Forced Out

by Stephen Frey

  As he’d been lying in bed late last night watching minutes pass like hours on the digital clock sitting on his nightstand next to pictures of Cheryl and David, waiting impatiently for morning and his chance to call the Elias Sports Bureau, Jack had convinced himself he was still a good man. Convinced himself that his momentary self-doubt at the stadium last night in front of Lester had been unfounded, and that he really was trying to unlock the mystery of Mikey Clemant for pure reasons. That he was trying to understand what was going on with the Kid because he wanted to see a young man with so much talent have a chance at the big time. And for the big time to have a chance at a young man with so much talent. That he was doing it for the love of the game. Not for money, not even for retribution. That he wasn’t doing anything just because he felt poorer now than he ever had in his life. That he wasn’t being driven by the gut-wrenching fear of suddenly being destitute.

  He rubbed his face as he shuffled down the hallway toward the kitchen. Wiping sleep from the corners of his eyes as he moved slowly ahead. Thinking hard about what he’d do if Biff called, how he’d feel about himself if he yielded to the temptation. Well, then he’d have no choice but to accept the fact that he was a bad man. A very bad man.

  “Hi, honey,” he said gruffly, moving toward a fresh pot of wonderful-smelling Vermont roast—his favorite. She was so good to him. She always made certain he was taken care of, even with Rosario in their lives now. “How are you this morning?”

  “Fine.”

  Cheryl was feeding Rosario her second helping of morning mush, and her back was to him. “You okay?” Her voice sounded funny, and she usually trotted over before he started pouring his coffee and gave him a big good morning hug and a kiss on his cheek. Maybe she and Bobby had a fight last night. How great would that be? Maybe his luck was suddenly changing? It seemed like it had been nothing but rotten for four years. Maybe the law of averages was finally catching up. “Princess?”

  “I’m fine, Daddy.”

  Jack poured a cup of coffee, putting his head slowly back and taking a deep breath as the warm, pleasing aroma rose to his nostrils. “What time did you get home?” he asked, taking a cautious sip of the steaming liquid. Almost instantly he felt his hands beginning to shake and a buzz permeating his entire body. But it wasn’t just the coffee bringing on the sensation. It was anticipation, too. The hope that the call he’d make to New York in a few minutes would unlock the Mikey Clemant mystery.

  He assumed the Elias offices would be open by nine, so he had only a little more than an hour to go. Only a little more than an hour before he might be able to get his hands on the 1968 May and June Yankee box scores to see if his memory had served him right. He’d already made his deal with the devil on this one. If whoever he spoke to at Elias confirmed that the company had the data but that it was going to cost him to get it, he’d pay. Then do Biff’s bidding—and make restitution later. “Princess?”

  “I got home around four, Daddy,” Cheryl answered, picking up Rosario’s plastic dishes and taking them to the sink. “Keep an eye on her for me, will you?”

  “Sure.” He began to unbuckle the baby from her high chair as Cheryl walked away. “Wait a minute,” he murmured, the possibility hitting him hard. “Be right back, kiddo,” he called over his shoulder to the baby, hobbling down the hallway after Cheryl.

  “Daddy!” Cheryl grabbed a towel off a rack and quickly wrapped it around herself when Jack appeared at the doorway to her tiny bathroom. She’d been naked from the waist up, washing her face. “What are you doing coming in here like this?”

  “Let me see your face,” he demanded. She was turned away from him, positioned so he couldn’t see her image in the medicine cabinet mirror, either. “Come on, Princess.”

  “No.”

  He grabbed her arm and tried to turn her. “Cheryl!”

  “Get out of here, Daddy! Get out!”

  “Look at me, Princess.”

  “No. Let me run my own life, Daddy. Stop running it for me. Stop keeping me all to yourself.”

  Jack could hear the baby beginning to wail from the kitchen. The little girl took her cues now from the woman who had become her mother. “Princess, I just want to—”

  “Get out!” Cheryl shrieked, finally turning to face him. “Get out or I’ll leave right now and I won’t ever come back!”

  Jack staggered back several steps. Red blotches covered her neck. Fingerprints. Bobby’s fingerprints. His hands had been wrapped tightly around her slender throat last night. “I’ll kill him,” he said, gasping. “And I don’t care what the cops do after that.”

  “You won’t go anywhere near him.”

  “I can’t let him do this—”

  “It’s just sex, Daddy.”

  Jack turned his head and winced, like he was watching Rosario’s mother burn on that dashboard again. The image of Cheryl being abused by Bobby was almost as bad. “Princess, please don’t—”

  “He’s a little rough sometimes. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  “It’ll get rougher and rougher,” Jack warned. He’d been a witness to this same scenario a long time ago. Had a front-row seat to this same horror show when he was a teenager. This was exactly how it had started with his father and mother. And it had only gotten worse and worse until finally his mother had “slipped” one night in the bathroom when he was fourteen—and never opened her eyes again. A terrible accident, the police called it. Which couldn’t have been further from the truth. But what was he supposed to do? Turn in his father? “One night you won’t be able to handle it, Princess. One night it’ll get too rough. You gotta believe me.”

  “I love Bobby.” Cheryl’s voice was shaking, and there were tears perched perilously close to the edge of her lower lids. “I love him so much, Daddy. I’m going to give him everything he wants, everything he needs.”

  “He doesn’t need to take advantage of you. He doesn’t need to hurt you.”

  “He’s not hurting me!” she yelled, grabbing her hair with both hands and pulling hard, like the conflict raging inside was driving her insane. The towel fell to the floor. “He loves me.”

  “Just let me talk to him, Princess,” Jack begged. He wanted to tell Cheryl what had happened to her grandmother, how she hadn’t really slipped on that bathroom floor so many years ago. The real reason he hadn’t gone to her grandfather’s funeral. “Just talk. That’s all I’ll do.” He bent down, picked up the towel, and held it out for her. “Please.”

  Cheryl grabbed it and wrapped it around herself again, then pointed a shaking finger at him. “If I find out you talked to Bobby, even tried to talk to him, I’ll leave you forever. I’ll take Rosario and leave, and you’ll never find us.”

  Jack stared at her for several moments, expecting her to rush into his arms the way she always did when they fought. Expecting her to realize how hurtful what she’d said had been and suddenly feel that avalanche of guilt she always felt. Please, Princess, he kept thinking, come to me and wrap your arms around me. I’ll make everything better. Like I always do.

  Then her chin began to quiver and the tears tumbled down her cheeks. He stepped forward, unable to wait any longer, but she took a step back and held one hand up.

  “I’ve got to get dressed, Daddy,” she managed to say, sobbing. “Go take care of the baby.”

  “Princess, I can’t leave you like this. Can’t we—”

  “Go call my brother and talk to him about baseball. You always did love David more than me.”

  Jack spread his arms. “What? Where did that come from? How could you possibly think I love your brother more than you?”

  “You sacrificed everything for him, Daddy,” Cheryl whispered. “You gave up your life for him. You’ve never done that for me.” She shut her eyes tightly, and the tears flowed like rivers. “Now get out!”

  28

  JOHNNY CHECKED HIS watch for the third time in the past five minutes as he stood in the Brooklyn parking lot beside his freshly washed Sevill
e. He leaned against the driver’s-side door and pulled out a pack of Parliament 100s he’d bought at a bodega up the street. He never smoked, hated cigarette smoke. Made people put out cigarettes in his presence—like he’d made Treviso put out the one at the apartment. Never smoked.

  Except when he was feeling intense pressure.

  Like those few minutes before he actually iced a man or right before he got to the graveyard with the two dozen roses on the passenger seat beside him. Johnny only smoked when he was really feeling pressure—like he was now. In fact, this was as bad as it had ever been. He could actually feel his hands shaking, feel himself sweating. And he never sweated.

  He lit up the first cigarette as raindrops began spitting down from an overcast sky. “Shit,” he muttered, taking a long drag and looking up. “Of course, now that I had the damn car washed.”

  “Never fails,” agreed a middle-aged woman with thick calves who was walking past on the sidewalk. She was pulling a cart full of fresh fruit and vegetables she’d bought at the stand on the corner in front of the bodega. “Know what I mean?”

  Why was she being so friendly? Johnny wondered. This was Brooklyn, deep in Brooklyn. People didn’t go out of their way to be friendly here. People didn’t go out of their way to be friendly anywhere in New York City—except maybe in lower Manhattan sometimes. But not here. Especially not here.

  He eyed her suspiciously as she tugged the cart along. What was her angle? Was she following him? He felt better when she grunted and gave him the finger. But that could all be part of the act, too.

  He let out a long, frustrated breath. The pressure was getting to him. Plain and simple. Way getting to him. He was trying to keep too many balls in the air at once, and it was making him paranoid. Making him suspect everyone of everything. But it was a product of the life he’d chosen, which was the worst part about it. He’d always been sure he could keep everything under control—but he’d been dead wrong.

  He took another puff off the cigarette. The premonition of peril was rearing its ugly head a lot lately, and he’d come to trust that premonition. Of course, maybe it was coming around so often because he was doing more things he had to hide than he ever had before. And maybe that thing Marconi always said was having its effect, too. That all deeds done in the dark eventually and inevitably came to light.

  Who the hell was that guy leaning against the lamppost in front of the bodega? He seemed vaguely familiar, but then everyone seemed vaguely familiar lately. Jesus Christ. Jesus freaking Christ.

  He checked his watch again. Karen was twelve minutes late. Something must have gone wrong. Terribly wrong.

  29

  JACK SAT DOWN glumly in front of the computer. It had been a seminal point in their relationship. The power had shifted completely in the blink of an eye, in the time it took to remember how much he loved the aroma of Vermont Roast wafting toward him down the hallway each morning as he shuffled to the kitchen, knees throbbing. Cheryl had made it very clear that if he confronted Bobby about the rough stuff, he’d be alone forever in this good-for-nothing ranch house. That she’d leave and never return. He’d seen in her eyes that she was absolutely serious. That she was finally so sick of him running her life she didn’t care what Bobby did to her as long as she believed they were in love. And he knew she’d seen the fear of God in his eyes. The terror that she really would leave him, and he’d be completely alone.

  He’d stepped toward her with open arms—the first time he’d ever made the first move—but she’d stepped back. She hadn’t even given him a kiss when she’d left a few minutes later. Just called from the front door that she’d see him at lunch. He’d lost his influence over her, every ounce of it. She could tell him to do whatever she wanted now, and he’d have to do it—or lose her. He’d finally pushed too far. The bitterness of being ordered around and made to feel guilty for so many years had ultimately reached a breaking point. And he was helpless to do anything about it.

  The phone sat on the table beside the computer. His fingers trembled as he reached for it, but this time out of fear, not anticipation. The thought of Cheryl not coming home had shaken him to his core. He didn’t know if he could do this anymore, didn’t know if he even wanted to. His drive to do anything seemed to have suddenly evaporated.

  “Christ,” he muttered angrily, “make the call.” He gritted his teeth and pressed the buttons, starting with the 212 area code. “You have to. This is all you got left.”

  “Information. How can I help you?”

  Here went nothing. “In Manhattan,” he said, “I need the number for the Elias Sports Bureau.”

  “The what?”

  “The Elias Sports Bureau,” he repeated, louder.

  “Hold please.”

  The operator was back a moment later with the number. Instead of being directly connected, he jotted it down. He never liked being rushed into anything. After he collected his thoughts, he made the call.

  “Good morning, this is the Elias Sports Bureau.” The woman at the other end of the line had a shrill, nasal voice. She was peppy and full of enthusiasm. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m…I’m looking for some information about baseball,” Jack answered hesitantly.

  “What kind of information?”

  “I want to know a few things about Mickey Mantle.”

  “What about Mickey Mantle?”

  “I’m trying to dig up some old box—”

  “Hold, please.”

  “Yeah, but…” A moment later the line was ringing again.

  “Baseball.”

  The male voice was hushed and secretive-sounding. “Yes, hello.” Instinctively, Jack lowered his voice, too. He waited for the guy to ask how he could help, but there was nothing but silence from the other end of the line. “I’m looking for some baseball information.”

  “I know.”

  Jack took a deep breath. “Right, well, I…look, I—”

  “What’s your name?”

  Jack held the receiver in front of him and gave it a curious look. “Why?” he asked after he’d brought it back to his ear.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jack Barrett. What does that have to—”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m retired. Well, I mean I do some odd jobs, but I’m retired from what I used to—”

  “What did you used to do?”

  Why the hell was the guy acting so strange? Well, he wasn’t going to feed the fire. Hearing he’d been a Yankee scout might make the guy clam up for some reason. “I was an insurance salesman.” There was a long pause at the other end. “Hello?”

  “What kind of information do you want?”

  “Look, what’s the big deal? Why are you grilling me?”

  “What kind of information do you want?” the man repeated.

  “Stuff on baseball.”

  “I know that. Exactly what kind of information?”

  “Box scores. I want to see some old box scores.”

  “I thought this had to do with Mickey Mantle.”

  “It does. I want to look up some of his old games. I’m actually looking for one in particular.”

  “How far back do you need to go? Seasons, I mean.”

  “Nineteen-sixty-eight. His last.” Another pause from the other end of the line. Even longer this time. “Can you guys help me?” Jack pushed. “Look, I’m willing to pay.”

  “I’m not supposed to tell you this,” the guy finally said, his voice just a whisper. “But it would cost you a couple of grand to get this from us.”

  Jack’s heart sank. A couple of grand? He was going to have to call Biff, not wait for Biff to call him. “It’s gonna be tough for me to pay you that kind of dough. I’m living on a fixed—”

  “Retrosheet-dot-org.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s the website you want,” the guy said evenly. “It’s www.retrosheet.org. Everything you need is there. Okay? That’s all I’m gonna tell you. Bye.” Then the line wen
t dead.

  Jack slammed the receiver down and scrambled to Cheryl’s nightstand for the pen and paper she kept there next to her phone. His hand shook as he wrote down what he thought he’d heard the guy say: w-w-w-dot-r-e-t-r-o-s-h-e-e-t-dot-o-r-g. Shook so badly he took a couple of breaths and wrote the website again because the first try was almost illegible. Then he hurried back to the computer, typed in the letters, and pressed “go.” Almost instantly the screen flashed a message indicating that the site couldn’t be found. “Damn it.” He didn’t want to have to call Elias back, didn’t have any faith he’d get the same guy or, if he did, that the guy would spell the website out for him again. “Oh, shit.” He noticed that he’d typed in www.rAtrosheet.org. No wonder. He corrected the typo, then pressed “go” again.

  This time the site came up instantly. “Jesus,” he whispered, his eyes widening. It was as if he’d just found the Holy Grail. “My God.”

  He slid the mouse to the third option down from the top—Box Scores—and clicked. The next page was called The Directory of Major League Years. On it were all years from 2008 back to 1871. He clicked on 1968. Next: Final Standings—the final record of all major-league teams in 1968. He clicked on the New York Yankees. Now there were several choices, but he slid the arrow directly to Game Log. As if someone or something were moving the mouse for him. Or maybe he’d just suddenly figured out how to skate quickly around the Web. Maybe it had finally hit him despite MJ’s dire predictions. Either way, the experience seemed otherworldly.

  When the next page came up, his fingers began shaking all over again. But this time out of elation. There were two choices: Date or Box + PBP. He moved the arrow directly to the second choice and clicked, and the world opened up in front of him. Suddenly he was staring at box scores for all games the Yankees had played in 1968. He scrolled down to May 30 and clicked.

  “My God,” he whispered as he gazed at the information, barely able to breathe.