Forced Out

by Stephen Frey

Now, that was a breath of fresh air, she thought. A guy who actually asked. “It’s fine.” She gestured for him to sit on the bed, then moved to the closet and pulled down a three-inch-thick scrapbook from the shelf above a line of wire hangers.

  For twenty minutes they sat side by side, looking at picture after picture of Jack standing with Yankee greats in baseball stadiums all over the country. In Central America and Japan, too. Mantle, Maris, Munson, Catfish Hunter, Reggie, Bucky Dent, Goose Gossage, Guidry, Mattingly, Bernie Williams, Jeter. Three and a half decades of Yankee history. Of American history.

  “Jesus,” Kyle whispered as Cheryl closed the back cover. “That’s amazing.” He shook his head. “I wish I could be one those guys.”

  “Daddy says you could be. He says he could get you a—”

  “Why’d your father quit?” the Kid asked. “I mean, he had a pretty cool job, and he doesn’t look that old. The Yankees have done pretty well the past few years, so I doubt there’s been any major shake-ups.”

  Cheryl replaced the scrapbook on the closet shelf. She wanted to tell Kyle the story, but she couldn’t. It was up to Daddy to decide to do that. “He got burned out,” she said simply, sitting back down on the bed. “You know how much travel there is. It finally got to him.”

  He stared at her for a few moments.

  Like he didn’t really believe her. She looked away so he wouldn’t see the truth. Those eyes of his were something. Really something. They searched you like a CSI team. Carefully and methodically. While they drew you in. “Let me ask you a question,” she spoke up, trying to turn things around. “Daddy’s tracked your games this season on the Tarpon website, and he’s compared them to Mickey Mantle’s 1968 season. He says a lot of them match up exactly to Mantle’s but that some of them—”

  “I can’t always do it,” Kyle cut in. “Sometimes the other team’s pitcher walks me intentionally, or pitches me so far outside I’d have to reach London to get the pitch. Or sometimes he hits me. I can’t control those things.”

  Cheryl felt a wild thrill rush through her. The Kid was admitting to what Daddy had suspected—that he could hit whatever he wanted to whenever he wanted to unless the pitch was in another time zone. At least, he could in Single-A. “But Daddy said today’s game wasn’t anything like the game Mantle had on May 31st in 1968. He said you popped up four times. Mantle didn’t have a single pop-up in his game in 1968. And he said the guy was giving you pitches you could have hit.”

  The Kid smiled. “You sound like you know your baseball.”

  “You have to when your father is Jack Barrett.” She’d heard the bitterness in her voice, wished she hadn’t. But she couldn’t help it, especially after this morning. “He’s a wonderful man, and I love—”

  “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  His voice was melodic, too. Not singsong, but comforting, even with his words washing over gravel. “A brother.”

  “Baseball player?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Pretty good high school player, right? But not good enough to make the pros. Probably good enough for college somewhere, but that would have been it.”

  Cheryl nodded, remembering the conversation at dinner that night when David had told Daddy he wasn’t going to college. That he was going straight to the fire department because he knew he wasn’t good enough to play in the big leagues. That if he wasn’t playing baseball, there was no reason to go to college. “How’d you know?”

  “Your expression,” he answered. “I’ve seen it before so many times. I saw so many fathers at my high school games hoping like hell their sons could make it to the Show. Fathers who believed they could, believed their sons could be like me. Then they finally figured out it wasn’t going to happen. But they held on to the dream even after their sons had already given it up.”

  Cheryl stared at the Kid intently. “Exactly,” she said, her voice hushed. “That was how it was with Daddy and my brother, David.”

  “Then after the dads have that come-to-Jesus walk in the woods with themselves and they admit to themselves that the dream’s drying up and blowing away like last fall’s leaves, they try to make it up to their other kids by giving them more attention. But it’s too late by then. So they go back to the son. Then the whole thing turns into a nightmare.”

  She didn’t want to linger here. Kyle was getting too close to the heart of the matter, and she didn’t know him well enough to go so deep so fast. “You’re good at turning conversations around.”

  “I have to be.”

  “Because you have a gift.”

  The Kid nodded. “Yeah. If you wanna call it that.”

  She saw that in turn he appreciated her understanding of his dilemma. The way he’d innately understood hers. “But today. Why today? Why so different than Mantle?”

  “I got worried,” he answered, his voice growing tense for the first time. “The local TV station kept showing replays of last night’s game over and over. They were still doing it this morning. The sports guys in town kept talking about the game. I heard the highlights even made it to ESPN.” He looked down and shook his head. “I figured some people might hear about it. People who…well, people.”

  She took his hand in both of hers. “What people?”

  His gaze turned defiant. “Bad people,” he said quietly, his voice cracking. “Real bad people.”

  Jack watched from the shadows as Biff and Harry wheeled the stretcher down the path from the front door, emergency lights bouncing crazily off the lawn and the big house. The county cop had left a minute ago, and soon the house would be empty. They lifted the elderly woman into the back of the ambulance, then Harry hauled himself into the truck with her and pulled the doors shut while Biff retraced his steps to the front door. He was there just a few moments, then he jogged down the path again, jumped into the front of the ambulance, and the vehicle roared off.

  It was the perfect setup, Biff had claimed excitedly on the phone. The mother lode. The one they’d been waiting for. A rich old widow who lived alone in a big house in a neighborhood that wasn’t gated. Easy access and easy escape. He was going to leave the front door open so Jack could get in. There were jewels everywhere in the master bedroom suite. Dripping off the old woman’s dressing table, nightstand, and the bathroom counter. Tens of thousands of dollars’ worth, maybe more. They’d split it fifty-fifty tomorrow.

  Jack took a deep breath and sighed, then moved out of the bushes toward the front door, head down. How the hell had it come to this?

  38

  WHAT’S THE MATTER, Deuce?” the old man asked gruffly. “Why’d you have to see me right away? Why the panic attack?”

  “Whadaya mean? Nobody’s panicking.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m fine, Angelo.”

  Marconi hesitated. “You sure you’re all right, Deuce?”

  “Of course.”

  Johnny was teetering on the edge of terrified as he watched the old man gorge on the last few bites of a thick, nearly raw rib eye. He was doing all he could to make it seem like everything was normal—despite the bullet hole and the dread—but it was tough. Nicky had claimed Marconi was fine with a quick meeting when they spoke earlier on the phone as Johnny was driving like a bat out of hell back up the Jersey Turnpike from Edison, fighting his body’s urge to pass out. Nicky said Marconi was going to eat a late supper, then had one more meeting, at midnight. So coming by the row house at about nine-thirty wouldn’t be a problem. When Johnny knocked on the front door a few minutes ago, Nicky opened it as usual, and was his usual respectful self. After Johnny had given the first password, it was smooth sailing up the steps to the second floor. Everything seemed fine.

  Then things changed. There was a new guy standing outside Marconi’s bedroom door. An even bigger and seedier-looking guy than Goliath. The guy asked for the second password twice and took a long time frisking him. Now Marconi seemed wary. When the old man was relaxed, his dark eyebrows were spread far apart. But when
he got suspicious, they came together until they looked like one long caterpillar. The caterpillar was definitely coming to life.

  “And whadaya mean, ‘you sure you’re all right?’”

  “You seem jumpy. And you’re sweatin’ like a turkey outside a kitchen door on Thanksgiving. It ain’t that warm in here.” The old man pointed at Johnny’s shoulder. “You got a problem?”

  “Nah. Why?”

  “You keep moving it. Like something’s wrong with it.”

  Christ, Marconi never missed a trick. “I’m fine. It’s an old injury from high school. From when I was in this motorcycle accident. It gets stiff when it rains, you know? I’m gettin’ older. Sucks. You can understand.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Marconi’s expression turned grave and his eyebrows pinched even closer together. “So what’s going on?”

  It was a risk coming here. A big risk. Maybe all the normal stuff with Nicky had just been a well-choreographed plan to get him here so they could kill him. Marconi knew Strazza was dead at this point, and Johnny assumed the old man would staple the guilt for the hit directly on him. It only made sense. He’d been the mark, so he must be the killer. That might be enough right there to get the death sentence. Yeah, that feeling of terror he was trying desperately to fight was absolutely justified.

  But offsetting the primal fear was one thing Johnny figured at least gave him a fighting chance, at least gave him an opportunity to bargain. Marconi’s biggest objective in all of this was still to kill Kyle McLean, to get revenge for his grandson’s death. Johnny was betting that McLean’s murder still took precedence over everything else in Marconi’s life right now. Even family business. Mostly because the old man sensed that after all this time he was finally close, about to get that long-awaited payback. So it made sense for Marconi to let him come here. Why the hell not let Johnny in the den? Why not see what he was offering, understand why he’d begged for the meeting?

  The trick would be getting back out of the den—without doing it zipped up in a body bag.

  To do that, to be able to leave here still breathing, he’d have to offer something tasty. Something even more delicious than that nearly raw rib eye the old man had just taken the last bite of. And Johnny was confident he knew what that was. Felt certain he could negotiate his way through the minefield. Just as long as they didn’t cap him before he even had a chance to start talking.

  Of course, Angelo Marconi never—absolutely never—negotiated with anyone over the telephone. Never even spoke to anyone on the phone himself because he was ever fearful of the law listening in. Always had Nicky talk on the phone because he was terrified of spending his last few years wasting away in a federal pen. Which was why Johnny had been forced into taking this awful risk. Forced into entering the den. To make the offer, he had to make it in person.

  “I need to ask you something,” Johnny began, somehow making his voice sound strong despite the pain shooting through his body. He needed to clean the wound as soon as possible—there was dried blood caked all over the left side of his chest and stomach. But what he really needed was a month of sleep. Which, unfortunately, he wasn’t going to get. Not anytime soon. In fact, he was booked on an early flight to Florida tomorrow morning. At least he’d get a little shut-eye before heading to LaGuardia. Then a few more hours on the plane before everything went crazy. “Angelo, I need your permission to—”

  “Do you know where Kyle McLean is?” Marconi interrupted. “This whole thing has taken too long, Deuce. Way too long. Frankly, I didn’t think it would take more than a week. And another thing, I thought you moved too slow on McLean’s mother. On Helen McLean. You gave her time to get out.” His eyes narrowed. “I just hope you didn’t have anything to do with her getting out. I put some damn good people on tracking her down, but they haven’t come up with anything yet, and it seems kinda odd to me that she’s gone without a trace. I just don’t think of a woman like that being Houdini. So lemme ask you again. Do you know where Kyle McLean is?”

  Johnny knew his answer wouldn’t go over very well, but he had to make certain Marconi understood right away this wasn’t a Q&A session. That it was a negotiation. He just prayed to God he was right about Marconi’s primary objective in all this. “Maybe.”

  Marconi’s eyes bugged out for a split second, then he leaned back and smiled angrily, regaining control quickly despite the rage boiling inside. “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.” He chuckled like a father who was about to administer the belt to a pair of disobedient bare-ass cheeks.

  It was the warning chuckle. Johnny’d recognize it anytime, anywhere. And it raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Scared him right down to his socks. It was the chuckle Marconi used right before he told Johnny who he wanted hit. It was the way he’d chuckled when he ordered Johnny to kill Kyle McLean a few weeks ago.

  “Okay, lemme ask you another question.” Marconi pointed a fat finger at Johnny. “You kill Ricky Strazza today?”

  Johnny was ready to go right at this one because he’d come up with a perfect answer. He said a quick prayer, then began. “Yeah, I did. He was following me, Angelo, and it scared me. I figured he’d turned colors and was working for one of the other families. That was the only thing that made sense. I was gonna call you, but I didn’t have time. I had my opportunity, so I took it. I shot him dead, that bastard traitor.” Marconi was about to say something, then stopped. He could tell he’d headed the old man off at the pass with the traitor accusation. “I figured Strazza was gonna hit me. Figured he was working for the Capellettis. That it was payback for me killing that capo for you down in Staten Island. Like I said. That was all that fit. So I made my move. Figured you’d be happy about it. Not pissed.”

  Marconi gazed at Johnny for a few moments, touching his throat gently like it was sore.

  Johnny knew the old man was trying to figure out what was truth and what wasn’t. It wasn’t like Marconi could have Nicky pick up the phone, make one call and find out if Strazza was a traitor. It would take more than a few calls and probably a week or so for him to get a straight answer. Thank God Marconi had far too much faith in the rumor mill to ignore it.

  “Johnny,” Marconi spoke up quietly, “I, I don’t know what to say.”

  He’d never seen the old man at a loss for words like this. It was incredible, and he had to press his advantage. “Like I said, Angelo. I didn’t have a choice. I had to protect—”

  “All right!” Marconi barked, frustrated. “Shut up and lemme—”

  The bedroom door burst open and the new bodyguard leveled a pistol at Johnny’s chest. “Don’t move, Bondano!” the guy ordered. “You all right, boss?” he asked, not taking his eyes off Johnny.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. But good work.” Marconi smiled, obviously satisfied at his new bodyguard’s lightning-quick response to his raised voice. He waved. “Leave us. But don’t go too far.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the door was closed again, Johnny slumped down in his chair and took a deep breath.

  “What’s the matter, Deuce?” Marconi asked, pulling a long cigar from his shirt pocket. “Little strange being on the wrong end of a gun?”

  “Yeah,” Johnny whispered. It was, too. Though he’d been shot twice now, he’d never actually seen the gun aimed at him either time. The bullets had come from nowhere. Out of the darkness, so to speak. Like today, through the roof of Strazza’s car. In all his years in this business, he’d never actually seen a gun pointed at him, he realized. Hoped he never did again. It was better when the bullet came from the dark.

  “So where’s Kyle McLean?” Marconi demanded when the cigar was lit.

  Johnny drew himself up in the chair, searching for the courage to lay it all out. “I wanna kill Tony Treviso. I’ll kill McLean first,” Johnny added quickly when Marconi’s eyes bugged out again. He didn’t want Marconi to start yelling again and have that crazy prick outside the door bursting in here a second time. The guy might not show as much restraint the next time. For all hi
s bravado, he seemed pretty inexperienced. Fidgety, too. Which was never good when a guy had a gun in his hand. Especially when he was aiming it at you. “McLean’ll be dead in less than seventy-two hours, Angelo. I guarantee it. I’ll bring a picture of him capped, like I have with the other guys. A close-up of the head shot. You’ll know he’s iced. Then I want to kill Treviso. I want your permission to do that when McLean is dead.”

  Marconi puffed on the cigar for a few moments, mulling it over. “Less than seventy-two hours?”

  “Yeah. At most. I guarantee you. He’s a dead man. All right?”

  Marconi stared at Johnny hard, then gave him a half grin. “I like it.”

  Relief poured through Johnny. Words were one thing, but that half grin meant Marconi was really in. He recognized it the same way he’d recognized the death chuckle earlier. The caterpillar over his eyes was gone, too. “Good.”

  “Hey, why you wanna kill Tony Treviso?” Marconi asked.

  “He’s getting in the way.”

  Marconi snickered. “Timid Tony couldn’t get in the way of anything. Wouldn’t know how. I mean, I know about that rumor and all, about him killing the guy. It isn’t true. Can’t be.” Marconi hesitated. “What’s really going on?”

  “I don’t want any screwups. Treviso’s gonna be pissed when he finds out McLean’s dead and he didn’t get a chance to—”

  “You like his wife, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Deuce, we all like his wife. She’s beautiful. One of the guys on the council wanted to ice Treviso so he could go after her. He wasn’t really serious, of course. At least I don’t think he was. If he had been, I woulda said no. But for you, I could make an exception.” Marconi gave Johnny a sinister smile. “Come on, tell me.”

  “Angelo, I don’t—”

  “All right, all right,” the old man interrupted, sucking down more cigar smoke.

  It was like Marconi wanted Johnny to want Karen. Like he was getting some kind of sadistic pleasure thinking about Johnny killing Treviso so he could have Karen. Like he was picturing what Karen would look like in bed nude.