Forced Out

by Stephen Frey

  And suddenly, as he stared at Harry straddling the lifeless old man lying on the floor, it hit Biff like a golden lightning bolt from heaven. What he’d been trying to figure out for so long.

  The better way.

  Now he just needed a partner. Someone just as desperate as he was.

  “Let me guess,” Jack spoke up, “MJ stands for Michael Jordan. Your father’s a huge basketball fan, so he nicknamed you MJ.” One of the other bag boys at the store had told Jack MJ’s real name was Curtis Billups. The thing about the father calling him MJ for Michael Jordan was a guess, but he had to get the conversation started somehow. This seemed like a good way to do it.

  MJ smiled widely, displaying two rows of perfect pearly white teeth inside his dark complexion. “Hey, that’s pretty good for an old white guy.”

  Jack glanced over at the young man sitting in the passenger seat of the Citation as they headed toward Tarpon Stadium. He would have taken a lot of satisfaction in being spot-on with his guess, but MJ’s old-white-man zinger had taken the air out of that. “Forget the white thing for a minute,” he said evenly, “we’ll get back to that. What’s age got to do with anything?”

  MJ shrugged, his smile growing wider. “Nothing.” He hesitated. “Everything.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Uh-huh. So, you got a problem with white people?”

  “You got a problem with black people?”

  Tall—a couple of inches over six feet—and lean with sharp facial features, MJ was a handsome kid. He had a cool air about him, too. Like he was always in control of the situation, never the other way around.

  Jack sensed that no amount of digging was going to get him an answer about what age or being white had to do with anything. At least right now. So he took another tack. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  “Seven. I’m the oldest.”

  “Well, why the hell aren’t you in school?” Florida high schools typically let out for summer earlier than those in other states. But as far as he knew, they hadn’t let out yet. He was still seeing school buses around, screwing up morning traffic. “You should be setting an example. You know they look up to you.”

  MJ turned his entire upper body deliberately to the left. “You go to school?”

  “Yup,” Jack said proudly. “All the way through college. Paid my own way, too.”

  “Cost a lot?”

  “One hell of a lot.”

  “Work while you were in college?”

  “The whole time.”

  “Well, that’s really cool. I’m impressed. Yup, really cool.”

  Suddenly Jack realized where MJ was headed. “It’s not what you—”

  “So,” MJ interrupted, “you spent all that money and all that time and you ended up bagging groceries. Yeah, I should be going to school, all right,” he said with a laugh. “Maybe I should go all the way, go for a Ph.D. Maybe then I could set my sights on being a garbageman.”

  “Look, you and I both know—”

  “And don’t try to tell me bagging groceries is just a hobby, old man. Just something you do to pass the time. It’s pretty obvious you haven’t bought any new clothes in years. That was a real job you just got fired from.”

  “I wasn’t fired. I quit.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  MJ was turning out to be damn smart. And you never knew if it was a good idea to hook up with somebody smart because in the back of his mind he’d always be thinking he could do it better than you. “All I’m saying is that you’ve got a much better chance of making it if you go to—”

  “I didn’t come along to get a sermon.”

  “No, I guess you didn’t,” Jack mumbled, suddenly aware that he might be putting his foot way into his own mouth. Maybe there wasn’t a father around anymore. Just memories of the man who’d given him his nickname. Maybe MJ hadn’t had a choice about dropping out of school. “You go to church?” he asked, thinking about how long it had been since he’d heard a sermon.

  “Every Sunday.”

  “Really?” Jack hadn’t been to church in ten years. That had been a Christmas service Cheryl had dragged him to. He respected people who were committed to their faith. He’d always wanted to find that for himself, even more so as he aged, but it had never come. And you couldn’t force it, especially on yourself. It had to come naturally. He didn’t know much about it, but he knew that. “That’s good.”

  “You?”

  “Nope.” Jack slammed on his brakes before flipping on the Citation’s left blinker just a few yards in front of a turn. He chuckled when the guy behind him who’d been riding his ass for the last mile had to slam on his brakes, too. “You know who you look like?” he asked, spotting the light towers of Tarpon Stadium rising over the palm trees.

  MJ eased back in his seat. He’d braced himself on the dashboard with both hands when Jack hit the brakes. “Who?”

  MJ seemed to have gotten a kick out of the slamming-on-the-brakes move, too. “A young Denzel Washington.”

  “I thought we all looked alike to you people.”

  Jack hid a smile. This kid was something else. Well, at least it was going to be fun working with him.

  “Was that supposed to be a compliment?” MJ continued. “Was that supposed to make me feel good? Did you pick out a good-looking black guy and tell me I look like him to put me at ease? To make me like you because you think I look like him and you can admit that a black man can be good-looking?”

  “Hey, what’s your problem?” Jack snapped, suddenly not so sure they were going to have fun after all. “You don’t want a sermon? Well, neither do I.”

  MJ held up his hands. “I’m just digging on you. Don’t take it so hard, old man. You aren’t the first person who said I look like Denzel.”

  “Don’t call me old man, either.”

  “Little sensitive about the age, are you?”

  Jack gritted his teeth. “A lot sensitive.” The sudden emotion in the response surprised even him.

  “So what do you want me to call you?” MJ asked.

  “How about Jack?”

  “Nah, Jack’s a young man’s name.”

  “There you go again.” Jack spotted the stadium turn-in up ahead. “Calling me old.”

  MJ snapped his fingers. “I got it. I’m gonna call you Reverend from now on.”

  Jack furrowed his brow. “Reverend? Why? I just told you I don’t go to church.”

  “Well, your name’s Jack, and if we carry it out a little, it turns into Jackson. Like Jesse Jackson. Like the Reverend Jesse Jackson. Reverend for short. Yeah, I like that. It’s way cool.” MJ thought about it for a few more seconds. “Maybe even just Rev.”

  Jack wasn’t sure he liked the nickname, but he wasn’t going to argue about it. He needed MJ’s help. “Why’d you help me back there at the store?” he asked, turning into the stadium’s main entrance.

  “Well, after all, you didn’t call her a fucking bitch. Just a bitch. I couldn’t let that one get by.”

  “The real reason,” Jack said firmly. “Don’t screw with me.”

  MJ hesitated. “You seem like a nice guy and all, Rev,” he said, his voice taking on a sincere tone, “but I didn’t do it for you. No offense.”

  “None taken, but I still want to know why you did do it. You’re smart. You knew you were gonna piss off Ned. It was a no-win thing for you.”

  “Oh, I won.”

  “What do you mean?”

  MJ curled his right hand into a fist and tucked it into the palm of his left. “I hate that woman. She didn’t get her satisfaction. That was winning for me. She’s everything that’s wrong with people.”

  Jack swung the Citation into a parking space by the stadium’s main gate, next to a sign that read “Executive Offices.” So down deep the young man was way ahead of his years. Now that he was being serious he hadn’t said “you people
” or “you white people.” Just “people.” Life wasn’t a race thing for him after all. Just a human thing. “Is your dad still around?”

  MJ shook his head. “Nope. He left last year.”

  That explained it. As the oldest, MJ had been forced to drop out of school so he could work full-time and help pay bills. “Sorry,” Jack said quietly. “Do you ever see him?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I’m cool with that.” Jack exhaled heavily. “So let’s get down to biz. I want you to—”

  “Cool with that?” MJ interrupted. “Biz? How ancient are you?”

  “That doesn’t concern you.”

  “Well, you asked me.”

  “I don’t recall saying this was going to be a two-way street.”

  “Fine,” MJ said, opening the car door. “I’ll get my own ride home.”

  “Wait a minute,” Jack said quickly. “I’m sixty-three. What’s the problem?”

  “Look, don’t try to act sixteen around me. Don’t try to act cool. It ain’t hip. If you want to know the truth, it’s kinda scary. Just act your age. Okay?”

  The kid was right. He’d scared himself, for Christ’s sake. “Okay.”

  “Now, what were you going to say, Rev?”

  Jack turned off the car. “I want you to go in and apply for the full-time batboy position.”

  At last night’s game, Jack noticed the Tarpons advertising for a full-time batboy. And as he was standing in the grocery store listening to Ned go off on MJ, the idea had struck him. The idea of partnership. He could have a guy on the inside, actually in the dugout, picking up information about Mikey Clemant. Maybe then he’d figure out what was up with the kid.

  “Okay, but how am I gonna get out here for games? I don’t have a car. I rode my bike to the store because it was close, but I’m not pedaling all the way here.”

  “I’ll be your taxi service. I’ll get you out here and home every game.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “I will.” Jack gestured toward the stadium. “I’m gonna get an usher job while you get the batboy job. I’ll have to be out here, too.”

  MJ smiled curiously. “Why? Why would you want to be an usher? What’s this all about, Rev?”

  “Let’s get the jobs first,” Jack suggested as they both climbed out of the car. “Then I’ll explain everything.”

  “No. I want to know now.”

  It was clear the young man wasn’t going anywhere until he understood the situation. Maybe it was best to tell him now anyway. Better to know sooner rather than later if MJ was going to have a problem being a spy. “I used to be a senior executive for the New York Yankees.” It was interesting. Even people who didn’t know much about baseball were usually impressed when he told them that. MJ didn’t seem impressed at all. “On the scouting side. So I know talent.” He gestured toward the stadium again. “There’s a guy on this team who’s good, really good. One of the best I’ve ever seen. I want to take him to the Yankees. But I can’t reach him, can’t get him to talk to me. It seems like he doesn’t want to be discovered, doesn’t want to make it out of Single-A. I can’t figure out why. It doesn’t make any sense, but I’m gonna get to the bottom of it.” He pointed at MJ. “And you’re gonna help me.”

  MJ’s face brightened. “So I’m your mole.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “And this kid is your white whale.”

  Jack’s chin recoiled slightly. “Yeah,” he agreed hesitantly, surprised that MJ had ever read Moby Dick. “I guess you could say that.”

  “And you’re Captain Ahab.”

  MJ was turning out to be a machine gun loaded with a clip full of surprises. “When did you read Moby—”

  “I’m not calling you Rev anymore,” MJ interrupted. “I’m calling you Ahab. That has a meaning for us.”

  Jack liked Ahab better than Rev, mostly because MJ liked that it had a special meaning between them. The young man had a lot of layers to him. He was a pain in the ass, but he was compelling. “Okay.”

  “You said you used to be with the Yankees,” MJ called as Jack headed toward the executive offices. “Why aren’t you with them anymore?”

  “It’s a long story,” Jack yelled back over his shoulder. He definitely wasn’t getting into that now.

  “I got plenty of time.”

  “No way. Come on, let’s go.”

  “All right,” MJ agreed, following after Jack. “But you’re gonna pay me four hundred bucks a week for this gig, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Because this only pays twenty bucks a game, and they don’t even take me to away games.”

  “Right.”

  “And you’re going to pay me in cash. No personal checks.”

  “Yes, damn it.”

  MJ stopped and spread his arms. “Man, where you gonna get that kind of dough?”

  “Good question,” Jack muttered under his breath as he kept walking. “Very good question.”

  Stephen Casey reached for the doorknob of his front door, then pulled back. It was the third time he’d started to leave the house—then stopped. He wanted to go outside, knew he had to go out there so he could get in his car and make the short drive over to Helen’s place to warn her that she was in grave danger. And that her son was in grave danger. He just hoped he wasn’t too late.

  He reached for the knob again—and pulled back again. It was the thought of what that guy had done to him the other night that was making him act like some terrified punk, not an ex–police officer. The thought of being tied to that plank at a downward angle, of the Saran Wrap encasing his face, of the water rushing into his nostrils, of that time he’d almost drowned. The thought of it happening all over again. It was killing him. Completely overpowering his courage, overpowering his desire to do the right thing.

  He took a deep breath, shivered, then reached for the doorknob and turned.

  Finally, he thought as he headed toward his car.

  16

  TREVISO POUNDED ON Angelo Marconi’s front door with his small fist. It was a gorgeous spring day in New York, not a cloud in the sky. Still the slightest chill in the air—even at two in the afternoon—but the smell of new blooms was everywhere, even in this concrete jungle. He loved spring. He’d never told that to anyone but Karen. He didn’t want to seem even weaker than he knew people already thought he was. But he always felt a sense of rebirth as May headed toward June and the daylight hours grew longer.

  Treviso had spent all morning running around Brooklyn and Queens chasing a mark who’d turned into a greased pig a week ago—the way a lot of them did when their loan was due. But an hour ago, Treviso and Paulie the Moon had tracked the guy down to a greasy spoon in Astoria and surprised him while he was eating a meatloaf sandwich. Tracked him down thanks to a tip from a beat cop they paid off regularly.

  They’d shaken twelve grand out of the guy. Everything Treviso was owed—four grand of principal, the VIG, even a cooked-up processing fee. The guy had actually started sobbing when they hauled his ass down a garbage-strewn alley behind the diner and Paulie pulled out a dentist’s tool—a long piece of metal with a sharp hook on one end—and threatened to pull the guy’s brains out through his nose. Treviso had no idea if that was even possible, but the mark must have believed it because he broke down immediately. He rode with them in Paulie’s El Dorado to an electronics shop he owned where he grabbed a wad of cash from a safe in the back, then directed them to his brother’s house, where he got the rest. It had been a long but rewarding day. Marconi was going to be pleased. Hopefully enough to grant a big favor.

  The door opened and Nicky appeared. “Yeah, hey, Tony. Sorry it took so long, but I could barely hear you knocking.”

  Treviso saw a smirk flash across Nicky’s face. Nicky had probably been thinking about calling him Timid Tony instead of just Tony. “Hey. How you been?”

  “Okay.” Nicky stood in the doorway, arms crossed, blocking the way.
/>   “Oh, right, right,” Treviso said, touching his forehead. “The password. How could I forget? It’s ninety-one.”

  Nicky stepped back. “Okay. Know where you’re going?”

  “Yeah.”

  The smell of pizza drifted to Treviso’s nose as he brushed past Nicky and headed up the narrow, creaky stairs. God, it smelled good. Marconi must be eating a late lunch. Maybe the old man would share a slice. It was hard for Treviso to keep weight on, to stay at his normal 145, because of this intestinal disorder he’d been suffering from for a couple of years. He’d never bothered to find out what was wrong, just ate everything he could get his hands on. Nothing inside hurt too bad, so he figured it wasn’t time to go to the doctor yet.

  When Treviso reached the top of the stairs, he turned down the hallway toward the far bedroom and came face-to-face with Goliath. “The password is Knicks.”

  “Yeah, right.” Goliath motioned for Treviso to put his palms against the wall and spread his legs. “You know the drill.”

  Treviso grinned and did so. Very few people in the family knew Goliath’s real name, but Treviso did. He understood that Marconi didn’t want people knowing Goliath’s real name because then somebody might be able to get to him, might be able to bribe him. Then the old man’s security could be compromised.

  Goliath was so stupid. Marconi would assume you couldn’t keep a guy’s name secret forever. Not for long at all really, especially in the Mafia. And once the old man decided it had just about reached the time when people would find out the guy’s real name, Goliath would be capped and dumped in the landfill the family controlled out in North Jersey. But Goliath didn’t get it. He figured he had a job for as long as he wanted it.

  “Okay, you’re clean.” Goliath turned and knocked on the door. “Boss?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Timid Tony.”

  “Let him in.”

  Treviso’s grin grew wider. Not because he was about to meet with the number two man in the entire Lucchesi organization, but because he knew the whole frisking thing was a charade. There was a metal detector in the foyer downstairs, hidden in the doorway molding, which was why Treviso had taken off his belt with the huge buckle before coming in. The metal detector was a secret, just like Goliath’s real name. You couldn’t see the equipment even if you were looking for it, but it was there, all right. But Marconi was smart as hell. He knew that if certain people weren’t frisked, they’d assume there was a metal detector somewhere, then try to find it and disarm it. That was the reason for the charade. The reason he had people frisked.