Forced Out

by Stephen Frey

  On May 30, 1968, Mickey Mantle had gone five-for-five with three runs scored and five runs batted in.

  Exactly as Mikey Clemant had yesterday. Exactly as Mikey Clemant had on May 30, 2008.

  Jack scrolled down farther. Beneath the box score was an inning-by-inning account of the game. A play-by-play summary. He nodded as he read, his mind racing back to that day in 1968. The game had been played at Yankee Stadium against the old Washington Senators. Sure, that was right, he remembered now. The Senators. A few years later they’d moved to Texas and become the Rangers.

  Jack touched the screen gently with his finger, following the progression of at-bats down. Fascinated by what he was reading. In the first, Mantle had hit a home run. In the third, he’d singled. In the fifth, he’d hit another home run. In the seventh, he’d doubled, and in the ninth, he’d singled again. Jack read through the play-by-play over and over, running through last night’s Tarpon game in his mind. Going over the Kid’s at-bats as he gazed at the record of Mantle’s at-bats.

  Suddenly Jack’s eyes widened, literally like he’d seen a ghost. He clicked back to check the previous game the Yankees had played in 1968. It was on May 26. Must have been a couple of rainouts given the three days off, he figured. He glanced at the box score. Mantle had gone one-for-four with a single in the seventh. He stared at the stats for a second, then shot up out of the chair and headed as fast as he could toward the back door, where they kept the trash cans and the paper recycling tub right outside. When he was through the screen door, he knelt down and went through newspapers from the past few days until he found the sports sections for May 26. He thumbed through the pages, searching for the Tarpon box score. Finally he found it. Mikey Clemant had gone one-for-four with a single on May 26—just as Mickey Mantle had forty years before. The tiny gray hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stood straight up.

  Slowly Jack lay back until he was prone on the ground staring up at the blue sky, the prickly feeling taking over his entire body. On May 30, 2008, the Kid had posted the same hits Mickey Mantle had posted in his Yankee game forty years earlier—in exactly the same order. Home run, single, home run, double, single. And on May 26, 2008, the Kid had posted the same hits as Mickey Mantle had in his Yankee game forty years earlier. Again, in exactly the same order. Jack shook his head as he lay beside the recyclables tub. Coincidence? Not likely. A billion-to-one shot. And if it wasn’t coincidence? Well…he shut his eyes tightly. He couldn’t let himself think that. Not yet, anyway. He’d finish the research. Then maybe let his imagination run wild. If the Kid could hit a ball where he wanted to whenever he wanted to, there was no telling how good he really was. Even if this was Single-A.

  30

  JOHNNY WAS ABOUT to take the last long drag on his fourth cigarette, climb back into his rain-spotted Seville, get out of here, and be done with it. About to say the hell with everything and say good-bye forever to Tony Treviso and his psychopathic switch—and Angelo Marconi and his obsession. Then he saw Karen coming down the block on the opposite side of the street, pushing a stroller. And suddenly he knew why he’d found that tiny reservoir of patience to make it through four cigarettes. Why he probably would have waited here all day if he had to.

  My God, she was gorgeous. So gorgeous the cigarette tumbled from his mouth and he didn’t even realize it for a few moments. So gorgeous he suddenly became acutely aware of how careful they had to be. Tony Treviso was probably as jealous a husband as there was in New York City. It had to have been a fit of insane jealousy that had flipped Treviso’s switch to the on position that night. A mind-blowing, uncontrollable rage brought on by the mark making a move on Karen that had caused Treviso to temporarily lose his mind and chop the guy’s head off, stuff a dead rat in the mouth, and send it to the wife. What the hell else could have made him do it? The mark had repaid the fifty grand. Paid every cent of interest and fees owed. Johnny had confirmed those facts with a Lucchesi contact in Brooklyn. What else could turn a 145-pound weakling who couldn’t even watch his marks get roughed up into a monster who could carry out such an atrocity?

  Treviso must have realized when Karen married him that he’d never find another girl like her. He must have realized she was way too pretty for him—and way too sweet. Must have understood then that his relationship with her was at serious risk anytime she stepped outside the apartment without him. Anytime she came into contact with another man who had more going for him than Treviso. Which was almost every other man she came into contact with. He also had to realize she was going to be taken away at some point, had to realize she would leave when a better offer presented itself. That there was no way he could hope to hold on to her forever. The outcome was inevitable.

  Unless he did something about it.

  Tony Treviso was a sickly little man. A man who would have been laughed at by even those coyote-ugly girls in the Brooklyn meat-market bars. And he had no career prospects. None whatsoever. He was gonna be a two-bit loan shark the rest of his life because the bosses would never let him get rich and never let him do anything else. That was how it went with loan sharks. You made okay money, but nothing spectacular because if you did too well, the bosses simply upped their percentage of your operations. And if you tried to leave the family with some money that wasn’t technically yours, you’d be hunted down and killed, plain and simple.

  So at some point Treviso must have made a blood oath with himself to kill anyone who tried to make a move on Karen. The bosses wouldn’t rub him out for that. In fact, they’d love it. They wanted the Lucchesi family name to bring terror to the hearts of their enemies. What better way to do that than to have their enemies think that even the weakest of their members—a man who looked like a runt—was a psychopathic killer?

  Johnny had told Karen about the man who’d been decapitated, about how her husband had been responsible for the murder.

  She said she didn’t believe it. Admitted hearing whispers about it, but she assumed it was just talk. Like most things mob guys said, she figured. Most of their stories were just exaggerations and distortions intended to intimidate others and build reputations—nothing more. This was just another of those stories.

  Johnny tried to convince her that this time it wasn’t just talk, that she needed to be careful. That at some point she’d have to leave Treviso or risk her own life the day he flew into a jealous rage when she couldn’t resist any longer and happened to glance lustfully at another man. She’d asked Johnny if he was to be the one to rescue her if the story was true. He’d said yes—though not with conviction.

  Because he wasn’t being completely honest with her. He hadn’t reached the point of no return.

  Not yet, anyway.

  The wild thing about it, the absolutely insane, crazy part about everything—he was actually considering it. Actually considering making his move, and taking care of Treviso’s son like he was his own. In the short time they’d known each other, Karen had touched him so deeply he was actually thinking about it as he lay in bed at night trying to fall asleep. Trying desperately to erase her gorgeous image from his mind. She’d made him realize she could be the one to erase all those lonely nights. She could be the one he could love and who could love him. The one who could fill his hollow existence and make him whole again.

  There was only one problem. Tony Treviso. And his psychopathic switch. That was the only sticky thing about this situation, Johnny told himself every time he edged closer to committing to this insane idea. The thing that made it all so complicated. If he stole Karen from Treviso, he’d have to kill Treviso. There could be no other way. Which wouldn’t be a problem for an assassin like Johnny.

  Except that Timid Tony was with the Lucchesi family. It wasn’t like he was a guy that anybody who really mattered cared about on a personal level, but that didn’t matter. As long as you were with the family, they took care of you. It was what kept everybody loyal to one another. Knowing they had protection. To kill Treviso and not have to worry about retribution, Johnny would
need permission for the hit from Marconi, because no one questioned Marconi. And getting Marconi’s okay on the hit shouldn’t have been a problem, either. Marconi could be convinced. Unless, of course, the old man was starting to get suspicious about how the whole Kyle McLean thing was going. Unless Marconi had figured out that Johnny was sticking to his code of honor. Because he was more and more convinced all the time that Kyle McLean was no more responsible for the death of Marconi’s grandson than Marconi himself.

  Then getting Marconi’s permission to kill Treviso would be a problem.

  Johnny made it seem like he wasn’t watching Karen as she moved past on the other side of the street, made it seem like he wasn’t watching her slim, sexy body like a hawk. His eyes were hidden behind dark, wraparound sunglasses, and he made it seem like he was looking up the block at the bodega. But his eyes were actually straining to the far right side of his sockets, as far as they would go. Straining to keep tabs on her.

  Then it dropped to the sidewalk. Something in a white envelope. Karen’s move had been ever so subtle, but he’d caught it. Now the envelope just looked like a piece of trash lying on the sidewalk.

  Johnny checked up the block. The guy who’d been leaning against the streetlamp was gone. Still he hesitated a few more seconds. When he was certain the coast was clear, he jogged across the street toward the target.

  31

  MRS. BILLUPS, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. You keeping the baby and all.”

  Jack had completely forgotten about this afternoon. The Tarpons were playing a day game, and the first pitch was scheduled for four o’clock. Fortunately, MJ had called twenty minutes ago, at noon, anticipating Jack’s memory lapse. Jack just hoped this wasn’t a symptom of a bigger problem. His father had suffered from Alzheimer’s, and he’d been thinking more and more about that lately. Counting the times he forgot things during an average day. Unfortunately, the number seemed to be climbing. When he could remember.

  “I don’t know what I would have done without you,” he continued. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  MJ’s mother cradled Rosario in one of her big arms. Her two youngest were grabbing at either side of her long skirt as they gazed up at Jack, wide-eyed with uncertainty, not sure what to make of him. “One more child around this place won’t make much difference.”

  He chuckled. “Your little ones seem kind of scared of me.”

  “Just wary.”

  “Why?”

  “They don’t see many men like you around here.”

  “I don’t know what you—”

  “White.”

  “Oh.” Jack hesitated. “Well, they sure are beautiful,” he said earnestly, motioning down toward the little ones clutching her skirt. “What are their names?”

  “Vanessa and Jeffrey,” she said proudly.

  “Well, Vanessa and Jeffrey,” Jack said, bending over and putting his hands on his knees, “you’re two of the cutest things I’ve ever seen.” They were, too. He wasn’t just saying it. “I hope you grow up as smart as your older brother.” He raised back up slowly, feeling the tenderness in his knees. “If every sixteen-year-old was like your son, it’d be a much better world. He’s a good kid.”

  She gave MJ a sidelong glance, trying to hide a smile. “You pay him to say that?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I guess I’ll keep him,” she said, finally allowing herself the smile.

  “You should.”

  “And who is this little girl, Mr. Barrett?” she asked, rocking the baby gently. “Your granddaughter?”

  “Yes,” he answered deliberately, trying to remember if he’d said anything to MJ about the baby. Anything that would conflict with the story he was about to tell. He didn’t think he had. “Rosario is my son David’s baby. He and his wife are on vacation.” They were all standing out in front of the Billups family’s small, clapboard house—which was in desperate need of repair. The white paint on the walls was peeling, the front door was hanging by one hinge, and the shingles on the roof were rotting. There were probably a lot more things wrong, but that was all he could see. “My daughter and I are taking care of her while they’re away.”

  “She looks Hispanic. Is your daughter-in-law Hispanic?”

  “Uh, no, ma’am.” Yolanda Billups didn’t pull any punches, didn’t beat around any bushes. Didn’t miss much, either. “She’s adopted. My son, I—I mean his wife,” Jack interrupted himself quickly, barely remembering the story he and Cheryl had come up with. “She can’t have children.”

  “Mmm.” Yolanda gazed at him evenly. “Did you get my son fired from Publix?”

  “Well, um, I…” Jack stammered. He should have seen this one coming. “I didn’t really get M—I mean Curtis—fired.”

  MJ had told him to make certain he used Curtis and not MJ in front of his mother. She hated the name MJ. It reminded her of her husband because he was the one who’d given MJ the nickname, and she hated remembering anything about her husband. Like Cheryl had told him to make sure he remembered that it was David’s wife who couldn’t have children. He rubbed his eyes for a moment, frustrated. God, he could feel old age creeping up on him again. Like he had at the accident. He could hardly keep all these things straight. Five years ago—hell, one year ago—it wouldn’t have been a problem.

  “It was just an unfortunate situation, Mrs. Billups,” Jack spoke up, trying to make his voice sound strong. “Wrong place, wrong time kind of thing. If you know what I mean.”

  “You can call me Yolanda. You gotta be at least twenty years older than me, Mr. Barrett. Somebody that old shouldn’t be calling me Mrs. Billups. Besides, it makes me feel old when you call me that and I don’t want to feel old.”

  “I sure know what you mean,” he muttered under his breath. He passed a hand across his forehead to wipe away the perspiration. It was hot as hell out here—Lester’s sticky-weather forecast had come early. The stadium was going to be like an oven this afternoon, especially with that stupid bus driver cap on.

  “Then you got him this silly job as a batboy out at Tarpon Stadium,” Yolanda continued.

  “I thought it would be good for him to get something else quick so you didn’t—”

  “And you’re supposed to be paying him four hundred a week,” she cut in, “aren’t you?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Why?” she asked suspiciously. “Why would you pay him that much to be a batboy on top of what the team’s paying him? What’s your angle? Do you own a piece of the Tarpons?”

  He only he wished he owned a piece of a baseball team. Any baseball team. “No, I don’t.” He hesitated, appreciating that she recognized that there had to be an angle here somewhere. That few people in the world ever did anything purely out of the goodness of their hearts. Even people who seemed like they were. “It’s, it’s complicated. I—”

  “Out with it,” she demanded. “Otherwise Curtis ain’t going anywhere with you today.”

  “Momma,” MJ spoke up, “don’t treat me like a—”

  “Curtis!” Yolanda snapped back, wagging a finger at him. “Hold your tongue, young man. Don’t go disrespecting me like that. Especially in front of a stranger.”

  MJ spread his arms. “He’s not a stranger, Momma, he’s—”

  “He is to me.” Yolanda glanced back in Jack’s direction, a defiant expression on her face. “Why are you paying Curtis four hundred dollars a week to be a batboy? I need to know. Tell me or he stays here with me.”

  32

  ALMOST EVERYONE IN the Mafia had a fatal flaw, an Achilles’ heel with the potential to do them in. A big mouth; a rampant alcohol, drug, or sex addiction; unmitigated greed; the inability to work alone. Something that would inevitably cause them to slip and enable the cops to collect hard evidence, haul them in, and make charges stick. Or something that pissed off a rival family member so much that the person became a target. It turned out Tony Treviso was no different. He had a fatal flaw, too. With Karen’s help, Johnny figured o
ut what it was.

  Turned out it was a big black book he kept buried beneath some clothes in the bottom of an old moving box in a corner of his bedroom closet. A black book that documented all his lending activities. A diary that detailed each loan he made, each time he tracked a mark down for payment; where he finally found them; how much he collected; and how much they still owed. So if they tried lying about anything, he had a written record of everything ready to shove in their faces—along with Paulie the Moon’s fist. It was vitally important for a loan shark to do all that. But it was even more important for a loan shark not to tell anyone—even his wife—where he kept the diary. So, ultimately, Treviso’s fatal flaw was his inability to keep a secret.

  Johnny was heading down the sidewalk toward the body shop. Yup, that would be Treviso’s undoing, just as it had been for so many of his brethren. Johnny wasn’t like Treviso and the others in that way. He didn’t have that overwhelming urge to share his innermost secrets, which was what made him so good at what he did, so bulletproof. He killed people and never told a soul. Not even when he drank. Sure, the rumors ran around, but they were never started by him. Which was why the cops could never make anything stick. That and the defenses those Harvard boys made.

  Treviso probably had as many as twenty loans out at any one time, Johnny figured. That was about the average. And there was no way he could keep them all straight in his head. The problem for Treviso was, if anyone found the diary, they would know everything about his activities. Of course, Treviso never figured that would happen. Never figured in a million years Karen would roll over on him.

  But she had. The diary was what Karen had dropped to the pavement in the envelope as she’d pushed the baby stroller past the parking lot where Johnny was standing. Karen was petrified Treviso would discover the missing black book, so Johnny kept it for only twenty minutes. He’d raced across the street when she turned the corner, grabbed the envelope off the sidewalk, raced back to his car, then squealed off to another parking lot a mile away to study it, darting in and out of traffic so no one could possibly follow him. When he found what he was looking for in the diary, he headed straight back to the original drop site and replaced the package, just as Karen was wheeling the stroller around the corner on her way home. The timing had been perfect. And much as he’d wanted to stick around and gaze at her incredible beauty as she walked, he hadn’t. Instead, he’d jumped in the Seville and pealed out.