by Stephen Frey
“You mean that guy in the kitchen?”
“Yup.”
“Who is he?”
“Daddy’s best friend. They worked together for years with the Yankees. Fin reported to Daddy in the scouting department. His name’s Howard Olsen, but Daddy calls him Fin because his family’s originally from Finland. He’s my godfather.”
“Is he still with the Yankees?”
“Yup. Still works on the scouting side. He complains all the time about how bad the guy they brought in to take Daddy’s spot is.” She glanced at her watch. “Well, I better get going.” She started for the door, then stopped. “You know, you ought to think real hard about going back to New York. I know Daddy feels like the mob’s forgotten you, but I don’t think it’s really about the mob forgetting. I think it’s about an old man never forgetting about his grandson.”
The Kid nodded soberly. “I hear you.”
She gazed into those eyes for a few more moments. “You’ve got my cell number if anything happens. If Rosario gives you any trouble at all, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. So will Rosario.” He touched her arm lightly. “And hey. Don’t have too much fun tonight.”
Treviso had waited until he was certain Deuce Bondano was long gone before leaving the stadium parking lot. There was no reason to follow him back up I-75 to Tampa and risk being seen. There was still a little daylight left, and what if he passed Deuce unintentionally on the interstate and Deuce spotted him? After all, he knew where Deuce was going—back to his condo overlooking Tampa Bay. And he knew what Deuce knew: that Kyle McLean, a.k.a. Mikey Clemant, wasn’t playing tonight because of a suspension but would be back in uniform tomorrow night. One of the ushers had told him everything. There certainly wasn’t any reason to stick around here tonight. Trying to find McLean in Sarasota would be like trying to find Jimmy Hoffa’s remains. Everything would have to wait until tomorrow night. Which was fine. He could wait one more night. After all, he’d waited two years.
Fin saw her first and stood up immediately.
Jack saw Fin’s reaction, glanced over his shoulder, then stood up, too. “Princess,” he said in a hushed voice as Cheryl walked into the kitchen, “you look beautiful.”
“I’ll say,” Fin seconded. “I’ve never seen you prettier.”
Cheryl smiled. “Thanks, Fin.” She glanced at Daddy. “Kyle’s going to take care of the baby tonight so you and Howard can go out.”
“Who’s Kyle?” Fin asked quickly.
“That would be me,” the Kid answered, moving into the kitchen and holding out his right hand. He was cradling Rosario. The baby looked tiny tucked in his arm. “I’m the babysitter.”
“And a heck of a baseball player,” Cheryl added, instantly wishing she hadn’t. She’d caught Jack’s subtle slash sign across his throat an instant too late.
“What brings you down here?” Jack asked.
They’d come to a local watering hole near the house. They were both sitting at the bar, both drinking scotch. Like they always had. It was pretty low-key in here, not much atmosphere. But Jack liked that because the place never got too crowded.
“Sun and sand, Fast Jack, sun and sand.”
“Don’t give me that, Fin. It’s June. Another two weeks and you’ll have sun and sand up your way. Why’d you show up on my doorstep now with no warning?”
“The boy in the big office next to George’s sent me down here. Apparently he was watching ESPN as he was nodding off to sleep in his Park Avenue penthouse the other night, and he saw a quick cut on some kid who had a phenomenal game in your town. Five-for-five with a couple of dingers or something. I’ve got it written down somewhere,” Fin said, doing a quick but unsuccessful search of his pockets. “Anyway, he had me fly down here to check the guy out. It’s probably a wild-goose chase, but I just shut up and do what I’m told these days. I want that pension, you know?” Fin grimaced. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“You ever go to any of the games here?” Fin asked. “What’s the team called, the Tarpons?”
“Yeah, the Tarpons.” Jack shrugged. “I mean, it’s Single-A,” he said, watching Fin root around in his briefcase. “A crappy independent league, too. What can you expect?”
Fin donned a pair of reading glasses after pulling a piece of paper out of the briefcase. “His name’s Mikey Clemant,” he said, reading off the paper. “Ever heard of him?”
“Nah. I mean, I’ve heard of him, but I really don’t follow the Tarpons. Like I said, it’s Single-A. It’s not worth it.”
“Still haven’t gotten back into baseball, huh? Still bitter about everything even after all this time?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
Fin took a sip of scotch. “You know you’re never gonna figure out what happened up there. It sucks that the higher-ups pulled the trigger so fast, without even giving you a chance, but you gotta get over it, Jack. Otherwise it’ll eat at you until the day you die. Might even make you die.”
Jack actually considered it for a few moments, then waved. “Ah, what do you know?”
“Not much, I guess. Look at me, I’m sixty-three and I’m some forty-five-year-old guy’s beck-and-call boy. He tells me to get on a plane, and I ask which one. Maybe I’m an old loser, but I’m trying to give my best friend in the world some good advice. Don’t be angry all the time. It isn’t worth it.”
“How would you know?”
“I’ve had my own pain. Remember, Jack?”
“You still got your job.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I’m sorry.” Jack reached out and touched Fin’s arm. “I…I guess I am still bitter. I wish I was still with the Yankees. I’m envious, you know? I’d take your job in a heartbeat.”
Fin rolled his eyes and glanced over Jack’s shoulder at the television mounted above the bar. “The guy I report to is such an asshole.”
“Don’t start.” Jack hated to admit it, but it felt good to hear that. “How’s Janet?” Janet was Fin’s only daughter. She was a year younger than Cheryl. “And those three grandkids?”
Fin didn’t answer. He was staring up at the TV like he was watching a news bulletin about the president being shot. Jack turned quickly to see what was on the screen. And there was Kyle McLean’s rugged face staring back. Still bearded because that was the press picture the Tarpons had. They were still talking about the game the other night—and how the suspension had been reversed.
Fin’s fingers curled into a tight fist. “You son of a bitch, Jack.”
Jack’s eyes shot to Fin’s.
“That’s the kid I met in your kitchen tonight,” Fin said, pointing at the screen angrily. “You son of a bitch. He didn’t have the beard, but I still recognize him. Why didn’t you tell me who he was? I thought we were friends. I thought we were best friends.”
Jack hesitated. “Look, I—”
But Olsen was already headed for the door.
“Why do we have to come here?” Bobby demanded, following Cheryl inside. “Why can’t we just go to my place?”
She dropped her keys on the table by the door. “Because.”
“When’s your father gonna be home?”
“Not until late,” she answered, turning to kiss Bobby. He was back to kissing hard. The gentleness was gone. “He’s out with an old friend from New York,” she explained, pulling away prematurely. “He won’t be home for a while.”
“We’re still gonna screw, right?”
Bobby’d been drinking. Hard. Maybe that was why his kisses were so awful tonight. “Do you have to say it like that? Can’t you be a little sweeter?”
“Sweeter?” Bobby slurred snidely. “Jesus?” He pointed at her. “Take your clothes off. But leave the heels on,” he called over his shoulder as he headed to the bathroom, unzipping as he walked. “I like that look. Just heels. It’s hot.”
Cheryl stood in the middle of the living room, hands on her hips, waiting for him to come back. H
e was so drunk he was talking to himself as he stood in front of the toilet. She could hear him telling himself how rich he was going to be and how she ought to kiss the ground he walked on. She glanced at the ceiling when he zipped up, then shouted, momentarily catching some very sensitive skin in the teeth of the zipper. He was just drunk. That was all. He wasn’t usually like this. He’d apologize tomorrow and tell her how sorry he was and how much he loved her. Still, she was glad they were here and not at his place.
“I told you to take off your damn clothes,” he said when he came out of the bathroom. “Now do it.”
“Bobby, let’s sit on the couch for a while,” she pleaded. “Let’s talk.”
“I don’t wanna talk.” He moved to where she was standing, grabbed the bottom of her dress, and yanked it up to her neck, ripping it. “I want to fuck, I want to do it hard, I want to do it right now,” he mumbled, shoving her onto the couch. Drunk as he was, he was on her in a second. “Come on, girl, give me what I want.”
“Bobby, stop, Please. Bobby, no!”
He rolled her over onto her stomach, pressed her face into a pillow with one hand, and pulled her dress back up again with the other. “Goddamn, this is gonna be fun.” He laughed, pulling her hands behind her back and holding them tightly together. “So much fricking fun that I—Awww, sheeeeeeit!” he shouted as he hurtled through the air. “What the hell!” He staggered to his feet when he finished rolling—and came face-to-face with the Kid. “Who the hell are you?”
“Someone you don’t want to screw with, pal.”
Bobby paid no attention to the warning—and lunged.
Kyle easily dodged the weak right, grabbed Bobby by the left forearm, spun him around, brought his wrist almost to the back of his neck, and forced his face to the wall. “What do you think you’re doing to her, you asshole?”
“None of your—Jesus Christ!” Bobby shouted desperately as the Kid forced his wrist even higher.
Cheryl put a hand to her mouth. She’d heard something crack. Well, too bad. This had been the last straw. She wasn’t going to stop Kyle. She’d had enough. She was just thanking God he was here. There was no telling how far Bobby would have gone. And though she wasn’t proud of it, she was glad to see Bobby getting some of his own medicine.
Kyle pressed Bobby’s face against the wall hard, then spun him around again so they were facing each other for a split second, and nailed him with a hard left to the chin.
Bobby crumpled to the floor like a sack of flour. It was over that fast.
As Bobby gasped for breath, Kyle grabbed his wallet from his back pocket, opened it, and pulled the driver’s license out. “What’s this guy’s name again, Cheryl?”
She looked up curiously. “Bobby. Um, Robert Griffin. Why?”
Kyle handed the laminated card to Cheryl. “Take a look. Guys like this do it all the time.”
The name on the license was Robert Turner—not Robert Griffin. “Get him out of here!” she snapped, suddenly so upset she could barely speak. She didn’t know what was worse. How sad she’d feel for the next few weeks, or having to admit to Daddy that he’d been right all along. “Now!”
42
YOU DIDN’TWHAT?”
“I didn’t go in the house,” Jack repeated, taking a step back as Biff’s expression twisted suddenly and violently. They were standing next to Biff’s beat-up old Pontiac. A good distance from where Jack had parked. But Biff could still see the Kid leaning back against the Citation’s hood, soaking up morning rays, his huge arms folded across his broad chest. “I didn’t rob the woman. I couldn’t do it.”
Biff’s eyes flashed from Jack to the Kid. “Look, you old prick, I was counting on you. I left that front door open for a reason. What the hell is wrong with you? The jewelry was dripping off everything in the master suite.”
“Maybe so, but I couldn’t do it.”
Biff was bursting at the seems, so primed to attack he could barely control himself. But the Kid was one tremendous deterrent, Jack could tell. Biff was chomping at the bit to beat the crap out of a sixty-three-year-old man. Seemed obvious he’d have no regrets, either. But he didn’t want to get pounded to a pulp in return by a twenty-year-old stud, either. What a great guy Biff had turned out to be. Just another one of those bastards looking to pick your pocket any way he could.
“Could you really do that?” Jack asked incredulously. “To a poor old woman like that?”
“In a heartbeat,” Biff answered curtly. “She’s so rich she wouldn’t miss anything. She’s probably got Alzheimer’s anyway. She’d never know the stuff was gone.”
“Well, I couldn’t do it,” Jack said disgustedly. “Sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry? I got kids who need clothes, and a wife who’s bitching at me constantly for a new washing machine.” Biff’s eyes widened. “Hey, I bet you really did take the stuff and you’re lying to me. I bet you sold it and you’re keeping the cash for yourself.”
“Call the cops if that’s what you think,” Jack dared Biff. “Tell ’em to investigate. Better still,” he continued, “Tell ’em to call me.” His eyes narrowed. “Nothing’s gone, you prick. And you know it.”
Biff pointed a finger in Jack’s face, almost touching his cheek. Then brought it quickly down when the Kid rose off the Citation and glared in their direction. “I wanna pop you bad, Jack.” He nodded toward Kyle. “That guy isn’t always gonna be around.” He sneered. “Have fun when Social Services shows up at your place. I hope your daughter doesn’t blow her brains out when they take that little baby away from her for good.”
Jack stuck his chin out defiantly. “You call yourself a lifesaver, Biff? You’re a Goddamn vulture. That’s all you are. A pathetic vulture.”
“Yeah, well, screw you and all your geriatric brothers and sisters, Jack. The rest of us would all be much happier if you people were wiped clean off the face of Florida. The only people who care about you are the ones who own hospitals, funeral homes, and cemeteries.”
Jack glared at Biff for a few moments, then walked away. Thank God he’d been able to keep his mouth shut. Maybe he was finally learning.
Eyes narrowed and teeth clenched, Biff watched Jack walk all the way to the Citation. Finally he turned away, too.
Right into three undercover state troopers who’d snuck up behind him and who seconds later had him splayed flat out on the sun-baked hood of his Pontiac like he was doing a swan dive.
“Good job, Jack.” It was Tom O’Brien, the trooper who’d been at the accident that night with Biff and Harry. He shook Jack’s hand after climbing out of an unmarked car parked beside the Citation. “We got it all on tape. Biff’s done.”
Jack lifted his shirt so O’Brien could remove the wire. “Good. Damn good. But he said he was gonna—”
“Don’t worry about Biff,” O’Brien cut in confidently. “You won’t have any trouble from him.” He pointed toward the arrest that was still in progress. “My boys over there know all about Rosario and how your daughter’s one of God’s angels. She doesn’t have anything to worry about. You or she think you see or sniff somebody who looks like Biff, you call me on this number right away day or night.” O’Brien pressed a card into Jack’s hand. “You sure your daughter wants Rosario for good?”
Jack shook the officer’s hand again. “Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse, “very sure. But how can you do that? How can you give her to us permanently?”
“Rosario has no other relatives in this country besides her father, and we don’t know who he is. In fact, there’s no way we could find out. Her mother emigrated here a year ago from Venezuela and that’s that. It’s done.” O’Brien’s expression softened. “It’s for the best. You and I both know that.”
Jack nodded. “Okay. Well, I appreciate everything. Thanks.”
O’Brien stepped back and saluted smartly. “No. Thank you, sir.”
“Kid, Kid!”
Kyle looked up. He’d been about to head into the locker room. He let go of the door and headed
down the corridor toward the white-haired older man who was standing next to the cinder block wall. “Yeah?”
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
“I’m late, pal. Only fifteen minutes to game time. My ride was—” The Kid stopped himself. Whoever this was didn’t want to hear about how Jack Barrett had screwed up on the game’s start time. “I’m sorry, I—”
“This’ll be quick.”
“Um, yeah, sure.” Kyle was trying to be more approachable now that he’d made his decision, more like his old self. And not just to his teammates. He pointed at the man as he got close. “Hey, you’re, um—”
“Howard Olsen,” Fin said, shaking the Kid’s hand. “We met last night in Jack Barrett’s kitchen.”
“Right.” Kyle smiled. “How are you, sir?”
Olsen smiled back. The Kid was polite and respectful. The higher-ups in the Bronx would love that. McLean would have to shear the shaggy hair if they gave him a contract, but a twenty-year-old who’d been living hand to mouth for two years could probably be convinced to do that. “I’m fine. Can we talk for a minute?”
“Um, sure.”
“You know I’m with the Yankees, right?”
“Yeah, Cheryl told me.”
“Good.” Fin put his arm around one of the Kid’s enormous shoulders. He could feel seventy home runs a year rippling through this body. Without steroids. “There’s a few things about Jack Barrett you should know. I don’t want you to ruin what could be a great opportunity. I want you to have all the facts before you make your decision.”
43
MJ BURST OUT of the clubhouse doorway into the darkness, looked around for a moment, then took off as fast as he could across the vacant parking lot through the drizzle and fog. A thunderstorm had raced over Sarasota as tonight’s game had ended—one of the first bad storms of the season, drenching everything. All that remained now were a few random showers and an occasional far-off jagged strip of lightning. He could barely make out Jack’s figure standing in front of the Citation as he held his hand above his eyes and sprinted. Now that Jack wasn’t an usher he didn’t get preferential treatment, so he was parked by a grove of trees a good distance from the stadium. The Kid’s incredible game of a few days ago had sparked a buzz, and a Tarpon ticket was suddenly a lot tougher to get. So parking wasn’t as easy as it had been, either.
