Forced Out

by Stephen Frey

“He’s off tonight,” Jack observed. “I could tell while he was warming up. He wasn’t in his comfort zone.” You never lost the lingo, not even when you were away from something as long as he’d been. Four years since he’d been drummed out, but suddenly it was as if he’d never been away. “He isn’t just winding up and throwing the ball, he’s aiming it. You lose ten to twenty percent of your velocity when you do that.”

  Bobby gave Jack a suspicious look. “How would you know?”

  Jack shrugged as he noticed Cheryl slip her fingers into Bobby’s—and Bobby pull his away a moment later. Damn it. Why did she fall for them so hard? “I guess I wouldn’t.”

  The scoreboard flashed the pitch speed: eighty-seven.

  Bobby hung his head. “Shoot.”

  “Lucky guess, son,” Jack said, glancing out to center. The kid who’d caught his eye was pounding his mitt and flexing his knees, getting ready as the pitcher went into his windup. “Let’s go again. Double or nothing.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Bobby leaned forward and concentrated. “Eighty-one,” he sang out as the batter flailed at the next pitch. “That was a curve.”

  Bobby was right. It had been a curve. So slow it looked like it wouldn’t have broken wet toilet paper. Seventy-two or seventy-three at most. Jack bit his lip. He was competitive as hell, always had been, but Cheryl wanted him to like the guy so bad. “I’ll say eighty-two.”

  The scoreboard flashed the speed: seventy-two.

  “All right!” Bobby shouted, pounding the arm of the seat with his big fist. “I was closer on that one. Guess you really were lucky the first time. Again?”

  “Sure.”

  The third pitch was another curve, but this time it hung and the batter jumped on it, hammering the ball toward the gap in left center like a frozen rope. The kid raced to his right, dark hair streaming out behind him as he sprinted. Diving at the last second, going flat out in midair four feet above the grass just as it seemed the ball would shoot past him to the colorful, ad-covered wall.

  But it didn’t. It snagged at the edge of his glove, half in and half out of the leather webbing like a snow cone as he tumbled to the ground. The kid was on his knees instantly, holding up his trophy so the second-base umpire who’d loped out from the infield could see he’d made the catch.

  “Jesus,” Jack whispered as the umpire gave the out signal and the crowd gave the kid a smattering of applause. “That was unbelievable.” He could have sworn the kid was off and running before the bat and ball even connected. Of course, the great center fielders had that ability. Mays, Mantle, Blair, Maddox. They seemed to know where the ball was going even before the batter did, before everyone else in the park did. “These people don’t get real excited, huh?” It had been a spectacular catch, but the applause had already died down. “What’s the deal? They too old to clap or something?”

  “It’s not the crowd,” Bobby answered, swirling his beer. “It’s the player. The guy’s name is Mikey Clemants, and he’s a real prick.”

  Jack checked the Tarpon infielders to see if the names were stitched on the backs of the uniforms. They weren’t, and he hadn’t bought a program. They were four bucks, and he didn’t have that kind of money to waste.

  “Clemants doesn’t give autographs, doesn’t tip his hat to the crowd, doesn’t do anything for the community,” Bobby continued. “Skipped a team visit to a children’s cancer hospital on an off-day earlier this year. Nobody likes him, not even his teammates.”

  “I know some major-league owners who’d like him,” Jack muttered. “At least, they’d like him on their teams.”

  Bobby shook his head. “I don’t think so, Pop. For every crazy catch like that one, Clemants makes five bonehead plays. Misses the cutoff man, tries a basket catch and drops the ball, doesn’t run out a grounder. Plus, he’s a head case. Doesn’t listen to the coaches at all.”

  “Well, he looks like he could hit sixty home runs a year easy. That would make up for a ton of errors.”

  “He’s hit three so far this season, Pop, and the Tarpons have played more than twenty games. That’s only—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jack interrupted. He’d already done the math. “Nowhere near sixty a season.”

  “And he’s only batting like two-fifty.” Bobby shook his head. “Two-fifty in Single-A is like one-fifty in the majors. No way he ever makes it up there.”

  Jack gazed at his seat ticket for a few moments, then smiled wryly and slid it into his shirt pocket as he watched the kid toss the ball back to the infield effortlessly with that rifle arm. Bobby Griffin didn’t know a damn thing. Mikey Clemants was the real deal. “I guess you’re right, Bobby.” Jack glanced past Clemants at the grazing cows, suddenly glad Cheryl and Bobby had dragged him out here tonight. For the first time in a long time there was a real reason to get out of bed in the morning.

  2

  JOHNNY BONDANO PULLED his gloss white Cadillac Seville to a quick stop behind a rusty Jetta and cut the engine. Then rose out of the Seville and moved briskly toward one of the endless lines of row houses standing beside the narrow Queens street like clones. Johnny was thirty-seven and still in excellent shape. He worked out every day and wore fitted shirts so everyone could appreciate his impressive physique when he took off his designer sports jackets. He had small, dark eyes set close together, a pug nose, large lips, and he kept his black, curly hair cut short—especially over his ears. He was short and had a large head for his body, which he was sensitive about. A few months ago the owner of a liquor store down the block had joked about it behind Johnny’s back. Called him the Head instead of his real nickname, which was the Deuce. It got back to Johnny, and the man disappeared a week later. He hadn’t been heard from since.

  Johnny’s nickname was Deuce because he always carried the same creased two of hearts in his shirt pocket wherever he went. Had for years but never explained why to anyone. When he went to a restaurant, he’d take the card out and place it on the table faceup next to his knife. He’d glance at the card every once in a while as he ate, sometimes touch it gently. Anyone asked him about it, he’d shake his head deliberately and take another bite of food. But no one gave him a hard time about it. No one gave him a hard time about much of anything—at least not to his face. He was one of the most feared men in New York City’s underworld. A hired killer for the Lucchesi family, the most powerful mob in the five boroughs.

  Johnny bounded up the row house steps, taking three at a time, then rapped on the door, checking the dimly lit street while he waited. He didn’t see anything suspicious, but you never knew these days. The feds and the NYPD detectives had gotten slicker lately, gotten better at blending in. They were constantly on his ass, but so far they hadn’t been able to prove a thing. They’d hauled him into court a couple of times but never had enough to make the charges stick. No body, no murder weapon, and never a partner who could testify against him in exchange for immunity. He always worked alone. Always had, always would.

  Of course, the Lucchesi family retained good lawyers, too. Harvard boys. Best that money could buy.

  After a few moments the door opened and Johnny moved into the modest home. The young soldier standing inside was named Nicky. Nicky’s only job was to protect this entrance—to the death. It was a high honor in the Lucchesi family, and it meant the bosses had big things in store for him.

  “Hi, Nicky.”

  “Hey ya, Deuce.”

  “Yeah, yeah, hey. Look, the number’s twenty-seven tonight, right?”

  Johnny was there to see Angelo Marconi, the number two man in the entire Lucchesi organization. Marconi was paranoid about everything and everyone, and you had to know the two passwords of the day or you didn’t get in to see Marconi no matter who you were—no exceptions.

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Nicky answered, head tilted slightly forward out of respect. “You know where you’re going, right?”

  “Yup.”

  Johnny brushed past Nicky and headed up the creaky stairs to
ward the back bedroom where Marconi conducted business: settling territorial disputes within the family, getting his cut on every transaction, approving bribes for city officials. And directing executions. Which was the thing he was mostly responsible for. Making sure the Lucchesi family maintained its terrifying reputation for violence and vengeance. The Double V’s, as they were called by the family council. The council was the Lucchesi governing body. It met once a week somewhere in Queens, though never the same place twice in a row.

  Despite all his power, Marconi lived modestly. He didn’t own big houses around the world, didn’t have a yacht moored in an exclusive Hamptons marina, didn’t take luxurious vacations to exotic destinations. In fact, he almost never left this house. A few times a summer to see a Yankee game and to attend council meetings, and that was it. He was worth tens of millions, but he lived like any other blue-collar senior citizen. Like he couldn’t wait for his next Social Security check.

  When he wasn’t conducting business, he watched television. He didn’t read, didn’t do crossword puzzles, didn’t bother with the Internet. He just watched TV. Liked reruns of old sitcoms the best—I Love Lucy, The Dick Van Dyke Show, Leave It to Beaver—but he’d watch almost anything. Except soap operas. Not because he thought they were stupid. Because he didn’t want to become addicted to one of them, didn’t want to start planning his day around Guiding Light or General Hospital. Didn’t want to have to explain that one to the brotherhood at a council meeting.

  In front of the closed bedroom door was another sentry, a huge guy nicknamed Goliath. The guy’s hands were clasped behind his back, and the bulge of a pistol was obvious beneath the lapel of his dark blazer. Johnny had no idea what the guy’s real name was. No one in the family seemed to. But that was always how it was with the guy standing right outside Marconi’s door. No one ever knew his real name.

  “Noah’s Ark,” Johnny said loudly.

  This was always the way. One password at the front door, one when you got to Marconi’s door. The old man was bonkers about security.

  Goliath gestured for Johnny to put his hands in the air—which Johnny did without hesitation or complaint—then patted him down. The procedure was entirely unnecessary because Johnny would never have been stupid enough to bring a gun into Marconi’s home. Do that and you might not wake up the next morning, even if you hadn’t meant Marconi any harm. Marconi had neither the patience nor the compassion for mistakes.

  When Goliath was satisfied, he knocked on the door.

  “What?” from inside.

  “Bondano.”

  “Yeah, okay,” came the raspy Italian accent. “Let him in.” Marconi had lived in Sicily as a youngster. At fifteen he’d lost his homeland when he was forced to flee the country after gunning down three boys of a rival gang in broad daylight outside a crowded café. But he never lost his accent.

  Goliath opened the door, and Johnny moved swiftly past. It was no Oval Office in here, but a lot of people in New York considered Marconi every bit as powerful as the president. Just an average-looking bedroom with cheap furniture from the seventies and a maroon shag carpet, it always reminded Johnny of a hospital. It had that disinfectant medicinal smell, and there were so many vials and bottles stacked on and around a bureau in one corner of the room you could barely tell it was a bureau. Since the death of his wife, the seventy-two-year-old boss had supposedly become a hypochondriac. Weak in the mind, people on the street were whispering more and more often. Maybe even delusional. But Johnny knew better, knew the whole thing was an act. Marconi’s stranglehold on power hadn’t waned at all over the past few years. In fact, it had strengthened. Even though he was officially the number two man in the organization, he was just as powerful as the don. More so in some people’s eyes.

  Johnny moved to where Marconi sat in his big easy chair, then leaned over and kissed the back of his hand.

  “Hey ya, Deuce.”

  “Hey, Angelo.” A rerun of Family Feud was playing on the old RCA.

  “Take care of that,” Marconi ordered in a raspy voice, pointing at the TV. He grimaced and touched his neck tenderly. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

  Johnny moved to the TV and turned up the volume just as the studio audience broke into a loud laugh. Now the authorities couldn’t hear the conversation if somehow they’d managed to run a wire into the place during the past few days. Which was all the time there would have been, because Marconi had the entire place swept for bugs every few days. The row houses on either side of this one as well. He owned them, too. His sons lived there. Marconi was nothing if not careful.

  “Sit, sit.” Marconi gestured toward the other chair in the room. “Pull it over here next to me. Close, you know? So we can talk, Deuce.”

  Johnny noticed that Marconi had gained weight since the last time they met. At least twenty pounds. He wasn’t tall—just five seven, a half inch taller than Johnny. But he had to be pushing two-fifty. And he still did that terrible comb-over thing with the few strands of straight, thin, oily black hair he had left. As if people couldn’t tell he was almost bald. At least it was better than wearing one of those crummy toupees you could spot a mile away, like a lot of the older Lucchesi people did.

  Marconi pointed at the TV. “That guy who’s the host there. He’s dead. You know that?”

  “Nah, I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, he committed suicide.” Marconi shook his head. “He seems so happy on the show, always joking with the people.”

  “I guess you never know.”

  “Nah, you don’t. Maybe he couldn’t handle being such a little fucker. It gets to some men after a while.” The old man reached over and patted Johnny’s hand. Let a smile crease his olive-skinned, bulldog face. “But it’s never gotten to you, Deuce.”

  Johnny took a deliberate breath, trying not to show how much the remark had irritated him. “No, it hasn’t.”

  They were silent for a few moments.

  “Why’d you want me to come over tonight, Angelo?” Johnny finally asked in a low voice. He’d learned how effective it was to speak softly now that he carried a big reputation.

  Marconi patted Johnny’s hand again. “I always liked you, Deuce. I always wished you could have been a real member of the family, wished you could have been a made man someday. You deserve it more than most of the jerks we make.” He hesitated. “But…well, you know.”

  Johnny nodded. “I know, I know, I’m a quarter Russian. It can’t happen.” His expression turned grim. “My granddaddy couldn’t keep his snake in his pants, so I pay.”

  “But I’ve always taken care of you,” Marconi spoke up quickly. “Always thought of you as one of my guys. You know that.”

  There was something odd about this conversation. Like it was forced, Johnny realized. Like Goliath might bust in here any second and start shooting. Amazing how he could make the leap from a forced conversation to a hit so fast, but that’s how it was with these people. You picked up on subtle signals, or you died. He’d never heard of a hit going down in Marconi’s house, and didn’t know what he could have done to deserve it. But you never knew with the Lucchesi family. There was very little predicting. Which was the insidious part about getting into bed with them, and why you always had to be on guard. Well, if that was tonight’s plan, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “You agree with that, Deuce, don’t you?” Marconi pushed. “That I’ve always taken care of you? Always made sure you got paid good for what you do?”

  “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

  Johnny made more than a million bucks a year working for Marconi. Thanks to the old man he owned a house in a quiet town out on Long Island’s north fork and a condo down in Tampa overlooking the bay. In addition to the apartment he kept here in Queens. He’d never had to kill more than three people a year, and they’d all had it coming. All been scum of the earth.

  Johnny always made certain of that before he pulled the trigger. Always made absolutely certain the men Marconi contracted w
ith him to kill were lowlifes. It was important to Johnny that he never execute anyone who didn’t clearly deserve it, because that allowed him to accept what he did for a living with a clear conscience. Allowed him to sleep soundly every night. It was his code of honor. And it could never be compromised. Not if he wanted his self-respect.

  Everyone thought he’d offed the owner of the liquor store down the block, but he hadn’t. You didn’t kill a man for calling you a name. Of course, he’d never denied responsibility for what had happened to the guy, either. Never admitted or denied it when he was asked. Just ignored the question the same way he did when somebody asked him about the two of hearts. After all, he had a reputation to maintain. The cops had hauled him into a precinct out near LaGuardia Airport to interrogate him about the deal because people on the street could never keep their mouths shut. But he’d just laughed at the NYPD boys when they got tough. They’d released him an hour later.

  “You know I appreciate your generosity, Angelo.” Johnny hated being so gracious, so respectful. It didn’t come naturally. But he’d learned that it was the right thing to do if he wanted to keep making a million bucks a year. He’d never let his pride get in the way of that. “No question.”

  “Good, good.” Marconi gazed at the TV for a few moments. “I’m going to ask you to do something, Deuce.”

  Now Johnny felt better, breathed a semisigh of relief. This was how it usually went, how Marconi usually carried on the conversation. And the old man’s tone suddenly seemed more normal, too. The tension in Johnny’s body eased, but he still kept an eye on the door. Of course, he always kept one eye on the door wherever he was. “What is it?”

  Marconi gestured toward the window. “You remember that thing that happened in front my house a couple a years ago?”

  Johnny’s eyes raced to Marconi’s.

  “When my grandson was run over,” Marconi continued, “when my daughter’s only son was…when he was murdered.”

  “I remember,” Johnny murmured, aware that Marconi’s voice had cracked. It was the first time he’d ever heard the old man come close to choking up.