Forced Out (41 page)

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. He 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

Y
OU DIDN'T
WHAT
?"

"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

M
J 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.

"At least you could have pulled up to the door!" MJ shouted as he neared the Citation.

"I would have, but the damn thing won't start." Jack was laughing so hard he could barely stand up. "And I don't care. I don't give a rat's ass that I'm standing here soaking wet and stranded."

MJ started laughing, too. A little at first, then uncontrollably, like Jack.

"Could you believe it?" Jack shouted, looking heavenward and spreading his arms wide.

"Could you believe it?"

They high-fived twice, then embraced. It was the first time they ever had, but neither one of them hesitated for a second.

When they pulled back, MJ gazed up into the darkness and spread his arms, too. "It was amazing!" he yelled. "Amazing! Do you know what I felt like, Jack?
Do you know what
I felt like?
"

"What?" Raindrops trickled down Jack's face.
"What?"

"Like
God
!" MJ clenched his hands. "Every time the Kid went to bat he winked at me. As he was climbing the steps out of the dugout each time, he'd wink at me with this sly little grin. He freaking
winked
, Jack. I knew what was going to happen before it happened four times."

Jack nodded. It had been one thing to understand that the Kid was copying Mickey Mantle game for game after going on the Internet and matching Tarpon box scores with Mantle's 1968 box scores. But it was a whole different deal to tell the Kid what to do and then see him do it.

"I mean," MJ continued, "we told him to go one-for-four tonight. A pop-up, double, flyout, groundout. In that order."

"And he did it." Jack spotted the Kid emerging from the clubhouse door and starting to jog toward them. "In that
exact
order. You're right. It was incredible." He shook his head.

"Here's the man of the hour now," he called when the Kid reached the car, clapping loudly. "You were unbelievable tonight, Kyle. We were just talking about how amazing it was to know what was going to happen before it happened."

The Kid grinned. "Yeah, it worked out pretty well, didn't it? Black Maple was on fire."

"On
fuego,
" MJ echoed.

Jack was about to say something when he noticed a dark figure move out of the trees at the edge of the lot. "Hey, what the hell?" he said, pointing. As Kyle and MJ turned to see what Jack was pointing at, the figure drew a gun from inside his coat, aimed, and fired.