Forced Out (15 page)

was going to have a problem being a spy. "I used to be a senior executive for the New York Yankees." It was interesting. Even people who didn't know much about baseball were usually impressed when he told them that. MJ didn't seem impressed at all. "On the scouting side. So I know talent." He gestured toward the stadium again. "There's a guy on this team who's good,
really
good. One of the best I've ever seen. I want to take him to the Yankees. But I can't reach him, can't get him to talk to me. It seems like he doesn't want to be discovered, doesn't want to make it out of Single-A. I can't figure out why. It doesn't make any sense, but I'm gonna get to the bottom of it." He pointed at MJ. "And you're gonna help me."

MJ's face brightened. "So I'm your mole."

"If that's what you want to call it."

"And this kid is your white whale."

Jack's chin recoiled slightly. "Yeah," he agreed hesitantly, surprised that MJ had ever read
Moby Dick
. "I guess you could say that."

"And you're Captain Ahab."

MJ was turning out to be a machine gun loaded with a clip full of surprises. "When did you read
Moby
--"

"I'm not calling you Rev anymore," MJ interrupted. "I'm calling you Ahab. That has a meaning for us."

Jack liked Ahab better than Rev, mostly because MJ liked that it had a special meaning between them. The young man had a lot of layers to him. He was a pain in the ass, but he was compelling. "Okay."

"You said you
used
to be with the Yankees," MJ called as Jack headed toward the executive offices. "Why aren't you with them anymore?"

"It's a long story," Jack yelled back over his shoulder. He definitely wasn't getting into that now.

"I got plenty of time."

"No way. Come on, let's go."

"All right," MJ agreed, following after Jack. "But you're gonna pay me four hundred bucks a week for this gig, right?"

"Right."

"Because this only pays twenty bucks a game, and they don't even take me to away games."

"Right."

"And you're going to pay me in cash. No personal checks."

"Yes,
damn
it."

MJ stopped and spread his arms. "Man, where you gonna get that kind of dough?"

"Good question," Jack muttered under his breath as he kept walking. "
Very
good question."

* * *

Stephen Casey reached for the doorknob of his front door, then pulled back. It was the third time he'd started to leave the house--then stopped. He wanted to go outside, knew he had to go out there so he could get in his car and make the short drive over to Helen's place to warn her that she was in grave danger. And that her son was in grave danger. He just hoped he wasn't too late.

He reached for the knob again--and pulled back again. It was the thought of what that guy had done to him the other night that was making him act like some terrified punk, not an ex-police officer. The thought of being tied to that plank at a downward angle, of the Saran Wrap encasing his face, of the water rushing into his nostrils, of that time he'd almost drowned. The thought of it happening all over again. It was killing him. Completely overpowering his courage, overpowering his desire to do the right thing. He took a deep breath, shivered, then reached for the doorknob and turned. Finally, he thought as he headed toward his car.

16

T
REVISO POUNDED ON Angelo Marconi's front door with his small fist. It was a gorgeous spring day in New York, not a cloud in the sky. Still the slightest chill in the air

--even at two in the afternoon--but the smell of new blooms was everywhere, even in this concrete jungle. He loved spring. He'd never told that to anyone but Karen. He didn't want to seem even weaker than he knew people already thought he was. But he always felt a sense of rebirth as May headed toward June and the daylight hours grew longer.

Treviso had spent all morning running around Brooklyn and Queens chasing a mark who'd turned into a greased pig a week ago--the way a lot of them did when their loan was due. But an hour ago, Treviso and Paulie the Moon had tracked the guy down to a greasy spoon in Astoria and surprised him while he was eating a meatloaf sandwich. Tracked him down thanks to a tip from a beat cop they paid off regularly. They'd shaken twelve grand out of the guy. Everything Treviso was owed--four grand of principal, the VIG, even a cooked-up processing fee. The guy had actually started sobbing when they hauled his ass down a garbage-strewn alley behind the diner and Paulie pulled out a dentist's tool--a long piece of metal with a sharp hook on one end--

and threatened to pull the guy's brains out through his nose. Treviso had no idea if that was even possible, but the mark must have believed it because he broke down immediately. He rode with them in Paulie's El Dorado to an electronics shop he owned where he grabbed a wad of cash from a safe in the back, then directed them to his brother's house, where he got the rest. It had been a long but rewarding day. Marconi was going to be pleased. Hopefully enough to grant a big favor.

The door opened and Nicky appeared. "Yeah, hey, Tony. Sorry it took so long, but I could barely hear you knocking."

Treviso saw a smirk flash across Nicky's face. Nicky had probably been thinking about calling him Timid Tony instead of just Tony. "Hey. How you been?"

"Okay." Nicky stood in the doorway, arms crossed, blocking the way.

"Oh, right, right," Treviso said, touching his forehead. "The password. How could I forget? It's ninety-one."

Nicky stepped back. "Okay. Know where you're going?"

"Yeah."

The smell of pizza drifted to Treviso's nose as he brushed past Nicky and headed up the narrow, creaky stairs. God, it smelled good. Marconi must be eating a late lunch. Maybe the old man would share a slice. It was hard for Treviso to keep weight on, to stay at his normal 145, because of this intestinal disorder he'd been suffering from for a couple of years. He'd never bothered to find out what was wrong, just ate everything he could get his hands on. Nothing inside hurt too bad, so he figured it wasn't time to go to the doctor yet.

When Treviso reached the top of the stairs, he turned down the hallway toward the far bedroom and came face-to-face with Goliath. "The password is Knicks."

"Yeah, right." Goliath motioned for Treviso to put his palms against the wall and spread his legs. "You know the drill."

Treviso grinned and did so. Very few people in the family knew Goliath's real name, but Treviso did. He understood that Marconi didn't want people knowing Goliath's real name because then somebody might be able to get to him, might be able to bribe him. Then the old man's security could be compromised.

Goliath was so stupid. Marconi would assume you couldn't keep a guy's name secret forever. Not for long at all really, especially in the Mafia. And once the old man decided it had just about reached the time when people would find out the guy's real name, Goliath would be capped and dumped in the landfill the family controlled out in North Jersey. But Goliath didn't get it. He figured he had a job for as long as he wanted it.

"Okay, you're clean." Goliath turned and knocked on the door. "Boss?"

"Yeah?"

"Timid Tony."

"Let him in."

Treviso's grin grew wider. Not because he was about to meet with the number two man in the entire Lucchesi organization, but because he knew the whole frisking thing was a charade. There was a metal detector in the foyer downstairs, hidden in the doorway molding, which was why Treviso had taken off his belt with the huge buckle before coming in. The metal detector was a secret, just like Goliath's real name. You couldn't see the equipment even if you were looking for it, but it was there, all right. But Marconi was smart as hell. He knew that if certain people weren't frisked, they'd assume there was a metal detector somewhere, then try to find it and disarm it. That was the reason for the charade. The reason he had people frisked.

Treviso forced a serious expression to his face as he moved into Marconi's bedroom. Most people in the family thought he was a skinny, stupid little fairy. They had no idea he'd figured out Goliath's real name, or that he knew there was a metal detector in the foyer, or that he'd uncovered a hundred other things like that about the family. The same way he knew Deuce Bondano had been staring at Karen in the hallway outside the kitchen this morning. Staring at her lustfully, too, the bastard. As if he really had a chance with her.

"Hello, sir," Treviso said respectfully.

"Hi, Tony," Marconi replied through a mouthful of pepperoni pizza. Treviso appreciated that Marconi never called him Timid Tony--at least not to his face. Which was all that mattered to Treviso, because he figured everybody cut down everybody behind their backs all the time anyway. Like the don of the family probably cut down Marconi behind his back. That was just how people were. Even good friends did it to good friends. It was a rotten world, but that was how it was, and there wasn't any changing it. It was just good to have a beautiful wife and a healthy baby boy to carry on his name. They were his world, all that mattered to him, and he'd do anything to protect them. Anything.

Which was the real reason he'd killed that bastard and sent the severed head with the dead rat in its mouth to the wife. Because the guy had asked Karen out. Tried to get into her panties.

One day she'd come along with Treviso to collect the VIG. At one point he'd headed into a bodega to get a pack of cigs and left her alone in the car with the guy for no more than five minutes. While he was gone, the guy had tried to get her to meet him later, tried to wet his snake. Karen had told him everything as soon as they dropped the guy off. Well, the guy had ended up damn sorry. So had his wife.

Treviso reached into his pants pocket, pulled out an envelope stuffed full of big bills, and placed it on the tray table in front of Marconi. "This is everything that guy down in Brooklyn owed us. The one I called you about yesterday. The one who's--" Treviso stopped when Marconi held up his hand. The hand that wasn't holding the oily piece of extra cheese pizza. "What?"

Marconi pointed at the television set. "Turn it up."

Treviso chuckled quietly as he turned the knob, his back to Marconi. Marconi was worth millions, but he was watching an
I Love Lucy
rerun on a vintage RCA you still had to turn up manually. "That good?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah. Now get that chair over in the corner and bring it close to me so we can talk."

When Treviso was settled in, the old man patted his hand. "You done good with this," he said, holding up the pregnant-looking envelope. "You didn't take any for yourself, did you?"

"No, sir. I'd never do that. Never."

"Good boy. You have to scare this guy into paying you?"

"I did. Well," Tony interrupted himself, "I didn't exactly do it. Paulie the Moon helped me."

"He
helped
you?"

"Okay, okay. Paulie was the one who told the guy what would happen if he didn't cooperate."

"What was that?"

"He took this hook thing out of his pocket and told the guy he was going to stick it up his nose and pull his brains out with it."

Marconi laughed loudly, like it was the goddamn funniest thing he'd heard all day. Then he took another bite of pizza. "Good old Paulie," he muttered, spewing out a couple of small wet pieces of dough and cheese.

"Is that really possible?" Treviso asked, feeling his stomach churn. Marconi didn't close his mouth all the way when he chewed. The sight of what was going on in there combined with the thought of somebody's brains coming out through his nose was making him gag. "Can you really pull someone's brains out his nose?"

"Sure. I seen it done twice. It's a hell of a thing."

Treviso turned away and put his fingers to his lips.

"That bother you, Tony?"

"No."

"I thought you were supposed to have killed some guy and chopped off his head. Why would somebody's brains coming out through his nose make you wanna puke?"

"It doesn't."

Marconi cleared his throat. "How much is in there?" he asked, nodding at the envelope.

"Twelve grand."

"Remind me, how much was the loan for?"

"Four."

Marconi raise both eyebrows. "That's good. You're getting closer." Since losing a hundred grand to Kyle McLean, Marconi had stopped paying Treviso his normal commission. Usually the Lucchesi loan sharks got 30 percent of the profits, but the huge loss to McLean had put Treviso in the penalty box. Since then he'd gotten only 10 percent, and it was killing him. But it was better than having his brains pulled out through his nose.

"Why don't you run down your loans for me while you're here?" Marconi suggested.

"Okay, sure. But first can I ask you about something?"

Marconi picked up the envelope off the tray table and tossed it on his bed. "What?" Marconi suddenly seemed annoyed, probably because he wasn't used to anyone else setting the agenda. "It's like this. Well, I heard that the kid might still be alive. The kid who killed your grandson a coupla years ago. That kid Kyle McLean."

"How did you find out about that?" Marconi demanded, his tone turning surly.

"I heard it around," Treviso said quickly. "People talk, you know."

"How exactly did you hear?"

Treviso had been afraid of this. Of the old man demanding to know how he'd heard and not being put off by excuses until he had an answer he could accept. He'd been hoping the general answer would be enough, but now he was going to have to out Deuce Bondano. There was no choice. Deuce had called an hour after leaving the apartment this morning to warn him about saying anything to Marconi about their meeting. But who the hell was he supposed to be more afraid of? "Deuce Bondano came to see me. He told me about it."

Marconi pursed his lips. "Goddamn it."

"I won't tell nobody, I promise. I was just wondering if you'd let me and Paulie talk to McLean first. To see if we can get the money out of him. At least some of it, anyway. I gotta start earning some real money again or I'm gonna--"