“I doubt if you’ve ever done anything the easy way in your whole life.”
Cassie’s shoulders sagged. “Damn. This isn’t fair.”
“Honey, you always tell the kids that nothing’s fair. Griping about it won’t change that. Do what you always tell them to do.”
“And what’s that?”
“Go after what you want, no matter what the risk.”
“How do I know what I want?”
Zoe chuckled. “As I said, it’s written all over your face.”
* * *
February slush had turned the small lawn in front of Battaglia’s apartment house into mud. Mitch pulled over in front of the Franklin Street address, mentally kicking himself for getting involved. He didn’t want to get close to any of these kids, especially not this one. But all week Cassie had been so sad that Mitch couldn’t take it anymore.
Angry at himself as well as Battaglia, he stormed out of the car and up the small walkway. He stumbled once on the cracked cement, but righted himself with the agility of a trained soldier.
Battaglia would love it if I fell on my face at his doorstep.
The notion made him madder. He found the number of the kid’s unit on the mailboxes and proceeded in. When he was just about to knock, the door opened.
The oldest eyes he’d ever seen looked up at him. They belonged to a small-framed woman with mousy brown hair and pasty skin. “Oh, Captain Lansing.”
Mitch cocked his head. “Do we know each other?”
Her thin hands fluttered to her neck. “No, no, we don’t. I’m Betty Battaglia. I’ve seen you at the diner where I fill in on the night shift.” He nodded, then her face crumpled. “Oh, no, it’s Johnny, isn’t it? He’s in trouble.”
“He’s been truant from school for the last four days.” Mrs. Battaglia’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Do you know where he is?”
“Why, yes. He’s in bed.”
“Here?”
“Yes.” She checked her watch. “But I’m late as it is. I don’t have time to get him.”
“It’s all right. You go ahead. I’ll wake him up myself.”
After a hesitant look, Betty Battaglia’s eyes filled with resignation and she left. Inside, Mitch closed the door and looked around. The living room was about ten by fourteen, with a sagging sofa covered by a throw, and two chairs with springs sticking out of them. A heavily draped picture window took up part of one wall. Faded pictures hung tipsily on the others. There were stacks of magazines by the couch, and a forgotten breakfast lay half eaten on the coffee table. A fine layer of dust covered everything.
He spotted a hallway leading to the bedrooms and followed it. Only one door was closed. He opened it slowly. The morning light peeked through half-closed venetian blinds, letting in a fair amount of light. Johnny lay asleep on the bed, his face buried in a pillow he grasped with his left hand. There was a stark white bandage across his knuckles.
Mitch studied the room. Unlike the living room, not a thing was out of place. The closet and drawers were closed. Posters on the walls were arranged artistically. A bureau top was clear, sporting only a lamp and some keys. Mitch walked over to the desk. Johnny’s books were neatly stacked with pens and pencils propped in a cup. He noticed a frame that had been turned facedown and picked it up. It was a picture of Cassie. She was sitting at her desk, flashing a smile that both scolded and laughed. It was black and white, probably taken for a yearbook. Mitch set it down carefully.
As he turned, his foot connected with something on the floor. Leaning over, he picked up an empty bottle. The label read 110-Proof Vodka.
Sensing he was being watched, Mitch looked across the room.
“I call this trespassing,” Battaglia said from the bed. He was sitting up now. He wore only a pair of ragged sweatpants. The sunlight angled on his face, showing the beard of a man and the eyes of a street kid.
Mitch held up the vodka bottle. “I call this stupid.”
“Who gives a shit?”
Without hesitation, Mitch answered, “Cassie does.”
Johnny sucked in his breath, then sagged back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Sure she does.”
“I just left school. Remember how she looked that day when Brenda told her she had an abortion?”
Johnny tried to ignore him, but Mitch could see him swallow hard.
“That’s how she’s looked all week.”
“Somebody else get knocked up?”
“No, but somebody else let her down.”
Johnny sat up so fast Mitch stepped back. “Yeah, well she let me down, too.”
“I imagine she did.” Mitch chose his words carefully. Lying to this one would never work. “You never make a mistake, Battaglia? You never jump to a stupid conclusion or say something dumb that makes you wish you could bite your tongue off?”
Again, the maddening teenage silence.
Wanting to strangle the kid, Mitch battled back his temper. He’d come here with a purpose. “Well, I have. And it tastes bitter.” He jerked a piece of paper out of his suit pocket. Walking closer to the bed, he tossed it to Battaglia. “My brother’s a doctor. He runs a clinic in a dirt poor section of the city. He’s looking for some people interested in medicine who can handle the street stuff they’d see.”
Johnny stared at him unblinkingly. “So?”
“So, you’ve got an appointment with him today at four o’clock for an interview. If you can clean yourself up, sell yourself to him, you’ve got yourself a job.” Mitch gave him a meaningful stare. “Like the one I helped you lose.” Straightening to what he hoped was an imposing height, Mitch finished, “The catch is, you gotta stay in school and not cut out when you get pissed off at somebody.” Then he turned and walked to the door.
Just as he reached it, Johnny called out. “Lansing?”
“What?”
“You doing this because you feel guilty?”
Mitch shook his head. His back to the boy, he pulled open the door and stepped out. While he was still within earshot, he mumbled, “No, I’m doing this because I’m crazy.”
* * *
On Monday morning, Cassie faced her class, trying to ignore the fact that Johnny was not there for the beginning of another week. Mitch Lansing sat in the back watching her.
“Aw, we gonna do this again?” Austyn Jones threw down the packet Cassie had just given him, his beringed hands raised in disgust. He rolled his eyes. God, Cassie hated that gesture.
“Yes, Austyn, we are. We can use some vocabulary drill.”
“But Ms. S., when are we gonna use words like contingency?”
“Never, if you don’t know what they mean.”
“That’s a teacher answer,” Mike Youngblood said, drumming his fingers on the desk, then tapping his foot. His hyperactivity, usually routine for Cassie to deal with, was getting on her nerves today.
“I’m a teacher,” Cassie said, trying to stifle a flush that crept up her neck. Her exasperation had little to do with contrary kids.
“Leave her alone,” Nikki Parelli put in. “She’s upset about Johnny.”
The kids became quiet immediately.
“I am upset about Johnny,” Cassie told them, scanning the whole room. “But we’re still going to do this lesson.” She glanced at the clock. “I’ll make you a deal. If I can’t tell you when you could use each of these words in your own life by the time class is over, I’ll cancel tonight’s homework.”
“All right.”
“Totally rad.”
“Mucho grande.”
“With one contingency,” she added. Everybody laughed. “On one condition.”
“No, that ain’t fair,” Don Peterson said, his team jacket draping his big shoulders.
Cassie nailed him with what educators called “the look.” All teachers had one; it was their greatest weapon. “Afraid, Don?”
“Me? Never.”
Jones stood, kicked out his new alligator boots and crossed his ankles. “What’s the contingency?�
��
“That Captain Lansing help me.”
“Not a chance,” Tara Romig said. “He’s got a photographic memory.”
Cassie eyed the girl. “How do you know that, Tara?”
“He wrote about it one day.”
Cassie said, “Still, he’ll have to think on his feet.” She turned to Mitch. “Game, Captain?”
His smile was slow and sexy, setting her pulse spinning. “Game, Ms. Smith.”
It was fun. They all sat on the floor—even Mitch. First, the kids got together in a group and studied the words so they’d know if he and Cassie got them right.
As they concentrated hard, Mitch leaned over to her and said, “Did you plan this?”
“No, it’s what educational jargon terms a teachable moment.”
When the kids were ready, DeFazio stood and took the lead, probably to get Mitch back for the inhalant lesson, which had gone over surprisingly well.
“Okay—the first one’s dispirited.”
Cassie said right away, “Joe, you’d be dispirited if your girlfriend dropped you for another guy.”
Mitch added, “Or, you’ll be dispirited if you fail the test.”
Nikki took a turn. “Laconic.”
Jen Diaz piped up. “Mr. Bosco is so laconic he almost puts us to sleep.”
Jones yelled, “Diaz, whose side are you on?”
“Sorry,” she said, grinning. “It was just too perfect to let pass.”
“Try another, guys,” Mitch challenged, sitting back and bracing his arms on the floor. His shirt pulled tightly across his chest.
“Virile.”
Cassie wanted to moan. Instead, she tore her eyes away from Mitch and said, “In order for you guys to be virile, you have to have more than muscles and brawn. A real man is sensitive and talks about his feelings.”
The boys coughed and pretended to gag themselves.
The girls rolled their eyes. “Sensitive? Fat chance.”
Five more words brought them to the end of the lesson. So far, Cassie and Mitch hadn’t been stumped.
“The last one is prodigal,” Jen yelled out.
Before anyone could answer, the door to the classroom flew open. Johnny Battaglia stood in the threshold, his hair cut, his jeans pressed and his cheeks ruddy. “Uh, sorry I’m late,” he said, looking sheepishly toward Cassie. “I had some things to do.”
The room was ghostly still. Cassie stared at Johnny.
Mitch grinned. “The prodigal son returns.”
Chapter Seven
Cassie tossed the volleyball over her head, drew her arm back and smacked it with her fisted hand. It was a good, low serve. The ball sailed over the net and plopped down in the middle of the opposite court, as three players from Bayview hospital failed to reach it.
Ross Martin said, “Hey, you guys. Need glasses? You could probably get them cheap at the hospital.”
“Naw,” retorted one of the technicians Cassie dated occasionally. “We work till five, and it takes us a while to get in the groove. You all had time for a nap after school.”
The hospital’s team laughed at the friendly jab while the educators booed.
“Yeah, sure,” Cassie called to the accuser. “We’re short two players tonight because they’re home inputting grades on the computer. They’re due tomorrow.”
Before anyone could offer a comeback, Cassie shouted, “Thirteen serving ten,” and sent the ball flying over the net with a hard punch. The other team returned it. Zoe set up the shot with Ross. The ball came back to the gym teacher—Bill Carlson—who slammed it over the net right into the chest of a guy in the fourth row. Bill turned and raised his hand, giving Cassie a high five. “One more, Cassie baby. Come on, we’re depending on you.”
Cassie smiled. Catching the ball, she jogged back into position. As she turned, she caught a glimpse of someone in her peripheral vision. And stopped dead in her tracks. On the sidelines was Mitch Lansing. He leaned against a table, a beer in his hand, watching her.
He was dressed in a forest green sweat suit. It outlined his muscular torso—which she studied carefully. It took her a minute to realize people were yelling at her. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from Mitch until Zoe blocked her view. Her friend was chuckling as she whispered, “Close your mouth, girl. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
In a hushed voice, Cassie said, “Did you see him?”
“Everyone’s seen him now. Get a grip, Cass. You can look your fill after this point.”
Zoe’s words finally sunk in. Horrified at her public display, Cassie stepped back and managed to get into serving position. “Game point.” She threw up the ball and served—straight into the net.
Groaning, she accepted the teasing and tried to focus on the game. The teachers finally won, seventeen to fifteen, no thanks to Cassie. As she participated in the hugs and banter afterward, she saw Mitch smile and stare at her. When the players finally came off the court, she headed right for him.
“Hi.” Up close, he was even more mesmerizing. The color of his sweat suit deepened his eyes to a dark and dangerous green. The material looked soft and inviting. She was tempted to run her hands over those shoulders that were a mile wide.
“Hi. You looked good out there.”
“Oh, please. I blew my serve.”
He sipped his beer. “Yeah, I noticed. What happened?”
She watched him for signs of sarcasm and saw the teasing glint in his eyes. Damn it, he knew.
Hmm. Two could play this game. She looked him up and down. “I couldn’t believe my eyes, Captain. I didn’t think you owned any clothes other than those suits of armor you wear.”
Slowly, he reached over and tucked behind her ear the wayward strand of hair that seemed to fascinate him. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Ms. Smith.” His voice was like warm honey.
Zoe and Ross joined them before she could respond. “Here, Cass,” Zoe said, handing her a beer. “Hi, Mitch.”
Pleasantries were exchanged, then talk about the game predominated until it was time to start the second round of the match.
“We’re short two people,” Ross told Mitch. “You wanna fill in?”
“I’d like that,” Mitch replied. “Is it within the rules?”
“We’re pretty informal here. And since you’ve been working in the high school for a month, you qualify.”
The players returned to the court, and Cassie took her position in the back before she let herself search for Mitch. She groaned again when she glimpsed him in the front line, studying the net and the other players. He’d removed his sweats, and the fantasies Cassie had had of what he’d look like out of his suit became reality. He wore khaki athletic shorts that hit him mid-thigh. His legs were roped with the muscles of an athlete. A navy blue T-shirt was tucked into his washboard-flat waist. When he turned, she saw NYPD sprawled across an Arnold Schwarzenegger chest. Cassie sighed and forced herself to look away. It was going to be a long game.
Mitch was aware of Cassie watching him. Her obvious appreciation took away some of the nervousness he’d had about coming here, about admitting he wanted to see her, wanted to take their relationship further. He’d accepted that he would let himself get closer to her—to all these people. He was glad he’d come, though he hadn’t been on a volleyball court since Nam, where they’d routinely run pickup games.
He played easily at first, careful not to slam the ball into any of the women in the front line, being sure to set it up with another player. The lines rotated several times, until Cassie stood directly behind him. After the hospital team scored a point, she cupped her hands around her mouth and said, “I think you’re sandbagging, Captain.”
He turned to face her. She was sweaty and flushed. Her eyes were bluer now and they were alight with mischief. The navy shirt emblazoned with Teachers Have Class clung to her curves. Her breasts looked full and heavy, and he wondered what they’d feel like in his hands. “Excuse me?” he said, feigning indignation.
&nbs
p; “We, ah, don’t go easy on the women here, Lansing,” Alex Ransom said from next to her. “You don’t have to hold back.” Ransom put his arm around Cassie and hugged her. “Our females are tough. God forbid you don’t play to your potential.”
Cassie added, “Or worse, that you hog the ball. It took us months to train these Neanderthals.”
Mitch held up his hands. “Fine. I’m happy to oblige.”
“And let yourself go, Captain.” She gave him a look that had nothing to do with volleyball. “I’d like to see that.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Would you, now?”
The game began again, halting their banter. Mitch tried hard to let go but couldn’t quite allow himself to spike on the five-foot-tall nurse who faced him opposite the net, or even the skinny orderly. The teachers won, anyway, so it didn’t matter.
Afterward, he joined them at the bar. Cassie sat on a stool, more relaxed than he’d ever seen her. “Buy you a beer, Captain?”
“Sure.” He sidled in next to her, and for fifteen minutes, chatted amiably with the players. It felt good to be a part of the group.
At about nine, several of the teachers left to go home and finish up their grades. Cassie and Mitch were alone at the bar. “No grades to do?” he asked her.
“No, I finished them at school before I came here.”
He shook his head. “You never learn, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were alone at school again before the game?”
“Don’t start,” she said, but the sting wasn’t in her voice. Underlying her tone was something he couldn’t put his finger on—maybe didn’t want to—but it wasn’t anger. Or even irritation.
Her face grew serious. “Mitch, I wanted to thank you for what you did for Johnny.” She reached out and squeezed his wrist. Her touch felt so good on his bare skin, he wanted to close his eyes and savor it.
“It wasn’t much,” he managed to say.
“It was.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Not too much. He’s as closemouthed as you are sometimes. But it was enough. You got him a job in your brother’s clinic, and that gesture of faith turned him around this time.”
Heart Stealers Page 10
