Forced Out

by Stephen Frey

  Which wasn’t surprising. MJ had a way about him, an undeniable charisma you couldn’t miss. And of course, hiring MJ gave the owner an opportunity to show the community he was an equal opportunity employer in an obvious way. Which didn’t matter at all to Jack, even if MJ was resentful about it. Jack didn’t care how it had happened, just that it had.

  The only bad part about the whole deal was that MJ had turned into a damn good negotiator. Now he had the power, so he wanted a down payment. He wanted two hundred bucks in cash before he’d show up for tomorrow night’s game three hours early to learn the ropes. To understand the complex nuances of retrieving bats, he’d said.

  “Come on, Jack,” Ned pressed, his grin growing wider and more obnoxious. “Let’s hear it.”

  “I need that paycheck real bad,” Jack admitted quietly. “I need those four hundred bucks. I’ll apologize to the woman in person if you give me my money. I’ll come here tomorrow whenever time you tell me she’s going to be here, and I’ll apologize. I’ll get down on my damn knees and beg her forgiveness if you’ll just give me the money. In fact, I’ll kiss her fat feet if that’s what it takes. And I don’t even want my job back. Just give me the money.”

  “I don’t care about that woman. I care about me.”

  “Huh?”

  “Beg me, Jack.”

  “What?”

  Ned stood up and moved out from behind the desk. “You’ve been a pain in my ass ever since you came here. I don’t care if you beg her. I want you to beg me.”

  “Pain in the ass? What are you talking about?”

  “Over the past few months I’ve had at least five customers come back in the store and complain that they smelled booze on your breath after you helped them load bags, but I didn’t do anything. You’re always at least a few minutes late, but I’ve looked the other way every time. And you’ve got to be the damn slowest bagger I’ve ever had in this store. But I chalked that up to you being so old.” Ned chuckled wryly. “Even though you run a pretty fast forty-yard dash to your car at quitting time.”

  Jack frowned. “So I’ve got a couple of minor flaws. Nobody’s perfect.”

  Ned rubbed his eyes, like he was tired and not just of Jack. “You’re an old fart, Jack. I don’t know any other way to put it. And there’s not even anything cute about it. Usually old farts are cute. But not you.”

  “I’m a little cute.”

  “No you aren’t. At least not to me. You only have one thing in this world going for you and that’s your daughter.”

  Jack’s eyes raced to Ned’s.

  “Cheryl’s got to be one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, Jack. And if she did anything with herself, she’d be one of the prettiest, too. But that’s beside the point.”

  “When did you ever meet her?” Jack demanded.

  “She came to the store a month ago.” Ned snickered. “Goddamn, your wife must be a saint. That’s the only way I can see how Cheryl could possibly turn out like she has.”

  “Cheryl came here?”

  “Yeah. The day after you stumbled into my store three hours late with that flask in your pocket. She apologized for you, and told me how much you needed this job. Asked if I’d look out for you.” Ned leaned forward so his face was close to Jack’s. “And I have, damn it, I have looked out for you. But no more. I hit my limit when that woman came in here screaming about what you’d done. That was it. No more looking the other way, no more apologizing for you.” He hesitated. “Tell Cheryl I’m sorry, but I’m sure she’ll understand.” He strode back to his desk and sat down. “You’re an asshole, Jack. You’ve probably been one since you were born.”

  Jack swallowed hard, a big lump of pride stuck in his throat. He had to keep his eye on the objective: getting close to the kid. Right now he needed to pay MJ two hundred bucks pronto or he was going to lose a golden opportunity. He took a deep breath, thinking about how he ought to read Cheryl the riot act for coming in here like his mother and asking for pity. For interfering. For making him look like a jerk.

  “Okay, I’m begging you for that check, Ned. Please.”

  “Get on your knees.”

  “What?”

  “Get on your knees, I said.”

  “Forget it. Nothing’s worth—”

  “Fine,” Ned interrupted. “No knees, no check.”

  “Jesus Christ.” This was beyond swallowing his pride, but there was too much at stake. Slowly, he knelt down. God, the arthritis was killing his knees. “There,” he said when he was on the floor. “You happy now?”

  “You gotta ask me again. Now that you’re on your knees.”

  Jack took a deep breath. “Please can I have the money? I’m begging you.”

  Ned’s expression softened as the seconds passed. Finally he looked away. “Screw you, Jack. Like I said this morning, you want the check, sue the company.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Jack shouted, pulling himself back to his feet. “You goddamn son of a bitch!”

  “Get out of here, old man,” Ned ordered. “Just get the hell out of here.”

  And he did. He hobbled out of the office, down the stairs, and out the door because there wasn’t anything else he could do. Ned was having fun just toying with him. Just trying to see how far he could get, how much of a monkey he could make out of an old man. Ned had no intention of ever paying him the four hundred dollars. Goddamn, he wished he was twenty years younger. He would have made Ned one sorry store manager.

  As he passed through the outside door, the ATM on the brick wall caught his eye. “Ah, what the hell,” he grumbled.

  A few moments later Jack had pushed a few buttons and withdrawn two hundred and twenty dollars.

  Leaving forty-two cents in his account.

  “I’m glad you decided to come over here tonight, honey. I really didn’t want to go back to your dad’s place again.”

  Cheryl nestled down next to Bobby on the couch of his apartment. He’d been watching an Atlanta Braves game and drinking a beer while she washed the dishes. She’d cooked him a big steak dinner—a thick filet, mashed potatoes, and creamed spinach. His favorite meal, he’d told her last week. She was so happy to finally know he loved her she was willing to do anything for him at this point. She didn’t even care when he’d said the steak was “a little overdone,” which she knew it wasn’t. They’d talked five times on the phone today, and each time he’d been the first one to say the magic words: I love you. She was so happy she could barely stand it.

  “It’s my place, too,” she said quietly.

  “Sure it is,” Bobby agreed, pulling her close and kissing her.

  He’d finally learned to kiss tenderly. So many men never got it, even when you gave them step-by-step instructions. And if there was one thing that really drove her crazy about a man—other than being able to dance and make love—it was his kiss. Sometimes she actually enjoyed a long, passionate kiss more than sex.

  There’d been this one boy back when she was nineteen who kissed better than anyone before or since. His lips weren’t big and puffy, but when you closed your eyes and let him work his magic, they wrapped yours up completely like two silk sheets before he set you on fire with his tongue. Bobby wasn’t anywhere near that good, but at least he was improving. Maybe with a bit more instruction and practice he’d get there. She was willing to make the commitment. She just hoped he was.

  “You look nice tonight, honey.”

  She smiled up at him. “Thanks.” That had come from nowhere. Maybe he wasn’t as out of it as she thought. She’d brushed her hair for fifteen minutes before he showed up tonight so it literally gleamed. And she’d bought a fancy new clip to hold it up in the bun. It looked nice, she had to admit.

  “What’s so different?” he asked, checking the game on the wide-screen, which took up one whole corner of his living room. “A little makeup?”

  Cheryl punched him gently on the upper arm. “It’s my hair.”

  “Your hair? Ooooh, yeah, your hair. Hey, it looks gre
at.”

  She could tell he didn’t really see a difference. He was playing along so there wasn’t a bump in the evening. So he was sure to get sex. Men were so transparent.

  “You know,” Bobby spoke up, “you should spend a day with this woman from my health club. Her name’s Ginny. She’s really into fashion. She could take you around and help you pick out some new clothes. Maybe help you with some makeup, too. Introduce you to her hairdresser. Stuff like that.”

  “Who is this woman?”

  “Just a friend.”

  “A friend?” Cheryl hated to admit it, but now that they’d made love she was getting possessive. She’d be the happiest woman in the world if she wasn’t this way. But she was, and there was no getting around it or anything she could do about it. She’d always been like this, and it got worse the longer she was with a man. “How good a friend?”

  Bobby held up his hands. “Trust me. Ginny and I really are just friends. She’s nowhere near as nice as you. Or as pretty,” he added quickly. “But she does the most with what she has. Know what I mean?”

  “No.” She wasn’t letting him off that easy.

  “Well, she dresses real nice and she uses makeup. That kind of stuff. Makes herself look better than she really is. Sometimes she uses too much makeup and then it’s a train wreck, but you won’t have that problem. You’ve got this incredible natural beauty she doesn’t. You just need a few touch-ups here and there. Then you’ll be awesome.”

  She liked his compliments, as backhanded as they were and as obvious as his agenda was. “I’ve always been kind of a tomboy, you know? I’ve never been into all that makeup stuff. But I think I look okay.”

  “You look great, not just okay. But why don’t you spend a day with Ginny? Just to see what’s what.”

  She nodded hesitantly. “I guess.”

  Bobby nodded approvingly. “Great. So, how’s your dad doing? Still stalking Mikey Clemants?”

  Cheryl laughed, imagining her father wearing a trench coat and a hat pulled low as he shadowed the poor kid all over town. “Yeah. Daddy was at some bar late last night trying to talk to him. But the kid bolted.”

  “Clemants is a head case,” Bobby muttered. “I warned your dad about that.”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Which bar was it?”

  “I don’t know.” It was the Dugout, but for some reason she didn’t want to say.

  “Well, was it around the stadium?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Bobby gazed at the TV intently for a few moments, then grabbed Cheryl. “Let’s make love, baby.”

  Men. First their stomachs, then a little farther below their stomachs, then sleep. “Don’t you want to let your food settle?”

  “Nah.” He reached down and clasped her thin wrist with his big fingers. “Get up,” he demanded, pulling her to her feet. “Come on.”

  She pulled away quickly. “Jesus, relax.”

  “Sorry, sorry. It’s just that sometimes I want you so bad.”

  She rubbed her wrist. For a moment there she’d been scared. He’d grabbed her so hard. “I know you do.” She stood up and smiled sweetly. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Jack lifted the scotch to his lips. He was trying his best to nurse the damn thing, but that was getting harder the more he drank. After dropping off two hundred bucks to MJ on his way over here, Jack had only twenty-eight bucks left in his wallet—the remaining twenty from the ATM withdrawal, and what was left of his tips. This was his second drink, and there was almost no gas in the Citation’s tank. Probably not even enough to get home. And he knew he was going to want that third drink bad.

  “Did the Tarpons play tonight?” he asked. He knew they hadn’t, but he needed to get the conversation started.

  The bartender was leaning back against the cash register drying a glass. It was the same guy as last night. He had thick eyebrows and hairy forearms. “Nope. They’re off tonight. They play down in Fort Lauderdale tomorrow. Why?”

  Jack shrugged. “Just wondered.” He saw that suspicious look creeping across the guy’s face again. The same one he’d seen last night when he kept asking about the kid.

  “Right.” The bartender put the glass down and moved to where Jack was sitting.

  Jack was on the same stool as last night when the kid had sauntered in. One with a perfect view of the front door. “Look,” he said in a reassuring tone as the guy leaned over the bar, blocking his perfect view, “it’s like I told you last night. I used to be with the Yankees. I think he’s a talented kid. I’m just trying to help him.”

  “Help him what?”

  “Get to the majors.”

  The bartender snickered. “The Tarpons are Single-A independents, pal. That’s the bottom of the barrel. Clemant has a long way to go before he puts on pinstripes.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jack argued gently.

  “That’s the scotch talking.”

  “No, it’s not,” he muttered. “Look,” he said more forcefully, “Clemant has a major-league bat and glove. He just needs some help with his minor-league attitude.”

  “Why do you care so much? What’s in it for you, pal?”

  That question had been hanging over Jack like a dark cloud. He hadn’t dealt with it yet, not directly, anyway. But he knew at some point he’d have to. It was tough because two of the three potential answers—money and revenge—weren’t very appealing. Downright ugly, actually. But painfully obvious, given the forty-two cents in his checking account and how piss-poor he’d been treated by people he thought would never do him wrong.

  Then there was that third possibility. That altruistic, pure one. That he was doing all this simply for his love of the game. Simply because he wanted to see a man who could end up being one of the greatest players of all time have a chance to find out if he really was.

  “I think he deserves a shot at the Show,” Jack murmured. “And I think I can get it for him.”

  “You’re out for money,” the bartender said loudly. “That’s all you want.”

  “No, I—” Jack interrupted himself as the front door opened and the kid strode in.

  Clemant stopped short as soon as he spotted Jack. They gazed at each other for a few moments, then the kid turned around and headed right back out.

  Jack hopped off the stool and hobbled toward the door as fast as his bad knees would carry him. But when he burst out into the warm Florida evening, the street was empty. It was as though the kid had been swallowed up by the night.

  18

  JOHNNY STOOD OUTSIDE the apartment door for several minutes, wondering if he could really do this. Wondering if he could destroy another man’s world and live with himself. Which seemed so ironic because, after all, he killed men for a living, and killing a man was the ultimate destruction of a personal world. This was nothing when you compared the two. So why was he even giving it a second thought?

  Maybe because those men he’d killed were all scum, all men who deserved to die. Johnny’s expression steeled with resolve. If Tony Treviso really killed that guy, then sent the severed head to the wife with a dead rat stuffed in the mouth, he was scum, too. Worse than all the others put together.

  Johnny raised his hand to knock, then hesitated. No one had ever proven that Treviso was behind all that. Maybe Treviso had lucked into the tag and simply never denied it—like Johnny had never denied killing the guy who ran the liquor store down the street from Marconi’s row house. Or maybe Paulie the Moon had chopped the guy’s head off to help his timid friend. Maybe Treviso wanted so badly to be feared—instead of ridiculed—in a world dominated by macho men, he’d jumped at the chance to be pinned with something appalling. And been smart enough to know he couldn’t openly accept responsibility for it because then the capos and the soldiers would be less likely to believe he was actually the person who’d done it. No one in his right mind would openly take credit for that crime because the cops might hear about it through the grapevine. Maybe Treviso was smart enough to rea
lize that if he just smiled crazily when you asked him about it, you’d be more likely to believe he was guilty. Maybe Timid Tony wasn’t so stupid after all. Or so timid.

  Johnny knocked lightly, not bothering to step to the side of the door. Treviso was way up in the Bronx, boozing it up with Paulie the Moon. Johnny had gotten the word fifteen minutes ago from a friend behind the bar up there who was going to text-message him as soon as Treviso left. Even if he got the message in the next few minutes, he’d still have at least forty-five minutes before Treviso could get his ass this far out into Brooklyn.

  The door swung open, and the sight that met Johnny’s eyes literally took his breath away. Karen stood before him in a black lace teddy and high heels, hair falling down about her face to her shoulders. She was gazing at him so sexily with those huge brown eyes.

  He moved through the doorway as if he were floating and their lips met, pressed together gently at first, then harder and harder as their passion exploded. He never kissed the women Marconi sent him, just had sex with them. In fact, he hadn’t really kissed anyone since kissing his first Karen just before they wheeled her away to the operating room. Thinking it would only be a few hours until he kissed her again. Now as this woman’s slender body melted into his, he realized how much he’d missed that intimacy. And he realized he might not be able to live with himself for what he was about to do.

  But there was no stopping at this point, no way he could resist her. She was the one who could finally rescue him from the abyss he’d been sinking deeper and deeper into for so long. He knew that because he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since that first moment he’d laid eyes on her.

  Johnny took a deep breath. He’d just have to live with the consequences.

  Or not.

  19

  THE FASTEST WAY home was the interstate. It would have taken Jack less than twenty minutes using I-75, but then he’d run the risk of hitting a sobriety checkpoint, which the cops in the area were setting up more and more often. The number of fatal automobile accidents had skyrocketed in the county over the past year, and local politicians had demanded action. So Jack was taking the back way home to the coffin. Three times as long, but infinitely safer.