Forced Out (11 page)

"It's nice to meet you."

Her soft voice was mesmerizing and her beautiful eyes expressive. "Nice to meet you, too."

"Why do they call you Deuce?" she asked, seeming to hold on to his fingers a moment longer than she should have.

"He carries a two of hearts in his pocket all the time," Treviso explained.

"Why?"

"Don't bother asking, honey," Treviso cautioned, easing into one of the kitchen chairs.

"He won't answer. He's never told anyone. And I doubt today's gonna be the day he breaks his silence."

Johnny's shoulders sagged slightly, glad Treviso had laid out the ground rules. Even if the explanation had been laced with sarcasm. He hadn't wanted to seem rude.

"Maybe he'll tell me," she said, finally letting go.

Johnny's jaw clenched involuntarily, and he touched the card in his shirt pocket again. He didn't want to disappoint her, but he couldn't tell her. He couldn't break the bond.

"Sorry."

"Maybe someday."

Johnny glanced at the toddler, then back at Karen, gazing into those mahogany eyes once more. She was talking to him through them; he could feel it. "Maybe."

"I doubt it," Treviso said loudly. "Johnny doesn't get this far out into Brooklyn very often. Do you, Deuce?"

It was a warning, plain and simple. Don't ever come near my wife when I'm not around. And it irritated Johnny. Treviso was in no position to threaten, even if it did have to do with his wife. "You never know," he said evenly. It was a stupid thing to say. There was no reason to get Treviso suspicious, but he couldn't help himself. The machismo had popped up out of nowhere, and he'd been unable to control it.

"Give us some privacy, will you, sweetie?" Treviso lit up a Camel no-filter he'd pulled from a half-f pack lying on the table beside the napkin holder. "We gotta talk business."

Karen moved to the refrigerator, leaned down, and pulled a jar of baby food off the shelf above the fruit drawer, then headed out the same doorway she'd come through. When she was far enough down the hallway that Treviso couldn't see her, she hesitated and looked back over her shoulder, locking eyes with Johnny for several seconds. Johnny stared back, admiring the outline of her slim frame beneath the thin material of the strapless sundress. Unable to pry his gaze from her until she moved off when the baby started crying.

"Karen's a pretty girl, huh, Deuce?"

Johnny's eyes snapped to Treviso's. "Yeah, sure. Real pretty." Had Treviso known he was staring at her? Had Treviso picked up on the implication that he might drop in on Karen when she was here alone? "You know." He tried to say it like he wasn't really thinking about it. Like he was saying what anyone would say.

"A lot of people can't believe it when they see her, Deuce. They tell me I married way over my head." Treviso took a long drag off the cigarette, then tapped it on a glass ashtray sitting on the windowsill. "I say it's the other way around. I say she married way over
her
head. Her whole family's on welfare, for Christ's sake. She's living the dream now."

Johnny's eyes flickered around the cramped kitchen. "Yeah, the dream. Put out the cigarette, Tony. I don't like the smoke, especially this early in the morning." He really didn't like cigarette smoke, but he'd said it for another reason, too. Making Treviso put out the cigarette was a quick way of asserting dominance. "Now."

"What? Oh, sure."

Johnny waited until Treviso had tamped the burning end down into the ashtray before speaking. "Tell me about that thing that happened outside Marconi's house a couple of years ago." A thin column of white smoke rose toward the ceiling from the stillsmoldering cigarette.

"What thing?"

"You know what thing." Johnny studied Treviso's face carefully, searching for the truth.

"When his grandson was killed."

"Oh,
that
thing."

"Yeah, yeah.
That
thing. Tell me about it."

"What do you wanna know?"

"What happened?" It was obvious Treviso was stalling. Clearly he didn't want to talk about this, and he was trying like hell to figure out how not to. Marconi had told Johnny not to make any judgments, but that was impossible. He had to know what really happened. "Exactly what happened."

Tony leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "There's not much to tell, Deuce. A guy I loaned a lot of money to was way behind on his schedule. He lived close to there, close to Marconi's place in Queens. I was meeting Marconi to talk to him about something else anyway, so I told the guy to meet me there. I wanted to talk to him before I went in to see Marconi. Kill two birds with one stone while I was all the way up there in Queens."

"Kyle McLean, right? That was the guy's name?"

Treviso gazed at Johnny for a few moments, like now
he
was searching. Like his antennae had suddenly sprung up. "Yeah, I think that was his name. Why you so interested, Deuce?"

"Tell me about this McLean guy."

"What's there to tell?"

Johnny took a deep breath. He wasn't a man blessed with a reservoir of patience. "Look, pal, you know I only work for one man in the family. I'm here as a personal favor to him. This isn't a family council deal. Now I want answers, I want your cooperation. I'd hate to tell Mr. Marconi that you wouldn't give me that." Johnny leaned back, exposing the butt end of his favorite pistol sticking out of the shoulder holster. He saw Treviso's eyes flicker down to the gun, watched them linger there for a few moments. "Come on, Tony. Stop fucking around."

Treviso nodded solemnly. "Yeah, okay." His voice was barely audible. "But can you at least tell me why you're here first? What Marconi wants to know?"

"Look, here's the...uh, here's the--" Johnny did a subtle double take as he stuttered. Karen was standing in the hallway outside the kitchen again, where Treviso couldn't see her. She was gazing straight at him with those incredible eyes, sending a message to him without actually saying a word. God, she was beautiful.

"What's the problem, Deuce?" Treviso wanted to know. "You all right?
Hey! Deuce!
"
13

J
ACK PULLED THE covers over his head to shield his eyes from the blinding light suddenly streaming into his bedroom. It was as if the sun were right outside the house.

"What the hell's going on?" he grumbled.

"Time to get up, Daddy," Cheryl announced cheerfully, moving to the room's other window. "It's after seven-thirty, and it's a beautiful day. The calendar in the kitchen says you've got to be at work by eight. We both need to get going," she said as she raised the blind.

He sneaked a peek from beneath the covers, and he was instantly sorry he had. Now it was like
two
suns shining directly on him. He groaned. His head was killing him. He'd stayed at the Dugout last night until closing--until two in the morning--trying to get information about the kid out of the bartender. The guy hadn't said much, and when it was obvious he wasn't going to say any more and that he was getting suspicious, Jack turned his attention to a scotch bottle. Regaling the bartender with his Yankee glory days as he drank.

He cursed under his breath, realizing how pathetic he must have sounded going on and on about how he'd personally discovered some of the team's big names. It was true, but there was no need to brag about it.

God, he hated how alcohol did that to him. How it made him feel like he could spout off about himself to people he didn't even know and that they were actually interested. He was like that more and more the older he got, too. Like he was some flea-bitten old lion who still needed to hear himself roar every once in a while to convince himself he was still worth something. And people let him do it only because they felt sorry for him--or they wanted a good tip.

"I'm gonna call in sick today," he muttered, pulling the covers down slowly, squinting to let his eyes grow accustomed to the brightness. About the only thing happening for him at the store today was getting fired. He could face the music, all right; he had no problem with that. But he didn't want to do it with a migraine. He might go off on Ned, the store manager, and that wouldn't be pretty. No; he'd go in tomorrow to get the bad news. Besides, he was going to try for a new job today anyway. The hell with bagging groceries. "My throat's sore. I'm coming down with something."

"You're hung over, Daddy. That's all. You never get sick. You never missed a day in thirty-four years with the Yankees. Now get up. Come on."

"Please don't do this to me," he begged.

Cheryl sat down on the edge of the bed. "Where'd you go last night?"

"I told you. I met some guys at the store last week. We all went out to--"

"You didn't go out to dinner with anybody last night, Daddy. Don't lie to me." She knew him so well. "Okay, I went back out to the stadium to watch the kid," he admitted.

"I knew it," she said triumphantly "Why didn't you just tell me that was where you were going?"

"I didn't want your boyfriend tagging along. I didn't want to have to act all fake and play that stupid pitch speed game with him again." He reached for a glass of water on the nightstand. Cheryl must have brought it in because he couldn't remember getting it. Of course, he couldn't remember a whole lot about last night after leaving the bar.

"Speaking of my favorite person, is he still here?" Bobby's SUV had been parked in front of the house when he got home. At least he remembered that much. He chuckled, remembering something else, too. Old habits died hard.

"No; he's gone."

"How late did he stay?"

Cheryl set her jaw defiantly. "All night. He left about a half hour ago." Jack rose up on one elbow. "I don't remember giving you permission for him to stay over."

"I don't remember
needing
permission."

"Yeah, well, I make the rules around here," Jack grumbled. "You want to live under my roof, you abide by them."

"You may have made most of the down payment by selling your rings, Daddy, but I've paid most of the mortgage since we moved in."

"Still."

"And besides, who says I really want to live under the same roof with you anyway?" she snapped.

"Fine, then leave."

"Fine, maybe I will."

They gazed at each other intently for a few moments, neither one blinking. Finally, Jack put the glass down on the nightstand and eased off his elbow until he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. "Christ." There was no way he was winning this argument, and they both knew it. "Next thing I know Bobby'll be moving in."

"So, how did the kid play last night?" Cheryl asked, starting to stand up, her voice still on edge.

"Not very well." Jack hesitated, appreciating the fact that she wasn't lingering on her small victory. "I tried to talk to him after the game, but the conversation only lasted about three minutes. It was weird."

Cheryl sank slowly back down onto the bed. "What do you mean?"

"I told him I thought he was the real deal, then he told me to get out of his face. Basically told me if he ever saw me again he'd kill me."

Her eyes opened wide. "Jesus, Daddy, you ought to call the--"

"I'm kidding," Jack said with a wave. "He was actually very polite. But he did tell me never to come up to him again." Jack held up his hand to show her the World Series ring.

"I even wore this. You think he would have been impressed."

"That
is
weird," she agreed. "I mean, some guy wearing a World Series ring comes up to me and tells me he was a Yankee scout for thirty-four years and that he thinks I'm the real deal. I'd be pretty excited if I'm a minor leaguer."

"Yeah, exactly. But it wasn't like that at all. It was like I was the last person in the world he wanted to see."

"Where did you talk to him?" she asked. "At the stadium?"

"No; the head groundskeeper told me where the kid usually hangs out after games. It's this bar called the Dugout. By the way, the groundskeeper backed up what Bobby said about Clemant, too. That nobody likes him." Jack gazed at the ring for a few moments. He hadn't been able to get it off last night because his fingers were too swollen from the alcohol. He tried again for a few moments but still couldn't pull the thing over his knuckle. "Anyway, the kid came into the bar about an hour after the game. By himself, too. The bartender wouldn't say much about him, but he did say he'd never seen him come in with anyone else. He's always alone. Kind of weird." Jack shook his head. "So I told the kid I'd been to the game the other night. Told him I thought the catch and the home run were two of the greatest plays I'd ever seen. Then he asked me if I was at last night's game. I told him I was, and it was strange how he reacted. He smiled when he admitted that he'd stunk up the joint. Like he was proud of himself for playing bad."

"What do you think's going on?"

Jack hesitated, replaying the brief conversation in his head. "I don't know. But he's got all the physical tools, let me tell you. He's a big boy, bigger in person than he even looks on the field. I shook his hand. It was so damn strong. Like Thurman Munson's used to be." He suddenly noticed the red blotches on her neck. "Hey, what happened to you?"

"Nothing," she said, standing up and heading straight for the door.

"Cheryl, come back here. Hey!
Cheryl!
"

* * *

Bobby jogged down the sidewalk in front of the apartment building toward his SUV. He was on his way to an appointment with the head buyer of a sporting goods chain based in Tampa. If everything went right, he was going to make a big sale today and earn a nice commission.

He'd raced back here from Cheryl's place a little while ago, zigzagging through rushhour traffic. Then showered and shaved in record time--he had a couple of nicks on his face to show for it. Despite all the dashing around, he'd still be half an hour late for the appointment, and the buyer was going to be pissed--he was a cranky old son of a bitch. But what the hell? He'd promise the guy World Series or Super Bowl tickets--which his company could easily get--and everything would be fine. It would be a pain to kiss the guy's ass for the first few minutes, but it would be worth it. He'd make some nice money on the deal and, besides, that last time he and Cheryl had sex this morning had been incredible. Best of the night. Worth a little ass-kissing.