“You’re taking me to see Richie?” he asked in amazement.
“I should be taking you to see my boss at the FBI,” snapped Georgia. “I should have my head examined. Richie’s at his best friend’s house. I’m supposed to pick him up. I don’t want you in the car when I do. And I don’t want you in our house. That’s too much for him. It’s got to be someplace neutral.”
“How ’bout the playground on Woodside Avenue, near the Amtrak rail yard?” asked Rick. “You and me, we used to—”
“Never mind what we used to do there,” said Georgia. “Yeah. That’s a good place. It’s only a couple of blocks from the house. I’ll drop you there, then pick Richie up, give him your note and ask him what he wants to do. If he says no, Rick…”
He put a hand on her arm. “You don’t have to explain it to me, Gee Gee. I’ll do whatever you and he want.”
39
Jimmy DeLuca had been Richie’s best friend since the boys were six. Georgia liked Jimmy and his family, but the comparisons were hard sometimes. Jimmy lived in a house not unlike Richie’s. Both boys went to Saint Aloysius Catholic school. But there the similarities ended. Jimmy lived with a mom and dad, a sister and brother and a big golden retriever named Butch. Jimmy’s mother hadn’t worked since his older brother, Joey, was born. His father held some kind of office job with the Port Authority. Jimmy often told Richie he was lucky to be an only child and to have all his mother’s attention and a grandmother to fuss over him all the time. But Georgia knew that Richie never felt like the lucky boy Jimmy DeLuca made him out to be.
Georgia picked Richie up just before 4:00 P.M., as promised. In the car, Richie extolled the virtues of Jimmy’s new PlayStation—not something that was possible in the Skeehan family budget.
“There’s this game, Mom. It’s really cool,” said the ten-year-old. “It’s just like skateboarding. Only there are these dudes with guns, chasing you. And you have to skate over the canyon to beat them. There are at least a hundred horrible things that can happen to you in the game.”
“And this is good?”
“It’s awesome. You can fall down the canyon. Or get attacked by animals. Or get shot at, of course.”
Sounds like a description of my job, thought Georgia. She let Richie finish telling her about the game. She was relieved to hear him chatter away. She didn’t know where to begin to tell him about Rick. Finally, while the car was idling at a light in heavy traffic, she took a deep breath and spoke.
“Richie, I have something to tell you.”
“You’re breaking up with Mac.”
She gave him an astonished look. “No. Of course not. Who told you that?”
“Nobody,” said Richie. “You’ve just got that tone.”
“This isn’t about Mac.” She saw him beginning to form another statement and cut him off. “No one’s sick, either. God, you’re just like Grandma. You’ve got that good Irish sense of tragedy to you.” She tried again. “Something very unexpected happened a few days ago, honey. I ran into your father.”
“With a car?”
Georgia laughed, then realized he was serious. “No, of course not. I mean, I happened to meet him. By chance.”
“Where?”
“On an assignment I’ve been doing. For the FBI—”
“My father’s an FBI agent?”
“No,” said Georgia. “He’s an electrician, Richie. I can’t tell you everything right now except to say he’s got some problems that he’s trying to work out. But he wrote this. He wanted me to give it to you.” She handed him the napkin. He read it. Georgia tried to sneak a look at his face. She couldn’t gauge his reaction.
“This is really him?” the boy asked.
“Yep. Rick DeAngelo. Your father.”
“Where is he?”
“Do you want to see him?”
He took longer to answer than Georgia would have expected. He was growing up, she realized. He knew something about being let down. He was weighing that in his mind against the curiosity of seeing his father.
“What’s he like?”
“I didn’t spend that much time with him,” she admitted. “But from what I can see, he’s pretty much the same person he always was. He’s…well, he’s sort of a scatter-brain. Sort of immature. But he’s not an evil man.”
“I thought you were really angry with him, Mom.”
“I am. But I’m trying very hard not to let that spill over to you. I don’t want you to turn around when you’re grown and say that I didn’t let you see your father.”
Richie was quiet for a moment. He reread the note. “He wrote this on a napkin?”
“Well, the circumstances weren’t ideal.” Georgia thought about it some more, then shook her head. “I guess, even if they were, he’d probably do something like that. He’s not exactly the prepared type.”
“Where is he?” Richie asked again.
“At the playground on Woodside Avenue,” said Georgia. “Look, he and I discussed this, and you don’t have to see him. You’ve got no obligation. We could postpone this meeting. Maybe try a few phone calls first. It’s absolutely up to you.”
“I’m a little nervous,” said the child.
“I’m sure he is too. And he’d totally understand if you didn’t feel ready.”
Richie looked at her. Georgia kept her eyes on the road, afraid that he might be able to read the what-ifs in her eyes. What if Rick doesn’t show? What if Richie sees him this once and never again? What if Richie has built him up so much in his head that he’s let down by the reality? Is it worse to be disappointed by what is? Or by what isn’t? It was the very question she sensed Randy Carter had been struggling with ever since he suspected Michael McLaughlin of setting the fire that killed her father. The truth, Georgia was beginning to understand, wasn’t always better.
“I think I want to see him,” said Richie.
“You’re sure?”
The boy shrugged. Georgia sensed he was trying to invest himself as little as possible in the encounter so he’d have the least to lose.
“Okay. I’ll take you to him.”
The park on Woodside Avenue was about half an acre of asphalt paths and bare patches of dirt surrounded by a chain-link fence and some stubby gray leafless trees. On the other side of the park was the Amtrak rail yard, which ran like a wide-open scar from behind the old concrete recreation hut all the way down to the southwestern tip of Queens, across from Manhattan. By the time Georgia and Richie arrived, the bright sun had disappeared from the sky, leaving it the color of faded blue jeans. In an hour, it would be dark. At the far end of the park, a group of young men were playing a pickup game of basketball on a court with two backboards and no nets on the hoops. On the playground, the empty swings swayed and creaked in the breeze, the toddlers long gone at this hour. The evening chill had already begun to settle over the scenery.
Georgia parked the car. She and Richie walked the cracked sidewalk without saying a word. Just north of them, silver Amtrak trains rumbled through the rail yards, with commuters bound for Long Island. Richie’s steps slowed instinctively as they neared the playground. Georgia thought it was because he’d caught sight of Rick, but when she looked around, she didn’t see him. She wondered if he’d chickened out. Then she noticed him by the basketball court, fingers dug into the chain link, watching the game. He turned casually, then froze. Richie stood next to a park bench and followed his mother’s gaze.
“Is that him?”
“Uh-huh.”
Richie had a thick down jacket zipped around him, but he shivered just the same. Georgia instinctively wrapped her arms around him. Rick sauntered toward them, though Georgia sensed it was taking all his effort to maintain his relaxed stride. He took off his Yankees baseball cap. Two feet from the boy, he stopped and shoved his hands and his cap in the pockets of his own down jacket. It was black and made by North Face—just like Richie’s. Father and son were wearing identical jackets.
“Hi, Richie,” Rick said ho
arsely. He ran a hand along the stubble on his cheek. Rick being Rick, it had obviously just occurred to him that he hadn’t shaved, showered or changed his clothes since yesterday.
“Hi.”
“Did you, um…get my note?”
“Yeah.”
“I got yours, too. Thank you.” Rick shot a quick, pleading look at Georgia. I don’t know what to say was written all over his face. Georgia shrugged. She didn’t know how to help him. What’s more, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. It had been crazy to undertake such a risky encounter—risky careerwise for her; risky emotionally for the child. And who knew whether anyone had tailed them? Georgia had a sudden, overwhelming urge to flee. But it was too late.
Rick caught the boy glancing over at the teenagers playing basketball. “You like basketball?” he asked. “I think you told me you did in your letter.”
“Uh-huh,” said the child. “But I’m not very good at it.”
“Me neither,” said Rick. “Only way I could make a three-pointer would be standing on Michael Jordan’s shoulders. And he’d have to hold my hairy legs, and I don’t think he’d like that.”
The boy laughed and Rick looked pleased. “Mind you, when I played, they didn’t wear all these shorts that come down to your knees. They look like you borrowed your grandmother’s underwear.” Richie grinned sheepishly and Rick suddenly realized what he’d said. “I mean, not your grandmother— Richie. Your grandmother—”
“Quit while you’re ahead,” Georgia told him.
“Right.” Rick nodded to the basketball game. “So, you want to go over and watch ’em?”
Richie looked at his mother. “Is that okay, Mom?” They all understood the implication. She wasn’t invited. Georgia swallowed back a sense of betrayal.
“For a little while,” she said. Rick looked at his watch.
“I’ve got to go in fifteen minutes anyway, Gee Gee. I’ve got to get back and see…” His voice trailed off. He looked at the boy. “But if everything goes okay, I’ll try to come back real soon.”
She watched Rick and Richie walk over to the chain-link fence while she stayed behind near the old recreation hut. Long ago, park matrons used to hand out balls and sports equipment to children here, but those days were long gone. Now, the hut was in shambles. Graffiti covered the walls inside, and the back of the building had a giant hole in it that made for easy access to the rail yards beyond. Georgia and Rick used to make out here on summer nights. All the kids did. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
She stamped her feet to keep warm and watched the two of them from a distance. Rick said something and Richie tossed back his head in laughter. They had the same mannerisms, the same slouch when they stood. It was both comforting and frightening that after all this time, the boy and the man had so much in common. Still, she couldn’t escape the nagging doubt that she had done something stupid here. She just hoped she wasn’t setting her son up for a fall.
It was almost dark when Rick and Richie began to saunter back to her. The basketball game was over. Street-lights that dotted the perimeter of the park flicked on. Traffic thinned. When she squinted past father and son, she noticed a dark blue Chrysler 300 slowly circling the park. As it passed under a streetlight, she saw that its antenna was broken in half—exactly like the FBI undercover car she had used last night. A jolt of panic seized her. If the Feds found her with Rick, her career was over. Yet she couldn’t leave. Richie was with him. She waited until the Chrysler made a turn that took it out of viewing range for a moment, then ran over to Rick and her son.
“Richie, honey,” said Georgia. “I want you to walk straight home right now. Don’t stop for anything. Tell Grandma I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“But, Mom!”
“Don’t argue. Don’t say a word. And don’t stop at the car. You’re two blocks from home. Go. Right now. That’s an order.”
The boy gave her an angry look, then cut a pleading one to his father. Rick gave a small shrug. Then Richie stomped off toward home.
“You didn’t have to be that rough, you know,” said Rick. “You didn’t even let me say good-bye.”
“Hey, not for nothing, kiddo, but eight years ago you didn’t even bother.” She glanced over her shoulder. The FBI car had returned. She was sure they were calling for backup. The park would be crawling with agents in a matter of minutes. “The Feds must have tailed me here. They’re about to close in.”
“Shit. I’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “If I stand Buscanti up, that’s it. He’ll assume I’ve turned informant.”
“You run out now, my career is ruined. I’ve just been seen talking to a fugitive.”
“What am I supposed to do, Gee Gee? Stand around and make like I’ve been holding you at gunpoint? They’ll shoot me for sure.”
A thought came to Georgia. “Remember the hole in the back of the rec hut? It’s still there. And it still leads to the rail yards.”
He grinned. “Nobody knows those yards like a kid from Woodside.”
“But first,” said Georgia, “you’ve got to do something.”
“Okay,” he said slowly.
“Hit me,” she said. “Hard. Across the face.”
“What? Are you crazy? I’ve never hit you in my life.”
“If you care at all for my career, you’ll do it now. It’s the only way I’m going to walk out of this, Rick. You’ve got to do it. There’s no time to lose.”
He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to.”
“Hit me, goddamn it!” she shouted. He closed up his right fist and aimed it at the side of her face. Georgia felt the pain a second or two after impact. It radiated across her cheek and out her eardrums, exploding like a series of fire-crackers going off in her brain. Her legs gave out on her and she landed on the dirt. She wasn’t unconscious, but she was dazed. And her left cheek hurt like hell.
Rick knelt down beside her. “I’m sorry, Gee Gee. I don’t think I broke anything.”
“Get out of here,” she moaned at him. He hesitated. She picked up a rock on the ground and threw it at his legs. “Go.”
For the second time in eight years, Rick DeAngelo was out of her life. He never left yet without causing her pain. At least this time, she had an outward scar to prove it.
Two cars pulled up within minutes of Rick’s departure. Georgia was surprised to see Charles Krause step out of one of them. The yellow streetlights illuminated his shiny shaved head. Scott Nelson and Nathan Reese were with him.
Reese was the first to get to Georgia. He helped her to her feet. She felt woozy when she stood. She put a hand to her left cheek. The skin felt tight and very painful to the touch. It was probably swollen and bruised, but she didn’t think there was any permanent damage at least.
“Georgia, are you all right? Which way did DeAngelo go?”
“He ran into that building,” said Georgia, gesturing to the cement-block recreation hut about ten feet away. By this time, Nelson and Krause were on hand, their weapons drawn. They went into the hut. Georgia already knew what they’d find, but she feigned surprise when they came out. Krause spoke into his handy talkie.
“Suspect has escaped into the Amtrak rail yard. Alert our people on the other side of the rail yard to be on the lookout for him.” Then he clicked off the button and eyed Georgia suspiciously. He knew as well as she did that the rail yard extended for miles. Rick was as good as gone.
“How badly are you hurt?” Krause asked Georgia. His question seemed more probing than sympathetic.
“I think I just need to go home, sir.”
Krause eyed her face then asked Reese to find an instant cold pack in the trunk of their car. “Your cheekbone does not appear to be broken. Where is your gun?”
“I still have it.”
“But you didn’t attempt to defend yourself.”
“I didn’t expect to run into Rick DeAngelo today,” said Georgia. Not exactly a lie. “As soon as I saw him, I sent my son home and attempted to talk him into giving himself
up.”
“Really? And just like that, he hit you?”
“I tried to arrest him.”
Reese came running over with a cold pack. She put it on her cheek. The cold felt worse than the punch.
“Where do you think DeAngelo is now?” asked Krause.
“I don’t know, sir. Can I call home?”
“Give me your number. An agent will call for you.”
“I can make the call myself,” said Georgia.
“No hard feelings, Marshal. But I’m, shall we say, concerned that you might tip Rick DeAngelo off—inadvertently, of course.”
“He’s not at my house, if that’s what you’re implying,” said Georgia.
“We checked.”
“I’m calling my family,” she said, whipping out her cell phone.
“Then you’ll do it in my presence,” Krause insisted.
Georgia’s mother picked up on the second ring. “Ma?” She couldn’t get another word out. Margaret Skeehan told Georgia about the men searching for Rick DeAngelo at their house. Thankfully, she didn’t mention anything about Richie’s meeting with Rick. Then again, maybe Richie, seeing the serious-looking men at their door, had chosen not to say anything. Richie might be only ten, but he probably understood what sort of trouble his father was in. And he probably already felt a desire to protect him.
“Is Richie watching television?” Georgia asked. She didn’t care what her son was doing. But she wanted to make sure he was home. Margaret explained that they were just about to sit down to dinner. He’s safe. Thank God.
“Why would anyone look for Rick DeAngelo here?” Margaret wanted to know. But Georgia cut her off.
“I’ll explain later, Ma—okay? I’ve got to go.” She pressed the Disconnect button while Krause studied her profile.
“You didn’t tell your mother you met up with Rick DeAngelo the other night?” he asked her.
“No, Agent Krause. I was under confidentiality orders, as I think you may recall.”
Fireplay Page 23
