Forced Out (7 page)

"I want to go on the Web for a while," he answered.

"Really," she asked, surprised.

"Show me how, will you?"

She motioned to the flask. "If you stop drinking."

One of the images in the mirror Jack had tried to ignore was the spiderweb of tiny blue veins spreading out from both sides of his thin nose into his cheeks. That and the fact that his nose and cheeks seemed to be getting redder and ruddier by the day. He'd told himself the Florida sun was to blame, but maybe it wasn't. If she only knew how much he was drinking. But how else was he supposed to make it through a workday? He'd decided early on in his grocery bagging career that it was never meant to be done sober.

"Okay," he agreed, setting the flask down on the hall table beneath the mirror. "Done." As he followed Cheryl into her room, he noticed a heap of freshly washed panties and bras on top of her dresser and quickly glanced away. It was one thing when they were your wife's, quite another when they were your daughter's. Maybe he was too uptight. But he'd been raised in an uptight home, and he was too old to change. It took awhile to get the hang of it, but when he finally realized that using the Internet was as simple as typing in a few words, then pointing and clicking, he felt damn stupid.

"Great, thanks." He patted her knee gently and nodded at the door. But she didn't get the hint. "Can you give me a few minutes?"

Cheryl moaned. "It's almost midnight, Daddy. I want to go to bed." Jack clasped his hands together like he was praying. "Please, Princess."

"Tomorrow's a workday," Cheryl reminded him. She was an administrative assistant in a real estate office. "I need my sleep."

"This won't take long."

She let out an aggravated breath and stood up. "When I get home tomorrow, we're moving this thing out in the living room because I can see where this is going." She tapped the computer. "You'll be addicted to it by the time I come back." When she was gone, Jack typed "Sarasota Tarpons" into the search engine and hit go. It didn't take long to get to the home page. At the bottom of it was a team picture, but there was no Mikey Clemants. He was listed as "Not Pictured" beneath the photograph, along with an assistant coach and a trainer. Jack clicked to the kid's personal page, but there was no picture of him there, either. Just a blank screen where the picture was supposed to be. The kid's bio mentioned that he was from somewhere in southern Minnesota. From some tiny town Jack had never heard of--and he thought he'd heard of them all. Thought he'd
been
to them all at some point in his scouting career. He scanned the stats quickly, noting the kid's last name was actually Clemant--no "s" at the end, as Bobby had pronounced it. Not including tonight's game, the kid had three home runs, fifteen runs batted in, and a so-so .254 batting average. He'd committed a bunch of errors, too. Bobby was right. This was nothing to write home about. The kid had all the physical tools to make it in the majors--the catch and the home run had convinced Jack of that--but there was something missing. Something very important. Hopefully it was something teachable. And Jack knew just the man for the job. That good-looking older guy he'd been admiring in the hall mirror a little while ago.

"Daddy?"

Jack whirled around. He'd been standing on the top step of the Yankee dugout in the Bronx, watching the kid's tryout. Watching the kid slam ball after ball over the blue wall. Enjoying congratulations from coaches, players, and front-office people. From all the people who'd been so skeptical when the kid was striding toward home plate at the beginning of the tryout. Cheryl's voice had jerked him away from that New York fantasy, jerked him back to his Sarasota reality.

"I'm done," he said, standing up. "I'll scram and let you get to bed." He kissed her forehead as they came together. "Sorry I kicked you out."

"It's okay."

He could tell something was wrong. "What is it?" She was moving from foot to foot like she always did when she was nervous. "Come on, Princess. Out with it." She folded her arms across her chest. "Did you fake it tonight after the game?" Jack chuckled uneasily. "Fake
what
?"

"Your heart attack. Was that all an act?"

He bit his lip, trying to mask the grin tugging at both corners of his mouth. "Well, I don't know if it was a heart attack, but I sure felt like I was going through something painful, let me tell you."

"Don't split hairs, Daddy," Cheryl warned sharply, using a tone she rarely did with him.

"You know what I mean. Did you fake it?"

Finally Jack let the grin out of the bag. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't." She gritted her teeth. "Look, this isn't a joke. This isn't like when you rigged Billy Martin's toilet to explode and framed Reggie. This isn't like when you let all those snakes loose in the players' dormitory in spring training and scared them half to death. This isn't like that. This isn't funny."

"It's a
little
funny."

"It's not funny at all,
damn
it. It's my life."

She never swore, and it caught his attention like an Ali hook. "Princess, I--"

"You didn't want me going home with Bobby. That's why you faked the heart attack, wasn't it?
Wasn't it?
"

She was serious this time, and Jack wasn't ready for it. He'd never seen her like this. "I love you so much," he murmured. "I just don't want to see you get hurt, and I--"

"You don't want me to leave," she snapped, anger tears welling in her eyes. "You don't want to see the person who waits on you hand and foot get away. You want to hang on to me any way you can. That's what it is, isn't it? That's what tonight was all about. That's why you scared Bobby off. That's why you scare all my boyfriends off. You're worried that if you don't, you might lose your slave." Her voice was trembling. "Don't be so damn selfish, Daddy. Don't try to run my life anymore. Think about someone other than yourself for once, will you?"

Jack shook his head. "No, no, Princess, it's that I--"

"You've got to let me go. I can't stay here forever."

"I, I--"

"You don't love me."

Jack's mouth ran dry. He couldn't love anyone more than he did Cheryl. How could she take his little prank so seriously? He figured she'd known from the start the whole thing was a hoax. At least suspected it was. "Princess, I...I love you so much. I can't believe you could think I'd want to keep you here like some kind of prisoner. Like some kind of..." His voice trailed off.

Suddenly she rushed into his arms, leaping across the sudden chasm. "I'm sorry, Daddy," she said, sobbing. "I'm sorry I said that. It was so mean, and I know how much you love me. You've always been there for me. Always." She looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. "But I need to have my own life. I want kids, and I'm not getting any younger. I want to see you hold them. I want to see you teach them to throw a baseball like you taught me when I was little. I want you to go to Little League games with me and my husband. I want all of that, you know?" She pressed her face into his neck. "You aren't getting any younger, either." She sobbed loudly several times. "I'm worried that...

I'm worried...Christ, I can't even say it."

Jack felt the awesome power of uncontrollable emotion bearing down on him. The twitch in his lower lip, the heat in his eyes, the mess in his mind. He hated being weak, hated people who were weak. He shut his eyes, fighting it hard. "I know," he muttered, hoping his voice sounded strong. "I know what you mean. And I know you want all those things. Every woman does. They're the most important things in the world." She hugged him tightly. "I won't move away, Daddy, I promise. I'll stay right here in Sarasota. You'll come over every night for dinner. We'll have a room for you so you can stay over whenever you want. Bobby and I talked about that, and he's fine with it. I won't let you be old and lonely."

He'd never thought of that--at least not consciously. The possibility that maybe he wasn't scaring off her boyfriends to protect her, but to protect himself. He shook his head. That was insane; he'd never do that. Of course, the mind worked in mysterious ways. He knew that all too well. "I know you won't," he said, relieved when the emotion passed, when he regained control. "I know you want your own life. Damn, you can't be taking care of me forever. I know that."

"Bobby likes me." She pulled a tissue from her jeans and wiped her eyes. "I think maybe he might even love me. He could be the one."

That image of Bobby slipping his fingers away from Cheryl's at the game still haunted him. "Sure. I caught him looking at you tonight that way a couple of times. Like he couldn't be without you. It was nice."

"Daddy, I know I'm not the prettiest girl around. I know I'm--"

"You're
gorgeous,
" he interrupted, looking into her eyes fiercely. "Bobby Griffin's damn lucky to be dating you."

Cheryl smiled. "Thanks, Daddy." Another small sob shook her, like an earthquake aftershock. She pressed her face into his neck again. "Will you
really
try to like him?" she whispered. "Please."

Jack tilted his head back and let out a slow breath. Sometimes life was so hard. "Sure, Princess."

8

J
OHNNY DIDN'T WAIT around. Thirty minutes after dropping Stephen Casey off on a street corner twenty blocks away from the seafood warehouse--tied to a streetlamp, blindfolded, and still wearing just his boxers--Johnny was back at Marconi's row house. One thing about the old man, he didn't sleep much. Claimed he needed less and less the older he got so it wasn't tough getting a late-night meeting with him. Seemed like Marconi was using a lot of those extra waking hours to put on pounds. It was one in the morning, and he was horsing down a ham and cheese hero. Leaning over a little folding tray table with a pastel flower painted on it that was sitting in front of his easy chair as he watched
Green Acres,
lettuce and tomato spilling out both sides of his mouth.

"I always liked the Gabor sisters," Marconi muttered through his half-chewed food.

"Always thought they were sexy."

Interesting, Johnny thought. He figured Marconi didn't have sexual thoughts anymore. Figured he'd left that behind. But maybe men never did. "Uh-huh." Marconi put the sandwich down. "So what'd you find out, Deuce?"

"It's like you said," Johnny began. "Kyle McLean didn't drown in the East River after all. The car going in the drink was all staged with the NYPD's help. Casey faked everything for McLean."

Marconi cleaned off his onyx pinkie ring with a paper napkin. The ring was covered with mayonnaise. "Where's McLean now?"

"Casey doesn't know."

"He's lying," Marconi snapped. "He knows."

"I don't think so. I used one of the best torture techniques around on him. He told me McLean was alive right away, but he didn't say anything else about him. Even when I pressed." Even with a third, fourth, and fifth bucket of water. "If Casey knew anything else, he would have spilled his guts. Believe me, Angelo."

Marconi waved his hand angrily, then pointed. "I'll tell you who knows," he said loudly. Johnny winced, afraid of what was coming. He'd already thought of this, just hoped Marconi hadn't. But the old man never missed a trick--or an opportunity. "Who?" he asked innocently.

"McLean's mother. She knows. If they're good Catholics, the kid's talking to his mother. You and I both know that, Deuce." Marconi grinned. "You may need to get the dirt out of her. Then put
her
in the dirt."

"She wouldn't tell me even if she knew," Johnny answered, disgusted at the thought of waterboarding a middle-aged woman who'd probably never even hurt a flea. Torturing an innocent woman wouldn't just break his code of honor, it also would disintegrate it. Make him no better than any of the other goons walking around New York who offed people for next to nothing regardless of who they were or whether they were guilty.

"She's his mother. She'd die before she told me."

Marconi pointed a stubby finger at Johnny. "You know I don't condone violence against women, but this is my grandson. I can't rest in peace until I make this thing right. You need to do whatever it takes to find out where McLean is now that we know the accident was a fake. Even that waterboarding trick you do. You'll go after this woman if you can't find any other way to hunt him down. And you won't screw around. You don't turn up anything on McLean quick, you're going after his mother. Got it?" They stared at each other hard for a few moments, neither one blinking. Finally Marconi picked up the hero and took another messy bite.

As Johnny watched Marconi chew, he tried desperately to shake off the image of a blindfolded middle-aged woman strapped to a piece of plywood. The image of the icecold water going down her nose. And the image of her begging for her life. "Casey did tell me something else interesting. Other than the fact that McLean didn't drown in the East River that night."

"Mmm. Yeah?"

"Yeah. He told me your guys killed Kyle McLean's girlfriend."

"Bullshit," Marconi retorted, smacking his lips. "We never touched her. She died in a car accident."

The old man had denied any involvement fast. Too fast. Like he'd known the accusation was coming. Or like he'd denied it before. "Yeah, that's what Casey said you'd say. But he said the brakes had been screwed with. Said the NYPD crime lab inspected the car, and it was pretty obvious what happened."

Marconi smiled, pieces of half-chewed food stuck between his crooked lower row of yellow teeth. Smiled like he was counting to ten slowly. "Maybe McLean screwed with the brakes. Maybe she did him dirty, and he couldn't take it. Ever think of that?" Johnny touched the card in his shirt pocket. Christ, if he'd ever found out Karen was cheating on him, he would have lost his mind. "No, I didn't."

"Well, Deuce, that's why I'm where I am." The old man picked at a piece of lettuce between his two front teeth. "And you're where you are."
9

A
S JACK HOISTED the last two plastic bags out of the shopping cart and into the Mercedes' trunk, a tub of margarine slipped out and tumbled to the cigarette-strewn pavement of the Publix grocery store parking lot.