Forced Out (14 page)

Jack looked around, aware that everything in the store had come to a halt. Cashiers weren't cashing, baggers weren't bagging, shoppers weren't shopping. Everyone was staring at what was going on at the end of aisle one. "I just came in to get my check," he said quietly. "I quit, Ned."

"You didn't answer my question. Did you call her a--" Ned interrupted himself. "Did you call her that?"

"I want my check."

"Answer my question!" Ned shouted, veins rising up out of his forehead. "Now!"

"Mr. Barrett didn't call her anything."

Jack, Ned, and the woman all glanced to the right quickly. It was the bag boy who'd been stowing groceries across the lane from where Jack and the woman had gotten into it yesterday. The young man who'd shown Jack the ropes on his first day at the store.

"Mr. Barrett was real polite to her," the bag boy continued. "She was the one who was rude," he said, pointing at the woman. "
Real
rude." Ned gritted his teeth and cursed. Two seconds ago Jack had no way out. Now the old man was going to slip through the dragnet. "Don't get involved in this, MJ," he warned.

"I'm just telling you what happened."

Ned rolled his eyes. "Look, I--"

"Are you going to let this man get away with speaking to me like that?" the woman demanded, eyes bulging. "Are you?"

Ned's eyes flashed from the woman to Jack to MJ. "No, I'm not," he finally said. He pointed at the bag boy. "You know what, MJ? You're fired, too. You've been late four times this month." Then he pointed at Jack. "If you want your check, sue the company."

"You can't do that," Jack retorted angrily.

"I just did. Now both of you get the hell out of here before I call the cops."

* * *

Biff stood up as Harry continued CPR. There wasn't any point, he knew. The guy was dead. There would be no miraculous recovery, no back from beyond. The old guy had managed to crawl to the phone and dial 911 after the heart attack hit him, but that was it. He was probably dead a few seconds after he called for help. The 911 people said they couldn't raise him again, said the line was busy. Hell, he hadn't even had time to put the receiver back down.

So many people came to Florida to die. Maybe they didn't think of it that way when they moved, but for all intents and purposes, that's what they were doing. Yeah, yeah, it was just nature taking its course, but Biff was getting sick of facing it every day from the front row. Over and over.

"He's dead, Harry."

"I gotta keep trying," Harry answered, puffing hard as he pressed on the old man's chest with both palms.

Harry was a prime target for a heart attack himself. Soon, too. He was a decent enough guy, but he was stupid. He was forty pounds overweight, drank, smoked, and never exercised. He knew better than most people what could happen to him, but he still did all the bad things. Well, you couldn't have any sympathy for someone who knew what was going to happen to him but didn't do anything about it.

"There's nothing you can do," Biff called, moving toward the living room's sliding glass doors. "Nothing."

He unlocked the doors and moved out onto a small patio overlooking a pool four stories below. The old guy had died alone--and lonely. The super who'd let them in the condo had told them that the wife had passed away four months ago of cancer, and that the old guy hadn't been the same since. That he didn't have any other family members down here to keep him company. The sons and daughters were all back in Michigan or Minnesota or wherever with the grandkids, and the old guy rarely went out. Just sat around and stared at his television hour after hour, day after day. Biff turned away from the pool. Harry was still at it in there, still trying to revive the old man. He watched the futility for a few more seconds, then glanced around the place. There were beautiful, expensive things everywhere--and probably a ton of cash in accounts all over town. The guy had spent his entire life working his ass off to get these beautiful things and all that cash, and now what good had it done him? Nada. Now he was headed back to Michigan or Minnesota in a pine box--or to a crematorium. And suddenly, as he stared at Harry straddling the lifeless old man lying on the floor, it hit Biff like a golden lightning bolt from heaven. What he'd been trying to figure out for so long.

The better way.

Now he just needed a partner. Someone just as desperate as he was.

* * *

"Let me guess," Jack spoke up, "MJ stands for Michael Jordan. Your father's a huge basketball fan, so he nicknamed you MJ." One of the other bag boys at the store had told Jack MJ's real name was Curtis Billups. The thing about the father calling him MJ for Michael Jordan was a guess, but he had to get the conversation started somehow. This seemed like a good way to do it.

MJ smiled widely, displaying two rows of perfect pearly white teeth inside his dark complexion. "Hey, that's pretty good for an old white guy." Jack glanced over at the young man sitting in the passenger seat of the Citation as they headed toward Tarpon Stadium. He would have taken a lot of satisfaction in being spoton with his guess, but MJ's old-white-man zinger had taken the air out of that. "Forget the white thing for a minute," he said evenly, "we'll get back to that. What's age got to do with anything?"

MJ shrugged, his smile growing wider. "Nothing." He hesitated. "Everything."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Uh-huh. So, you got a problem with white people?"

"You got a problem with black people?"

Tall--a couple of inches over six feet--and lean with sharp facial features, MJ was a handsome kid. He had a cool air about him, too. Like he was always in control of the situation, never the other way around.

Jack sensed that no amount of digging was going to get him an answer about what age or being white had to do with anything. At least right now. So he took another tack.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Brothers and sisters?"

"Seven. I'm the oldest."

"Well, why the hell aren't you in school?" Florida high schools typically let out for summer earlier than those in other states. But as far as he knew, they hadn't let out yet. He was still seeing school buses around, screwing up morning traffic. "You should be setting an example. You know they look up to you."

MJ turned his entire upper body deliberately to the left. "You go to school?"

"Yup," Jack said proudly. "All the way through college. Paid my own way, too."

"Cost a lot?"

"One hell of a lot."

"Work while you were in college?"

"The whole time."

"Well, that's really cool. I'm impressed. Yup, really cool." Suddenly Jack realized where MJ was headed. "It's not what you--"

"So," MJ interrupted, "you spent all that money and all that time and you ended up bagging groceries. Yeah, I should be going to school, all right," he said with a laugh.

"Maybe I should go all the way, go for a Ph.D. Maybe then I could set my sights on being a garbageman."

"Look, you and I both know--"

"And don't try to tell me bagging groceries is just a hobby, old man. Just something you do to pass the time. It's pretty obvious you haven't bought any new clothes in years. That was a real job you just got fired from."

"I wasn't fired. I quit."

"Yeah, sure."

MJ was turning out to be damn smart. And you never knew if it was a good idea to hook up with somebody smart because in the back of his mind he'd always be thinking he could do it better than you. "All I'm saying is that you've got a much better chance of making it if you go to--"

"I didn't come along to get a sermon."

"No, I guess you didn't," Jack mumbled, suddenly aware that he might be putting his foot way into his own mouth. Maybe there wasn't a father around anymore. Just memories of the man who'd given him his nickname. Maybe MJ hadn't had a choice about dropping out of school. "You go to church?" he asked, thinking about how long it had been since he'd heard a sermon.

"Every Sunday."

"Really?" Jack hadn't been to church in ten years. That had been a Christmas service Cheryl had dragged him to. He respected people who were committed to their faith. He'd always wanted to find that for himself, even more so as he aged, but it had never come. And you couldn't force it, especially on yourself. It had to come naturally. He didn't know much about it, but he knew that. "That's good."

"You?"

"Nope." Jack slammed on his brakes before flipping on the Citation's left blinker just a few yards in front of a turn. He chuckled when the guy behind him who'd been riding his ass for the last mile had to slam on his brakes, too. "You know who you look like?" he asked, spotting the light towers of Tarpon Stadium rising over the palm trees. MJ eased back in his seat. He'd braced himself on the dashboard with both hands when Jack hit the brakes. "Who?"

MJ seemed to have gotten a kick out of the slamming-on-the-brakes move, too. "A young Denzel Washington."

"I thought we all looked alike to you people."

Jack hid a smile. This kid was something else. Well, at least it was going to be fun working with him.

"Was that supposed to be a compliment?" MJ continued. "Was that supposed to make me feel good? Did you pick out a good-looking black guy and tell me I look like him to put me at ease? To make me like you because you think I look like him and you can admit that a black man can be good-looking?"

"Hey, what's your problem?" Jack snapped, suddenly not so sure they were going to have fun after all. "You don't want a sermon? Well, neither do I." MJ held up his hands. "I'm just digging on you. Don't take it so hard, old man. You aren't the first person who said I look like Denzel."

"Don't call me old man, either."

"Little sensitive about the age, are you?"

Jack gritted his teeth. "A
lot
sensitive." The sudden emotion in the response surprised even him.

"So what do you want me to call you?" MJ asked.

"How about Jack?"

"Nah, Jack's a young man's name."

"There you go again." Jack spotted the stadium turn-in up ahead. "Calling me old." MJ snapped his fingers. "I got it. I'm gonna call you Reverend from now on." Jack furrowed his brow. "
Reverend?
Why? I just told you I don't go to church."

"Well, your name's Jack, and if we carry it out a little, it turns into Jackson. Like Jesse Jackson. Like the Reverend Jesse Jackson. Reverend for short. Yeah, I like that. It's way cool." MJ thought about it for a few more seconds. "Maybe even just Rev." Jack wasn't sure he liked the nickname, but he wasn't going to argue about it. He needed MJ's help. "Why'd you help me back there at the store?" he asked, turning into the stadium's main entrance.

"Well, after all, you didn't call her a
fucking
bitch. Just a bitch. I couldn't let that one get by."

"The real reason," Jack said firmly. "Don't screw with me." MJ hesitated. "You seem like a nice guy and all, Rev," he said, his voice taking on a sincere tone, "but I didn't do it for you. No offense."

"None taken, but I still want to know why you did do it. You're smart. You knew you were gonna piss off Ned. It was a no-win thing for you."

"Oh, I won."

"What do you mean?"

MJ curled his right hand into a fist and tucked it into the palm of his left. "I hate that woman. She didn't get her satisfaction. That was winning for me. She's everything that's wrong with people."

Jack swung the Citation into a parking space by the stadium's main gate, next to a sign that read "Executive Offices." So down deep the young man was way ahead of his years. Now that he was being serious he hadn't said "you people" or "you white people." Just

"people." Life wasn't a race thing for him after all. Just a human thing. "Is your dad still around?"

MJ shook his head. "Nope. He left last year."

That explained it. As the oldest, MJ had been forced to drop out of school so he could work full-time and help pay bills. "Sorry," Jack said quietly. "Do you ever see him?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I'm cool with that." Jack exhaled heavily. "So let's get down to biz. I want you to--"

"
Cool with that?
" MJ interrupted. "
Biz?
How ancient are you?"

"That doesn't concern you."

"Well, you asked
me
."

"I don't recall saying this was going to be a two-way street."

"Fine," MJ said, opening the car door. "I'll get my own ride home."

"Wait a minute," Jack said quickly. "I'm sixty-three. What's the problem?"

"Look, don't try to act sixteen around me. Don't try to act cool. It ain't hip. If you want to know the truth, it's kinda scary. Just act your age. Okay?"

The kid was right. He'd scared himself, for Christ's sake. "Okay."

"Now, what were you going to say, Rev?"

Jack turned off the car. "I want you to go in and apply for the full-time batboy position." At last night's game, Jack noticed the Tarpons advertising for a full-time batboy. And as he was standing in the grocery store listening to Ned go off on MJ, the idea had struck him. The idea of partnership. He could have a guy on the inside, actually in the dugout, picking up information about Mikey Clemant. Maybe then he'd figure out what was up with the kid.

"Okay, but how am I gonna get out here for games? I don't have a car. I rode my bike to the store because it was close, but I'm not pedaling all the way here."

"I'll be your taxi service. I'll get you out here and home every game."

"Oh, sure."

"I will." Jack gestured toward the stadium. "I'm gonna get an usher job while you get the batboy job. I'll have to be out here, too."

MJ smiled curiously. "Why? Why would you want to be an usher? What's this all about, Rev?"

"Let's get the jobs first," Jack suggested as they both climbed out of the car. "Then I'll explain everything."

"No. I want to know now."

It was clear the young man wasn't going anywhere until he understood the situation. Maybe it was best to tell him now anyway. Better to know sooner rather than later if MJ