“Hello, Chicago!” Madsen boomed, and now everyone in the audience cheered and clapped. He pointed to the guy on the piano bench. “The talented stylings of Andy Beecham on piano…” He paused as the cheers continued. “And I’m Mick Saylor, your cruise director. We’re taking you on a McRockin’ and McJazzin’ ride tonight!”
When the crowd erupted in applause, Ricker’s forehead creased. Was McDonald’s a hotel corporate sponsor or something?
The piano player banged out the first notes of a melody, and apparently Ricker was the only one not to recognize the tune. Whistles and shouts rose up around him. Madsen started off slow, his voice surprisingly deep. When he sang something about throwing a kiss, those full lips mesmerized Ricker.
“Woo!” called a woman from the table next to him, and her friend giggled.
Mine, Ricker wanted to hiss back.
Ah, now he recognized the song, as soon as Madsen got to the lyrics about Chicago…“My Kind of Town.” No wonder the Windy City crowd was close to orgasm.
A couple of upbeat songs followed, and Madsen tossed in a few dance moves. Ricker’s eyebrows arched at the man’s grace. This sexy performance made him want this fine piece of meat more than ever. Was that even possible? Given his nonstop fantasies about Madsen since he’d left Gurnee, he hadn’t thought so.
Madsen walked to the back of the stage and returned carrying a wooden stool. I’d like to push up his stool, Ricker thought with a wicked grin.
Madsen looked around the crowd then focused on the table of Russians. “Since starting this show at Capone’s Spirits, I’ve searched for songs to represent what’s going on in my life—to capture a particular mood, a turn of a phrase. When I came across this song by Frank Sinatra, I knew I wanted to sing it to you tonight. You see, my girl just broke up with me.”
A collective “Awww” emanated from the ladies, interrupted by one woman shouting “Date me!” which drew laughter from the audience and a precious blush from the performer.
Madsen had dated a chick? Interesting. Not that it mattered—he’d have Madsen either way.
“Here’s Frank Sinatra’s ‘A Man Alone.’” Madsen closed his eyes during the piano introduction. He had such pretty eyelashes…Ricker couldn’t wait to deflower that tight, puckering rosebud hole. He’d stick a stem in there and let it grow, and Madsen wouldn’t be alone for long.
All too soon the song was over, and when Madsen announced he was taking a little break, Ricker groaned along with the rest of the crowd. He could sit and listen to that voice for hours. Ricker fought the urge to sprint up to the stage and take Madsen right there—“They Can’t Take That Away From Me” style.
But like a good boy, he pressed his muscular buns into the chair and waited it out. What he saw intrigued him: Madsen made a beeline for the Russians. How did he know them? Ricker watched him shake the older man’s hand with a sense of deference, and…was that fear? Madsen’s shoulders tensed like he thought Gray Hair would hit him or something, and his body language didn’t relax any when he shook Black Hair’s hand. What the fuck did an Italian Mafiosi have to do with a group of Russians?
Ricker’s head hurt from thinking too hard—he’d let Enzo figure it all out tomorrow. He stroked his cheek, feeling his two-day-old stubble. He bet Madsen’s angelic face was freshly shaved, and he couldn’t wait to nuzzle that smooth, beautiful skin once he’d subdued him.
19. Convinced
LINDSAY SIDLED UP to Ben as they walked out of physics class. “Can you believe the season’s almost over?”
“It’s my last practice today,” he replied, managing to keep his voice from shaking. Ever since she’d met Dot, Lindsay had started talking to him. There really was a God. “But you’ll qualify for the state meet for sure—you’ve still got a couple weeks left.”
She tilted her head in that cute way of hers, and Ben realized he was now slightly taller than her. Score!
“You’d be going to state too if you’d started swimming as young as I did. It takes years to learn good technique.” Her smile revealed her slightly uneven teeth.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be as good as you.” Once the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. Way to sound like you freaking worship her!
The little dimple in her cheek appeared. “That’s so sweet, Ben.”
“Do you…” He swallowed. “Do you want to walk to practice, um…together?”
“Oh! Well, I told Liv I’d meet her at her locker.” She twirled a strand of hair before tucking it behind her ear. “See ya on deck?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. See ya.” Now she thinks you’re a psycho stalker. He watched her walk away, zeroing in on her long legs and remembered her giggling as Dot squirmed in her arms. Would it be okay to bring a dog to the pool?
After tossing some books in his locker, he bounced out of the school and headed to practice. Wow—it was even sunny outside! He turned the corner on the sidewalk and heard someone call his name. When he looked to the street, he saw an open passenger window on a black car that crept down the road. He leaned forward to see who called for him.
“Hallo, Ben.” Hans waved him toward the car.
Oh, no. What did he want? “I’m late for swim practice!” He pointed ahead of him and kept walking.
“Your mother needs you!”
That stopped him in his tracks. “She does?” He stepped over and heard an SUV honk behind Hans’s now-stopped car. He leaned in the open window.
“Your mother asked me to pick you up. She had an accident.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you on the way.” He glared. “Get in.” The SUV honked again.
Ben’s heart galloped. “What happened to my mom? Tell me!”
“She…uh…she had hot water…she ran into another waitress and got hit with boiling water.” Honk! “We have been at the hospital for hours. Come! We must go!”
His eyebrows knitted together. “She told me her shift didn’t start till three today.”
When Hans’s glare deepened, Ben took a step back.
“Get in, Ben.” Suddenly a gun materialized in Hans’s steady hand. “Get in or I will kill your mother.”
As he stared down the barrel of the gun, fear sliced through his heart. Honk, honk! His heart was in his throat, his stomach at his feet. The city street grew silent around him, and his vision narrowed. All he could see was the circle of the muzzle aimed at his forehead.
“Get the fuck in the car, now.”
His mind whirled. Could he make it far enough away from the car to avoid getting shot? But then how could he protect his mom?
An extra-long honk made him jump and look over at the SUV. All the street noise returned, rushing his ears, and he knew he had to decide. Him or his mom. He flung open the car door and scrambled inside.
Hans stared at him a second before he put the car in drive. “You came this close to me blowing off your head, kid.” He kept the gun trained on him as he steered. The auto-lock for the doors clicked as the car moved forward.
Breathe, he told himself. His hands shook and tears burned his nostrils. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing down the remnants of his lunch. “Is…my mom…okay?”
Hans snorted. “For now. As long as you do what I tell you.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“No questions.”
Ben swallowed and sank back in the seat. Were they headed to the interstate? The silence in the car pressed down on him. “Who are you?” he finally asked.
“I am Hans. You know that.”
“What’s your real name?”
Hans looked over and his eyes traveled up and down his body. Oh, shit—was he going to take him somewhere and rape him? Rape him, then kill him?
“Too smart.” Hans shook his head, his eyes back on the road. “You are a Barberi for certain.”
No, I’m not! “They’ll know something happened to me when I’m not at swim practice.” The smirk on Hans’s face rankled him. “They’ll se
nd the police out looking for me.”
Hans chuckled. “Yah, like they care about you. Your mother hates you, don’t you know that? You disappear, and she is one happy woman.”
Ben’s stomach clenched. His mom didn’t think that, did she? He wasn’t just a burden, was he?
“But you will live if you do what I tell you.” Hans turned right, going north on the Dan Ryan. “Ashley will have to take you back—too bad for her.”
“Please.” Ben heard the quiver in his voice. “Please tell me where you’re taking me.”
Hans cuffed him on the ear and sent his head right into the passenger window. His vision clouded and his brain buzzed with pain.
“Shut the fuck up,” Hans said with a sneer.
Trembling and fighting nausea, he didn’t say another word for the next fifty minutes north.
***
They’d passed the outlet malls when they finally exited I-94, but Ben remained clueless about their destination. It wasn’t until he passed a green road sign that he knew.
Gurnee State Penitentiary—2 miles
His head still throbbed, but he was sick of the silence. “Why are we going to Gurnee?” When Hans didn’t answer, he added, “Is my uncle back in there?”
“What?” Hans stared at him, eyes flaring. “Of course not. Don’t scare me like that.”
Why would Uncle Grant being locked up scare him? And if he wasn’t going to visit Uncle Grant, why were they going to the state pen? Wait—did his mom tell Hans about him dealing drugs? Would he be handcuffed? Would he just leave him there, in prison? His mind raced with possible scenarios—getting arrested, thrown in a cell, making license plates in a hot, dark room with a corrections officer standing over him yielding a whip…
Grandpa Barberi. He closed his eyes. You’re a fucking moron to forget about him. But he’d never met his grandpa, so it had been easy to forget he existed. Not that Uncle Grant ever forgot about his dad. Dr. Hunter’s words came back: “Your grandfather was out of control when he drank, and he beat his sons. Grant’s had a long road to recover from the abuse.”
Seemed like his grandpa had lived on in his father’s thoughts too. “I think that’s the way Logan showed his love to you, Ben…He made sure he didn’t repeat his father’s abuse.”
“Why does Grandpa want to talk to me?” he asked, wondering if his grandpa wanted to hit him too.
“I am not supposed to say—that is for you two to sort out. My job is to get you there.”
“He’s paying you to drive me here?”
He didn’t answer.
Ben remembered something from a few years ago. “Wait a minute. I’m a minor—I need my mom’s permission to visit a prisoner.”
Hans gave him an incredulous look. “How the fuck you know that?”
“I wanted to visit Uncle Grant when he was in prison. But my mom wouldn’t let me.”
“She will let you visit your grandfather, though.” He patted his jacket. “I have the letter right here, with her name on it.”
“She will?” Why would Hans threaten his mom’s life if she’d allowed this? “You’re lying.”
Hans lunged for him, but this time he was ready. He ducked and tucked his body against the passenger door.
Hans didn’t try again. “I do not want blood on you for the visit—the COs might get suspicious.” Ben slowly sat back up, and Hans smiled. “The ride home is another matter.”
“So you’re taking me home after this?”
“Safe and sound, as long as you do not fuck up.” The car slowed as they neared the Gurnee entrance, and Hans turned to him. “Listen to me, boy. Visiting hours end at five. You will go in there, talk to Barberi, and come right back to the car.”
“You’re not going with me?”
“No. You mention me or my gun, my people kill your mother. Anything goes wrong, your mother dies. Got it?”
Ben gulped. “Yeah.” The life of his one remaining parent was in his hands. Sweet.
Hans rolled down his window as he pulled up to the guard station, and a rotund CO stepped out. “State your business.”
“I’m driving the boy to see his grandfather, sir.”
Hans’s relaxed posture amazed Ben, who felt sweat bead at the back of his collar. He realized Hans had put away the gun without him noticing. Pay better attention!
“Let’s see some ID, gentlemen,” the guard said.
Hans dug into the inner pocket of his jacket to extract an envelope and what looked to be laminated ID cards.
“I don’t have a driver’s—” Ben began.
“I brought the boy’s social security card,” Hans interrupted, keeping his face turned to the guard. Behind his back his right hand made the shape of a gun.
The CO looked up from the folded paper. “Why isn’t his mother with him?”
“It is in the letter, sir,” Hans said smoothly. “She works during visiting hours. She just wants the boy to see his grandfather.”
Ben tensed when the CO stuck his head in the car. “You okay with this, Benjamin Barberi? You want to see your grandfather in here? You sure?”
Hans didn’t turn around, but he could feel his intensity all the same. He wished he could somehow communicate he’d been kidnapped, but it felt too risky. He met the guard’s stern gaze. “Yes, sir. I’m here to see my grandpa.”
The guard remained stooped forward for a long moment, then stood and handed the papers back to Hans. “Proceed to the visitor lot, on your right.”
“Thank you.”
As the car moved forward, Ben wondered how the guard up in the tower ahead kept warm all winter long.
“You waited too long to answer him,” Hans hissed.
Ben’s heart thumped louder, and he braced for Hans to hit him again. How could he get away?
“Do I need to take out my gun again, hmm?”
“No.” His teeth clamped together. “I just wanna get out of here.”
“You and me both, kid. Gurnee does not bring back happy memories.”
“You were a prisoner here?”
Hans’s silence answered his question about how he knew his grandpa. But why did Grandpa Barberi want to see Ben? How had he screwed up this time?
Hans backed the car into a space at the far end of the lot. “Take this.” He shoved Ben’s social security card and the letter into his hands. “Leave the backpack. Once Barberi’s done with you, you come right back here, got it?”
Ben nodded.
“Remember, anything goes wrong in there, anything happens to me before we get back to Chicago…your mother dies.”
“You already told me that!” His breath hitched as he watched the man’s hand curl into a fist. He cringed and waited to get slammed.
But Hans only closed his eyes and growled, “Go.”
Ben scuttled out of the car. He scanned the grimy limestone exterior of the prison until he found a door marked Visitors at the end of a sidewalk. As he moved, his skin tingled with the sensation of eyes watching him from above. Man up, Barberi.
There was a woman with a little girl in front of him, apparently in line to enter for visiting hours. Dangling from the mother’s hand, the tiny girl had white-blond hair in pigtails and a smudge of something on her cheek. She squirmed. “You gonna visit your daddy too?”
Ben looked to her mother, but she seemed preoccupied with her phone. He kneeled down to be eye-level with the girl. Little children shouldn’t have to endure this—their fathers gone, locked up, missing out on soccer games and birthday parties. “I’m visiting my grandpa,” he said.
“My gwampa’s died.”
Her huge eyes blinked at him, and he suppressed the urge to respond And my dad’s dead. “I’m sorry,” he said instead.
“C’mon, Cora,” the mother’s voice broke in. Ben looked up at her eyes, full of suspicion. As he stood, she yanked the girl inside.
He was next. Nausea swirled through him.
“You,” the guard said, and Ben looked up. “Step inside.” Ben swallowe
d and followed directions. “ID,” the guard said, and Ben handed him his social security card. “How old are you, kid?”
“Sixteen.”
“Minors have to be accompanied by their guardian. No visitation for you.”
When the guard grasped his elbow to escort him out, he blurted, “Wait! I have a letter from my mom.” The guard paused. “She’s working now but she really wants me to see my grandpa. I-I-I want to see him too. Please, sir.”
The guard looked down at his ID card. “You’re Barberi’s grandson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re sure you want to see him?”
“I’ve…I’ve never met him before.”
The guard stared for a moment then led him toward the line for the metal detector. He handed the social security card to another guard behind the desk and nodded at the envelope in Ben’s hands.
“Let’s see it.”
Ben held his breath as the guard read the letter. He bet Hans (or whoever the hell he was) had forged his mom’s signature somehow.
From behind the desk, the other guard held up the social security card. “Looks legit, Marty.”
“Thanks, Jim. This letter does too.” Marty handed the letter to Jim then turned back to Ben. “Okay, Benjamin, anything in your pockets before you go through?”
“Do I get my ID back?”
“Not until after the visit, kid.”
He nodded and walked through the metal detector. He’d heard of these in airports, but he’d never taken a flight before. And maybe Hans would kill him before he ever had that chance. Or maybe Grandpa Barberi would beat him to it.
All too soon he sat in front of an empty metal cage, listening to murmured conversations around him. Why did other visitors get to sit in open booths? When two guards led a chained older man through a steel door at the back of the room—his deep black eyes trained on Ben the entire shuffling trip—he understood. His bladder shriveled from the mere approach of his grandfather: the man who’d terrorized his dad and uncle. The man who’d killed a seven-year-old boy.
On Best Behavior (C3) Page 24
