Forced Out

by Stephen Frey

  Jack got up and moved to the sink to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Talk to me about the house. What did we pay for it?”

  “A hundred and fifty thousand. We put twenty down,” she added hesitantly.

  “Why do you say it like that?” he asked, taking a sip as he sat down again. “What’s the matter?”

  “Are you going to ask me what it’s worth?”

  “Well, I know the market’s off some. What, like five or ten percent? You told me that.” She’d actually said it was off more than that, but he was hoping it had come back since then. “Right?”

  “More like twenty percent, Daddy,” Cheryl said. “All the agents in the office are crying the blues.”

  “Twenty percent? Really?”

  She nodded. “It’s bad. The bottom line is that the house is worth only about one-twenty now.”

  “So we’re ten grand underwater on it?”

  “Yes,” she agreed quietly. “It’ll come back at some point. Real estate always does, especially in Florida. But that doesn’t help us right now.”

  “Jesus,” he muttered. He’d had no idea it was that bad. That the house was worth that much less than what they’d paid. “So we have a negative net worth, almost no savings, and we’re barely breaking even every month.”

  She nodded gloomily.

  Of course, that was assuming he made sixteen hundred a month. The usher job at the stadium wasn’t going to pay anywhere near that. And on top of less money coming in, he had to come up with four hundred bucks a week for MJ. It looked like he was going to have to find another job fast if he wanted someone in the Tarpon dugout spying on Mikey Clemant.

  “Well, at least it can’t get much worse,” Cheryl said, trying to smile.

  Jack gazed at her. If she only knew.

  23

  HELEN MCLEAN GLANCED fearfully into the rearview mirror again and again as she guided the old Dodge through northern New Jersey on the Garden State Parkway, searching frantically for any sign that someone was following her. Fifteen minutes ago she’d checked out of a terrifying, thirty-nine-dollar-a-night dive motel in downtown Newark that was being used mostly by drug users and prostitutes. A motel with a parking lot she’d had to pick her way through this morning to get to her car as if she were picking her way through a minefield because the asphalt was littered with rusty needles and used condoms.

  Now she was headed to Perth Amboy to check into what was undoubtedly just as bad a place filled with exactly the same kind of clientele. Different names and different faces, but their lives would be mirror images of the ones she’d just left.

  God, she missed her little brick house in Queens. Missed it so much she almost couldn’t bear it. So much she was almost willing to go back to it despite the danger she knew was lurking in the shadows there. Not that the little house was anything great. But it was home, and at least she didn’t have to worry about stray bullets tearing through paper-thin walls, or listening to a woman in the next room pulling two tricks an hour to support her crystal meth habit. But she had no choice. She had to move, had to keep moving to stay ahead of them. They were on to her.

  She missed her kitty, too. She’d had to leave in such a rush there hadn’t been time to find it. It had been outside somewhere in the neighborhood when she’d gotten the word. She’d called a couple of times from the door, but by the time the suitcase was packed, the poor baby still hadn’t shown up. And she couldn’t stay any longer. That had been made very clear. She had thirty minutes to clear out or she was dead.

  The worst part of it all was she couldn’t get messages to her son anymore. The bartender at the Dugout had told her Kyle wasn’t coming in anymore because some guy who claimed to be an old Yankee scout was suddenly snooping around, asking a lot of questions. The bartender had told her not to call him again. That he was tired of being the go-between, that he didn’t feel safe doing it any longer. He said he wouldn’t go looking for Kyle to give him a message from her, either, because he didn’t want to be seen with the kid, didn’t want to be involved any longer.

  Helen spotted the exit she was looking for and flipped on the blinker. She could feel the tears welling up again. Like they had last night when she’d listened to the woman in the next room moaning for money, or when she’d been sure she’d heard gunshots in the parking lot. She had to help Kyle somehow. He’d sacrificed so much for her—his brilliant baseball future, his girlfriend, his safety. Sacrificed everything for her. And most important, he was her son.

  Maybe she should just start driving south, toward Sarasota. Maybe that was the answer. Of course, if she did and they were back there, she’d lead them right to him. Maybe they were waiting for her to do just that.

  Her tears fell in steady streams as she pulled to a stop at a red light. She desperately needed her brother’s help. Needed Stephen to tell her what to do, like he’d always done after her husband passed away. But suddenly he’d disappeared, suddenly he was unreachable. She shivered. She understood what that meant.

  Treviso dried off after a long, refreshing shower, patting his thin, dripping chest with a towel as he moved out of the steamy bathroom. He’d stayed out in the Bronx drinking with Paulie the Moon until three o’clock this morning, and he’d opened his eyes ten minutes ago to a raging hangover. He’d yelled to the kitchen for Karen to put the baby in the playpen and come service him right away. Sex usually helped his headache, but this morning it hadn’t, in part because Karen wasn’t her normal passionate self, so it hadn’t been as pleasurable as usual. Of course, that tended to happen right before her period, so he wasn’t concerned. She’d be back to normal in a few days.

  He moved into their small closet and happened to look down, happened to notice something about her black high heels. He stared intently at them—lying snugly between a pair of sandals and her sneakers. They weren’t properly arranged, he realized. The right shoe was on the left and the left shoe was on the right. The toes were pointing slightly out, not slightly in, as they should have been. All of her other pairs were positioned so the toes were pointing in.

  Treviso ran his hands through his wet, thinning hair. Karen was a stickler when it came to the few pairs of nice shoes she owned. She took great care of them and always aligned them perfectly. And her black high heels were her favorite pair, her pride and joy, worth almost seventy bucks. He shook his head. His natural ability to pick up on such tiny details so quickly was his only edge in this world.

  Marconi sat behind his tray table eating a big, greasy breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, and a bagel with cream cheese. The beginning of an old Dick Van Dyke Show rerun was playing on TV, and he was trying to figure out if Dick was going to trip over the ottoman after coming in the front door during the opening credits—or avoid it. When Dick stopped, then twinkle-toed around it with a smug grin, Marconi laughed loudly, dropping the eggs and hash browns on his fork into his lap. “Motherfu——”

  “Hey, boss.”

  Marconi dabbed at the food in his lap, irritated that some of it had gotten on his freshly dry-cleaned maroon polyester pants. “What is it, Goliath?”

  “Ricky Strazza’s here.”

  “Yeah, okay, let him in.”

  Strazza was a Lucchesi soldier in one of the Manhattan crews. He was of average height and average build. Not outstanding in any way, so he blended into a crowd naturally. Which was exactly what Marconi wanted.

  “Hello, sir,” Strazza said when he was inside the bedroom and the door was shut. “How can I serve you?”

  Marconi jabbed at the television, irritated at the interruption even though he had summoned Strazza to the row house for the meeting. “Turn it up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marconi didn’t even give Strazza the chance to sit, just motioned for the young man to kneel next to his chair and lean in close. He wanted this to go fast, wanted to get back to the show. “I got two things for you,” Marconi said, leaning forward so his lips were close to Strazza’s ear.

  “Anythin
g,” Strazza whispered, ecstatic to be of help to this man.

  Marconi gestured toward the door. “That guy outside.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I want him dead by tomorrow night,” Marconi ordered quietly. “You and your crew kill him tomorrow morning after he leaves here, then take him to New Jersey and bury him in our landfill out in Bergen County. Nicky can help you with the details. He knows what’s going on.”

  Strazza smiled like a child who’d just gotten exactly what he wanted for Christmas. “Yes, sir.”

  “After that I want you on Deuce Bondano’s tail like stink on shit.” Marconi pointed at Strazza. “And don’t ask me why I want you to do it, just do it. Report in to me three times a day about where Deuce goes and what he does. But under no circumstances do you let him know that you’re on him. Don’t fuck this up.”

  Strazza took one of Marconi’s hands and kissed it. “Yes, sir. Thank you for letting me serve you.”

  Johnny knelt down in front of the gravestone and laid the bouquet of two dozen red roses on the ground, like he’d done so many times before. The cemetery’s sprinklers had been on all afternoon and the ground was drenched, but he hardly noticed that his pants were soaking wet.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he said softly, pressing his fingers to the letters of Karen’s name the way he always did. “I love you.” He looked out over the graveyard. The place was huge, at least thirty acres, but there wasn’t anyone else around, not even workers. “I’ve done a bad thing,” he murmured, “but you probably already know that.” He bit his lower lip. “I was with another woman last night. Someone I actually care about. Not those girls I pay. Her name’s Karen. Just like you.” He rubbed his eyes, then touched his shirt pocket. “I’m sorry, real sorry.” The lump in his throat grew big, and tears formed at the corners of his eyes. “I know I told you I’d never do that,” he continued, his voice raspy, “but I’ve been so lonely.” The first tear rolled down one cheek, followed quickly by several more down both. He brushed them away but more kept coming. “So lonely,” he whispered. “Please don’t hate me.”

  He took a few moments to gather himself. “I need to talk to you about something,” he began again, trying to make his voice strong. “You always know what to say.” He hesitated. “You know what I do for a living, you know I kill people. The way I killed that doctor who murdered you.” A gentle breeze blew across his face, and he glanced up into the trees. The leaves weren’t moving. He shook his head, wondering if that had been her. “I know it’s not right, I know you wouldn’t approve. But at least I’ve always killed people I figured deserved it. Murderers, cheaters, liars. But now they want me to kill somebody who doesn’t deserve it. This kid.” He put his face into his hands. “Please tell me what to do,” he whispered, hoping the breeze would come again. But it didn’t. “Please, sweetheart,” he begged once more. “Please.”

  But nothing.

  He’d never felt so completely alone.

  24

  CURTIS! CURTIS BILLUPS! Come here right now!”

  MJ was lying on one of two bottom bunks in the tiny bedroom he shared with his three younger brothers. His three younger sisters had the room next door, which was only slightly larger than this one.

  “Curtis!” his mother shouted again from the kitchen in her deep voice. “Don’t make me take the Lord’s name in vain. Don’t make me do it, young man.”

  Anthony, MJ’s ten-year-old brother, leaned over the side of the top bunk and peered down, a mischievous grin on his face. “You better get out there, MJ. Momma’s pissed. You’re in trouuuuble.”

  MJ rose off the bed and slipped the Sports Illustrated he’d been reading under the mattress. “Shut up, Anthony. Or I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

  Anthony stuck out his tongue.

  “Curtis!” MJ’s mother yelled again. “God help you!”

  MJ grabbed the dog-eared copy of Tale of Two Cities he was supposed to be reading off the cardboard box he and his brothers used as a nightstand and dashed for the kitchen. But not before giving Anthony a quick, stiff punch on the upper arm. “I’m here, Momma,” he said breathlessly as he rushed into the kitchen, making certain to prominently display the paperback she’d borrowed for him from the library. “What do you need?” he asked, taking pleasure in the howls of pain coming from the bedroom.

  She pointed at the book. “Were you really reading that or—”

  “Man, it smells delicious in here, Momma.” MJ put his head back and took a deep breath, then patted his chest. “You make the best country fried steak in the whole entire world.” He gave her a big hug. “I love your cooking. It’s awesome.”

  Yolanda Billups had been beautiful as a younger woman: tall and statuesque with long black hair and unblemished caramel skin. But the sands of time and seven pregnancies had done their work. She weighed almost two hundred pounds now, and her arms, shoulders, and legs had grown thick. But her face was still pretty. Expressive, too. She couldn’t hide her emotions, so she didn’t try. “Don’t butter me up, Curtis.” She ruled the house with an iron fist—at least most of the time. “I know what you’re doing. It won’t work.”

  MJ gave her his best hurt-puppy-dog look. She was still angry, but she was cracking. He could see that big smile of hers—where he’d gotten his—trying to break through. Like the sun on a foggy morning. “Jeez, Momma, I’m not trying to butter you up. I mean it. You’re the best cook ever. I can’t even eat anybody else’s—”

  She broke out laughing, a deep baritone he-he-he-ha-ha-ha. She grabbed MJ and hugged him tightly. “I swear, I can’t resist you. I love you so much, Curtis.”

  “I love you, too, Momma.” MJ pulled back from the embrace, proud of himself. He was the only sibling who could consistently break her anger so quickly. His expression turned serious. He’d noticed how depressed she seemed lately, so he figured she needed some pepping up. “You take such good care of us.” He held the book up. “I started it, and it’s worse than Moby Dick. But if you tell me to read it, I will.” He promised himself he wouldn’t open the Sports Illustrated again until he’d finished the book he was holding. “I know you just want the best for me.”

  She wiped a tear from her eye. It had welled up fast. Of course, she cried at least a few times almost every day. Sobbed uncontrollably at church every Sunday during the recessional, hands raised in the air as she swayed back and forth in the pew with her two best girlfriends. “I do want you to read it,” she said. “I want the best for you. I hate that you gotta work and you can’t go to school because I need you to earn money because your damn daddy was a bastard.” Her evangelical persona suddenly shone through. “By God, child,” she said, raising one hand, index finger pointed to the sky, “I’m gonna see to it that you know more than all those other kids in school put together. I’m gonna make sure you’re smarter than all of them. I know that book’s boring for you, honey,” she continued, “but white people will be shocked that you’ve even heard of it, let alone read it. God forbid you’re able to discuss it intelligently. And I’m not saying I want you to be some yes-sir-no-sir Uncle Tom. That’s not what I’m saying, child. But it’s still a white man’s world, and you gotta be real about that if you wanna get ahead. Like I always told you, conform, conform, conform. Until you’re in charge. Then control, control, control. But not in a bad way,” she added, raising her voice. “Not with malice or vengeance, young man. There’s no place in this world for the devil’s work. Right, Curtis?”

  “Right, Momma.”

  “With fairness and equity. With benevolence. Remember, it’s not a black world or a white world. It’s just a world. You hear me?”

  MJ nodded, remembering Jack’s stunned expression when the old man realized that a dropout black kid knew who Captain Ahab was. It was the first time what his mother had been preaching for so long had made a real impact. Jack had treated him differently from that moment on. The change was subtle but undeniable. Knowledge really was power. People respected you when they kne
w you had knowledge. Some of them even feared you. He wouldn’t tell Momma he understood that, though. “I hear you, Momma.”

  She took a deep breath, then reached into her apron, her contented expression fading. “We need to talk, Curtis,” she said holding up a wad of twenties. “This is why I called you.”

  MJ’s eyes bugged out. “Where’d you get that?”

  “From your underwear drawer.”

  “Momma!”

  “Anthony told me it was in there.”

  “Why, that little—”

  “Don’t blame him, Curtis,” she warned, holding one hand up and wagging a finger. “And don’t take it out on him later. He just loves you, he just cares about his big brother. Now tell me where you got this,” she demanded. “There’s two hundred dollars here and they’re all crisp twenties, so I know this isn’t tip money. I may be getting old, but I ain’t getting dumb.”

  “You’re not getting old—”

  “Don’t try to butter me up, child.

  “And you’ll never be—”

  “It won’t work right now, Curtis,” she interrupted sharply. “Understand, I let you do that to me when I want to. Now isn’t one of those times.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I know this isn’t your paycheck because you always sign that over to me,” she kept going. “Are you selling drugs, Curtis?” she demanded shrilly. “I swear, if you are I’ll whip your little black—”

  “I’m not selling drugs, Momma. I promise. You’ve taught me too well.” He sighed, pissed off at Anthony. He’d wanted to keep this from her. Wanted to keep the surprise. “Momma, remember how I told you I wanted to get rich enough to own a pro baseball team?”

  She gave him her here-we-go-again look. “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I’m on my way.”

  “How’s Rosario?”

  Jack and Biff were standing beneath an oak tree on one side of an elementary school parking lot. “She’s fine. My daughter’s taken to her. Harry was right. Thank God, too,” Jack said, shoulders sagging, “because I wouldn’t have the patience. Rosario’s a little cutie, but she’s so much work. I’m too old for all that.” Maybe this was how he could justify what Biff had suggested. He’d been wrestling with it so hard. Usually he was good at rationalizing anything, but this time it wasn’t working. Of course, he’d never considered doing something like this before. Well, once. “It’s damn expensive, let me tell you. Pampers, formula, food, clothes, all that stuff. Incredible.” Cheryl had put it all on her credit card this morning. Fortunately, the charge had gone through. They weren’t sure it would because the amount would push the balance on her card right to its limit. Maybe even a little over. “I had no idea.”