Forced Out (16 page)

"Meeting's over, Tony," Marconi interrupted.

"But sir, I--"

"Get outta here."

"But--"

"Goliath!"

* * *

Johnny eased the Seville to a stop half a block down the street from the house. He had no choice. He had to come here, he'd realized, pressing his arm against his body as he rose out of the car. Making sure the pistol was there. It was all window dressing, but Angelo Marconi wasn't a patient man. And the old man had eyes everywhere. Johnny walked slowly along the sidewalk in front of the small single-family homes lining the blue-collar neighborhood of eastern Queens, his eyes shifting smoothly about. Looking for anyone or anything suspicious. It was clearly a neighborhood in decline. No urban rehab here. The street was pocked with large potholes; dandelions were growing thickly through the sidewalk's gaping cracks; the cars that lined the street were old and corroded, and a few were even up on blocks; there was junk strewn across most front lawns; and almost all the houses showed visible signs of disrepair and neglect. Broken glass crunched beneath Johnny's soles as he reached the wire gate in front of the small brick house. He checked up and down the street, then pushed open the gate just enough to squeeze past. The hinges looked rusty and he didn't want them squeaking as the gate swung back. He wanted the element of surprise.

One more check of the street--everything seemed normal--and he headed up the path toward the house. When he reached the door, he leaned against it and turned the knob. It opened right away, which surprised--and worried--him. He quickly drew his gun, holding it out in front as he moved through the quiet home.

When he finished searching the third and last bedroom upstairs, he was satisfied the house was empty. Except for a hungry cat meowing pitifully at his feet. Like it hadn't eaten in a while.

Either Helen McLean had made her getaway, or Marconi's patience had reached its limit. Those were the only two possibilities. He'd know sooner rather than later which it was.

* * *

"Why did you go to Helen McLean's house?"

Stephen Casey lay on the plywood board in an uncomfortably familiar position. On his back, wrists tied snugly beneath the board, neck chained to it as well, head eighteen inches below his feet. He wasn't bothering to struggle this time. He knew it was useless.

"Tell us!"

"She's my sister," Casey muttered. He was blindfolded again, so he had no idea when the water would come rushing down his nose. Somehow this time seemed worse because he knew what was going to happen, and he could feel his heart pounding wildly. The anticipation was driving him crazy. "Why do I need a reason to go to her house?" he asked, doing everything he could to keep his voice calm. He knew men like these thrived on seeing their victims terrified. "What's the problem?"

"Don't give us that bullshit."

Casey had always been good at remembering faces and voices, and he was certain that so far he hadn't heard the voice from the other night. That guy's tone had been naturally cold. A hundred times more intimidating than the loud, harsh Brooklyn accents he was hearing this time. These men had to
try
to sound intimidating. The other guy hadn't needed to try at all.

"Look, I don't--" Casey's words were suffocated by the first bucket of water splashing on his face. "I hadn't seen her in a long time," he sputtered when it cleared. "Hell, I didn't even--" The second bucket choked him off again. "
Christ,
please don't do this to me. I'm begging you." He could feel himself losing control, like some pitiful coward. Begging like a third-grade wimp on a playground. He hated himself for it, but there was nothing he could do. At least he'd gotten up the courage to leave his house and warn Helen. "I can't take it anymore. I'm gonna--" A third bucket. "Stop, stop, stop, I can't breathe! I'm trying to tell you I'm gonna--" A fourth bucket.

Suddenly Casey's chest felt like they'd dropped a truck on it. The fear of drowning evaporated, replaced by a different, even more imminent panic. He gasped several times and struggled madly against the ropes binding his wrists, the urge to clutch his heart enveloping him. He strained wildly against the chain securing his neck to the board until it felt like his eyeballs would explode from his skull. He gasped once more, exhaled heavily for several seconds, then his body went still.

The three men in the room glanced at one another, then one of them grabbed Casey's wrist.

"He's dead. Jesus Christ, he's dead."

"Heart attack?"

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Well, what do we do?"

The guy who'd searched Casey's wrist for a pulse shrugged, then smiled. "Take him home and put him in bed. Natural causes. It's perfect."

* * *

"What do you want, Deuce?"

Johnny settled into the chair beside Marconi. The old man seemed on edge this afternoon, probably because he didn't have something high in cholesterol heaped on a plate in front of him. "I wanted to let you know that I went to try to find Helen McLean today. The kid's mother. But she was gone. The house was empty. And it looked like she left in a hurry, like she wasn't coming back. At least not for a while."

"What do you mean?"

"There was an open suitcase in one of the guest bedrooms, and there were clothes spread out all over the bed in her room."

"How do you know it was her room?" Marconi asked.

"It was pretty obvious, you know? Pictures on the bureau, things in the bathroom. I mean--"

"Yeah, okay."

"And there was this cat. The thing was acting like it was going to take a chunk out of my ankle if I stuck around much longer. It was starving."

"You feed it?"

Johnny scoffed. "Of course not." In fact, he'd opened a can of tuna from the pantry and put it on the floor. Stroked the cat's head while it ate, too. "Why would I care about some stupid cat?"

Marconi grunted and waved like he didn't really care one way or the other. Like he regretted asking the question.

"There was one thing I didn't understand," Johnny said.

"What?"

"It didn't look like a man lived there."

"Huh?"

"I thought she lived with her husband."

"Bad liver got him a year ago." Marconi sighed. "Bastard." Johnny looked up. "What do you mean? What did he ever do to you?"

"Nah, nah, I'm talking about that guy Stephen Casey. He must have warned her, must have told her to get out."

"Weren't you watching Casey?" Johnny didn't know if they were. Marconi had never said anything. He'd just assumed.

"Of course we were," Marconi confirmed. "But we think he still got to her somehow. We picked him up earlier this afternoon and tried your technique on him. That waterboarding thing." The old man chuckled cruelly. "So it's pretty damn effective. Just like you said."

"What do you mean?"

"The guy up and had a heart attack on us while we were doing it to him." Marconi snapped his fingers. "Here one second, gone the next."

"What?"

"Yup, he's dead as a trash can."

"Holy Christ."

"Now what?" Marconi wanted to know. "
Now,
how the hell are you going to find Kyle McLean?"

Marconi rarely got mad. He didn't have to. But when he did, it was best to diffuse the situation quickly--or run. "I'll figure it out, Angelo," Johnny assured the old man. "You know that. One way or the other, I'll find this kid."

The old man pointed at Johnny. "You're not trying to make judgments this time, are you, Deuce? You're not trying to decide if you're going to do what I asked? I warned you." Johnny gazed back at Marconi hard, making sure his eyes didn't wander. Hoping the old man wouldn't see the truth. Wondering where the question had come from, if it was just Marconi's suspicious nature, or if there was something more specific driving the interrogation. For a moment he thought about being proactive, about admitting to Marconi that he'd gone to see Treviso. Then quickly explaining it was all in an attempt to pick up Kyle McLean's trail. Not done in any way to help make a judgment about what had really happened to Marconi's grandson that night in front of the row house. He figured it might be best for him to bring it up first, even as thin as it would sound. But Marconi hadn't mentioned anything about Treviso, so maybe it was best just to let it go and get out of here as fast as possible.

"Of course not, Angelo," Johnny denied gently. "You told me not to make any judgments, so I'm not."

Marconi's eyes narrowed. "I'll find out if you are, Deuce. And if you are, I'll be pissed,
real
pissed. You just need to do your job, exactly like I told you." Johnny nodded.

"You don't wanna piss me off, Deuce. You've been around long enough to know that."

"Of course."

"Good. Then get out of here and go kill Kyle McLean. That's what I want. I want him dead.
Fucking
dead.
Now
. Hell, yesterday wouldn't be soon enough at this point."
17

S
ORRY, NED." IT took everything he had to say it, mostly because he didn't mean it, because he knew he wasn't wrong. And a little because he hated saying he was sorry about anything, even if he was wrong. "I really am."

Ned's office was the only one on the second floor of the store. Everyone else worked in cramped cubicles or out in the open. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, tossing his pen angrily into a cluttered mess of departmental reports. "Didn't I fire you this morning?"

Jack had worn his lucky Yankee cap to the store, brim pulled low over his eyes, and snuck up the stairway to the second floor when the cashiers weren't looking. He felt like a fool skulking around like this, but there wasn't any choice. He had to get his check. He needed the money so badly. "I want to talk to you about that."

"I'm trying to get out of here, Jack. Trying to get a few of these damn Memorial Day inventory orders off my desk so I can go home, prop my feet up, and drink a cold beer. Why are you getting in my way?"

"I'll apologize to that woman for what I did." Jack's jaw clenched involuntarily. "If that's what it takes, I'll do it."

"If that's what
what
takes?" Ned leaned back in his chair and smiled smugly, turning the crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes into puffy rolls. He put his hands up and motioned inwardly with his fingers. "Come on, say it. I can't wait to hear Jack Barrett eat a big piece of humble pie. Maybe with a scoop of I'm-a-prick-flavored ice cream on top." Jack had gotten his usher job this morning without a hitch. There were lots of older men in Sarasota, but apparently not many of them wanted to lead people to seats in the sultry heat of a Florida evening wearing what looked like a bus driver's uniform. Name, address, and Social Security number on a short form, and he was in business with the Tarpons starting tomorrow night.

Sewing up the batboy situation hadn't been nearly as easy. According to MJ, the club already had fifteen applications when he applied for the job in an office down the hall from where Jack was fast-tracked to his usher position. And there were two kids filling out applications when the woman in charge handed MJ his form. Fortunately, Mitch Borden, the owner, had happened past at just that moment, taken an immediate liking to MJ, and hired him on the spot.

Which wasn't surprising. MJ had a way about him, an undeniable charisma you couldn't miss. And of course, hiring MJ gave the owner an opportunity to show the community he was an equal opportunity employer in an obvious way. Which didn't matter at all to Jack, even if MJ was resentful about it. Jack didn't care how it had happened, just that it had.

The only bad part about the whole deal was that MJ had turned into a damn good negotiator. Now he had the power, so he wanted a down payment. He wanted two hundred bucks in cash before he'd show up for tomorrow night's game three hours early to learn the ropes. To understand the complex nuances of retrieving bats, he'd said.

"Come on, Jack," Ned pressed, his grin growing wider and more obnoxious. "Let's hear it."

"I need that paycheck real bad," Jack admitted quietly. "I need those four hundred bucks. I'll apologize to the woman in person if you give me my money. I'll come here tomorrow whenever time you tell me she's going to be here, and I'll apologize. I'll get down on my damn knees and beg her forgiveness if you'll just give me the money. In fact, I'll kiss her fat feet if that's what it takes. And I don't even want my job back. Just give me the money."

"I don't care about that woman. I care about me."

"Huh?"

"Beg me, Jack."

"What?"

Ned stood up and moved out from behind the desk. "You've been a pain in my ass ever since you came here. I don't care if you beg her. I want you to beg
me
."

"Pain in the ass? What are you talking about?"

"Over the past few months I've had at least five customers come back in the store and complain that they smelled booze on your breath after you helped them load bags, but I didn't do anything. You're
always
at least a few minutes late, but I've looked the other way every time. And you've got to be the damn slowest bagger I've ever had in this store. But I chalked that up to you being so old." Ned chuckled wryly. "Even though you run a pretty fast forty-yard dash to your car at quitting time." Jack frowned. "So I've got a couple of minor flaws. Nobody's perfect." Ned rubbed his eyes, like he was tired and not just of Jack. "You're an old fart, Jack. I don't know any other way to put it. And there's not even anything cute about it. Usually old farts are cute. But not you."

"I'm a little cute."

"No you aren't. At least not to me. You only have one thing in this world going for you and that's your daughter."

Jack's eyes raced to Ned's.

"Cheryl's got to be one of the sweetest people I've ever met, Jack. And if she did anything with herself, she'd be one of the prettiest, too. But that's beside the point."

"When did you ever meet her?" Jack demanded.

"She came to the store a month ago." Ned snickered. "Goddamn, your wife must be a saint. That's the only way I can see how Cheryl could possibly turn out like she has."