Lights Out (20 page)

Jake pulled her closer, hoping she was a player, but he knew he was in trouble when she jerked away and said, all bitchy, ‘What’re you doing?’

Shit,
Jake thought.
If she just took one fucking pill.

Jake stopped kissing Diane and said to Susan, ‘Something wrong?’

Susan went over to Mark. Mark put his arm around her.

‘Susan’s my wife, dude,’ Mark said.

‘Oh,’ Jake said.

‘What’re you doing?’ Patti said. ‘I thought you came here to see
meT

Hoping he could at least salvage a three-way with Patti and Diane, Jake said, ‘I did come here to see you, baby. But I thought you wanted to . . .’ He held out his hand toward the empty seat on the couch. ‘Come on, why don’t you join us?’

‘God, the rumors about you really are true,’ Patti said.

‘What rumors?’ Jake said, worried. Had the Marianna Fernandez story leaked somewhere?

‘Didn’t I read in the paper that you and your fiancee set a wedding date yesterday?’ Mark asked.

‘You have a
fiancee}’
Patti said.

‘No, that was just bullshit in the papers,’ Jake said, smiling, hoping he could win them over with his great choppers. ‘I don’t even know that girl they said I’m engaged to. I’m gonna sue over that - was talking to my lawyer on the way over here. So why don’t you come over and join us?’

‘Maybe you should just leave,’ Patti said.

Jake looked at Diane, hoping at least she’d be on his side, but she was looking away, obviously not into it anymore, and said, ‘Yeah, you should go.’

‘Look, guys, you all have the wrong idea,’ Jake said. ‘I don’t know what you think was going on here, but that wasn’t what was going on at all. It was just the E, that’s all. I took it on an empty stomach - I haven’t had anything to eat all day. I apologize if I offended anybody.’

‘God,’ Susan said. ‘You know, you really epitomize what’s wrong with professional sports today. You athletes think you can just do whatever you want and there’re no consequences, ever. You’re supposed to be role models - you’re supposed to set an example for the rest of society.’

‘Hey, you guys took those pills too,’ Jake said. ‘So if you’re thinking about telling anybody about this, don’t think that’s not getting out. Your bosses’ll find out you were taking drugs. You’ll all lose your jobs.’

‘Just get out of here,’ Patti said, starting to cry.

‘I have an idea,’ Jake said to Patti. ‘How about we start over? We can go out to dinner, just me and you. We’ll—’

‘Get out!’

Jake left the apartment, wondering how everything had gotten so fucked-up.

In the lobby people recognized him - nudging their friends, saying, ‘Hey, look over there,’ and ‘Oh, my God,’ or just staring at him. Jake pulled his Varvatos jacket up over his head and left the building.

Outside, Jake remembered telling the limo driver to pick him up in two hours. He took out his cell to call the limo company, then realized that he didn’t have the number, and he couldn’t even remember the company’s name. He could’ve called for another car, but there were a lot of people around, and he didn’t want to hang out, getting recognized and being hounded for autographs.

Jake walked to the corner of Third and Ninety-fifth and tried to hail a cab. It took about five minutes before one stopped for him. He opened the door, brushed a couple of Starburst wrappers off the seat onto the floor, then slid in and said, ‘East Eighty-first Street, Brooklyn.’

‘I don’t go to Brooklyn,’ the driver said in his foreign accent.

‘Why not?’ Jake asked.

‘No Brooklyn. Just get out of my cab, okay?’

‘Come on,’ Jake said, ‘don’t you know who I am?’

Jake saw the driver’s tired, swollen eyes in the rearview.

‘No.’

‘I’m Jake Thomas.’

‘Who?’

‘Jake Thomas. The baseball player, Jake Thomas?’

‘Look, man, I’m not going to Brooklyn - forget about this, okay? You want to go to Manhattan somewhere, I take you, okay? But I don’t go to Brooklyn.’

‘You don’t understand - I’m famous baseball player. You know, baseball - batty, bally . . . ‘

‘Just get out, man, or I call police.’

‘Look’ -Jake glanced at the driver’s ID - ‘Salojin. I’m having a really shitty night, okay? How ‘bout I give you an extra fifty bucks? Here.’ Jake took out a fifty-dollar bill and held it up. ‘Come on, what do you say?’

The driver thought it over, then said, ‘A hundred.’

Jake didn’t feel like arguing. An extra hundred to get this night over with seemed like a bargain.

‘Just get me the fuck out of here,’ he said.

About forty-five minutes later they exited the Belt Parkway at the Rockaway Parkway exit. Jake gave Salojin directions to his parents’ block, and then, as they passed some slummy housing project, Salojin said, ‘If you famous, why don’t you live in Westchester, or New Jersey, or Park Avenue? You not really famous basketball player, right?’

‘Right,’ Jake said.

‘See? I knew it.’

The cab pulled in front of Jake’s parents’ house. Jake paid the fare plus the extra hundred. He was exhausted and just wanted to get into bed and crash and put this whole stupid night behind him.

He was heading along the walkway toward his parents’ house when someone said, ‘Yo.’

At first Jake thought it was another asshole reporter, but it didn’t sound like a reporter. It sounded like some homeboy hanging out, hoping to get an autograph from Jake Thomas to sell for twenty bucks on the Internet.

Yeah, right.

Jake looked over his shoulder, ready to tell the guy to come back tomorrow, when he saw two guys there on the sidewalk. They looked like gang kids, except they weren’t kids - they were in their mid-twenties or older. One guy had his hands in the pockets of his big red leather jacket and had long braids. The other, taller guy was hanging back, and had his hands in the pockets of his North Face winter jacket. He had on baggy jeans, bunched up at the ankles, and wore ratty cornrows.

Jake had a feeling these guys were bad news, but he hoped he was wrong. Maybe they were actually guys he went to school with, or old friends, or relatives.

‘Do I know you?’

‘Naw, you don’t know nobody,’ the guy with braids said.

Jake still sensed he was in trouble. He turned away and took another step toward the stoop.

‘Yo, give it up.’

Jake stopped again, instinctively moving his right arm closer to his rib cage. When he was home in Pittsburgh, or traveling during the season, he usually carried a .44 Magnum around with him for protection. Since he’d broken into the big leagues, he’d had a few psychos threaten him, and he’d had to have bodyguards from time to time, but he still felt safest when he was carrying. He even took a gun with him on road trips, bringing it into the stadiums and keeping it in his locker during games. But now, because he’d flown to New York this weekend on a fucking commercial flight, he was unarmed.

Figuring he’d play dumb, Jake said, ‘Give what up?’

The guy with the braids took out a black-and-silver handgun and aimed it at Jake’s face.

‘Your wallet. Give that shit up, man.’

Jake shifted his eyes back and forth, hoping to see somebody who could help him or call the cops, but the block was empty. All day yesterday and this morning, fans, photographers, and reporters were hounding the hell out of him; now, when he needed them, they were gone.

‘Come on, move it, man - gimme your fuckin’ wallet ‘fore I shoot your motherfiickin’ head off’

‘Hey, you guys know who I am, right?’

‘Yeah, we know who the fuck you are. Why you think we here? Now give up your fuckin’ wallet, man, or I’m gonna start shootin’.’

As Jake reached into his pocket he said, ‘You guys are making a big mistake.’

‘Gimme that shit,’ the guy with the braids said, grabbing the wallet. He looked inside it, then said to Jake, ‘Yo, where the fuck’s the rest?’

‘I don’t have any more.’

‘Bullshit. There only, like, two hundred somethin’ dollars here.’

‘That’s all I have.’

‘Don’t fuck around, bitch. I
know
you got money.’

‘Yo, maybe we should go,’ the guy with the cornrows said.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ Braids said to him.

Jake wondered if they were both high on crack.

Then Braids said to Jake, ‘Gimme the gold, yo - chain, watch, rings, all that shit.’

Moving slowly, hoping someone would come by and scare the guys off, Jake removed his Movado watch and handed it to the guy.

‘Faster, yo,’ Braids said.

Jake took off his nameplate necklace and rings.

‘Diamond earring too, bitch.’

As Jake handed Braids the jewelry, a car came down the block. Braids moved the gun closer to his body so it was concealed by his jacket, but he kept it aimed at Jake.

The car didn’t stop.

‘Now where’s your fuckin’ money at, bitch?’ Braids asked.

‘What,’ Jake said,

‘that’s not enough for you?’

‘Yo, give it up, ‘fore I shoot you in yo’ pretty-ass face.’

‘You saw my wallet. That’s all I got.’

‘Maybe you got another wallet. Or maybe you got money in yo’ shoe, or in yo’ Fruit Of The Looms. Maybe I should pop a hole in yo’ head and look there.’

‘Come on,’ Jake said.

‘Why do you think I have money?’

“Cause you J.T.’

‘So? What, you think I walk around with wads of cash in my pockets?’

‘He said you do.’

‘Who said?’

‘The fuck cares who?’

‘Who said that? Who told you I have cash?’

‘I don’t know his fuckin’ name, man.’

‘Wait. You’re saying somebody
sent
you here?’

‘Just give it up.’

‘I wanna know his name.’

‘Ryan,’ Cornrows said, speaking his first word. He seemed calmer, less whacked-out than Braids.

‘Yeah, Ryan, that’s right,’ Braids said. ‘Nolan motherfuckin’ Ryan.’

Jake remembered how Ryan had attacked him before. That sick fuck must’ve sent a couple of his gangsta friends over here.

‘Ryan lied to you, all right?’ Jake said.

‘I gave you all I got.’

‘Let’s just get the fuck outta here, man,’ Cornrows said.

‘Shut up,’ Braids said. Then he said to Jake, ‘What about inside? You must got money there, right?’

‘I got nothing inside.’

‘Let’s go check it out.’

‘My parents’re home.’

‘So?’

There was no way Jake was letting these guys inside the house. He knew they’d kill him
and
his parents without giving a shit about it.

‘The fuck you waitin’ for?’ Braids said.

‘You know anything about guns?’ Jake asked.

‘What?’

‘You know about guns?’

‘Yeah, I know about guns.’

‘You know what a Barrett is?’

‘A Beretta?’

‘No, a Barrett. It’s a sniper’s rifle. Fifty-caliber. Can take down a fucking airplane.’

‘So? Who gives a shit?’ Braids said. ‘You don’t got one.’

‘Yeah,’ Jake said, ‘but my old man does. He was a sniper in the Gulf War. Used to shoot guys between the eyes from a thousand yards away.’

‘Who gives a shit ‘bout yo’ damn father?’

‘You should. He has his Barrett aimed at you right now through the living room window and he’s about to blow your fucking brains out.’

When Braids’s eyes shifted toward the house, Jake went for the gun and quickly had both his hands around the asshole’s wrist.

‘Shoot him,’ Braids said to Cornrows.

Cornrows was aiming a gun at Jake. His hand was shaking.

Jake was struggling, trying to get Braids’s gun.

‘Just shoot him, man,’ Braids said. ‘The fuck you waitin’ for?’ Then a shot was fired. The backfire forced Jake backward; he almost lost his balance. Then he realized he had Braids’s gun in his hand. He aimed at Braids, ready to fire, when he realized that Braids was groaning, holding his chest. Braids stared at Jake, his eyes widening for a moment, before he collapsed onto his side.

Jake looked over at Cornrows. Cornrows still had his gun aimed at Jake. Jake aimed Braids’s gun at Cornrows, ready to blow the asshole away, when Cornrows took off, sprinting up the block.

Jake ran too, up the stoop. He fumbled, searching for his parents’ house keys on his chain; then he thought,
Fuck, the jewelry.
He went back to Braids, dug into his jacket pocket with his free hand, but there was nothing there. Then he checked the other pocket and found his watch, necklace, and rings, but couldn’t find the diamond stud. Cursing, he continued to feel around the lining. He heard voices; they seemed far away. He was about to leave without the earring; then he felt a prick and pried it loose out of the lining. He went back up the stoop, fumbled again with the keys, finally found the right one, and opened both locks and went into the house. A light was on in the living room, but the kitchen was dark. He went into the kitchen, now hearing footsteps upstairs. His mother’s muffled voice said, ‘Call the police,’ and his father - his voice a little clearer, probably at the top of the staircase - said, ‘Wait right here.’

Jake looked down at his hand, saw he was still holding Braids’s gun. He thought about stuffing it into the garbage can. No, that was stupid. How about under the sink? No, that was even worse. It had to be someplace where no one would find it. He put the gun in the inside pocket of his Varvatos jacket, figuring he’d get rid of it later.

Then Jake realized he was screwed. If Braids lived he could make up a story, say that Jake shot him; then the police might find the gun with Jake’s prints on it and Cornrows could back the story

Jake considered going back out there, waiting for the cops and the ambulance to show up. He’d tell the truth about everything, say he’d been mugged and the gun went off by accident.

He took a few steps back toward the living room, then stopped, realizing that telling the truth would be the dumbest thing he could do. Jake Thomas’s being involved in a shooting would make headlines all over the country; if it came out that he’d fired the gun - forget about it. He could say it was self-defense, but there would be all kinds of questions: Did he have to kill him? Did the gun really go off by accident? N o matter what the evidence showed, people would assume he was guilty because he was half-black, and of course young black men were always shooting people. And if Braids and Cornrows were drug dealers, it would be even worse. People would assume Jake was mixed up with drugs, and by tomorrow morning he’d lose all of his endorsement deals and he could kiss his Hollywood career good-bye.