, at the drug dealers and car thieves who were receiving contraband via girlfriends’ kisses and giving earnest instructions for the outside while their children lurched among the donated toys, squabbling and bawling. He looked, and I saw in those hooded eyes a deep impatience layered with ambition, guile, and the hard knowledge that the big time had been in his grasp and now had to be earned all over again. Oh, I had him all right.

Excerpted from The Rizzoli Contract by Kevin Stevens.
Copyright © 2003. All rights reserved.