Forced Out (37 page)

"Jesus Christ. The poor kid must have gone crazy."

"He told me he lost his mind, and he went after the guy."

"Bad idea." Jack didn't know much about the mob, but he knew you never won a fight with them. "
Very
bad idea."

"Especially because the loan shark's enforcer buddy was hanging around, though Kyle didn't know it. And this guy was bigger than Kyle. Which didn't really matter because the guy had a gun." Cheryl kissed the baby on the forehead and started rocking her gently. "So Kyle bolted for his car, jumped in it, and took off. He got away, but he knew he had a big problem. The next day the problem got even bigger."

"Why?"

"Kyle has an uncle who was with the NYPD. He told him what was going on a few days before everything went nuts, so he was already trying to get inside information from his contacts. The morning after Kyle had his run-in with the loan shark the uncle got a call from an old informant who told him it all happened right in front of the house of one of the family's most senior guys. In front of a row house in Queens. The deal was Kyle killed this mob boss's grandson when he drove off in a panic. The little boy was riding his bike and Kyle hit him as he was trying to get away from the loan shark's buddy." Jack banged the table loudly, scaring Rosario so badly she almost jumped out of Cheryl's arms.

"Damn it, Daddy. The baby was almost asleep."

"Sorry, but
now
I remember it all. Now I remember reading about that whole thing in the newspapers. The story was front page, even down here."

"I wouldn't know," she said, cradling the baby. "I never read those articles. It's like you said. They're animals and I don't want to know anything about them." Jack raised both eyebrows. "Well, the great thing is, that all happened a couple of years ago. They've forgotten about it by now."

"I don't know about that, but Kyle swears he didn't do it. He says they framed him. He says he never hit a little boy on a bike. Never hit anyone. I believe him, too."

"But I'll bet his cop uncle told him at the time he had only one choice. To fake his own death and run."

Cheryl nodded. "Right. So Kyle drove his car off a pier into the East River, then came here to Florida and started living under the name Mikey Clemant. He doesn't stay in one apartment for long, he's broke, he doesn't--"

"He doesn't have any friends," Jack cut in, "doesn't get close to his teammates, suspects everyone of everything. Yeah, I can understand him doing that for a while. But like I said, it's been two years. He doesn't have to worry about it anymore."

"Are you sure?" Cheryl asked uncertainly. "I thought those guys were supposed to have long memories."

"That's overblown these days," Jack said confidently. "Besides, if I'm remembering the story right, that mob boss was pretty old. Hell, he's probably dead by now." Cheryl shrugged. "All I know is that Kyle told me he got scared after he had that incredible game."

"Because the local sports guys went on and on about it," Jack said, snapping his fingers.

"They made a bigger deal about it than he thought they would. Then the national guys probably picked it up."

"ESPN," Cheryl said. "At least he thinks they did. He didn't see it himself because he doesn't have a TV, but people told him about it. He was even a little worried that somebody might figure out the Mickey Mantle thing, too. About him copying Mantle's 1968 season."

Of course. "That's why he dumped yesterday's game."

"Four lazy pop-ups," Cheryl confirmed. "Nothing like Mantle's May 31st game in 1968. And he won't ever have the same game as Mantle again."

"Did he admit that to you?" Jack asked. "That he had a different game than Mantle on purpose?"

"Yup."

Jack raised his hands to the ceiling, like he was thanking God. "It's a miracle," he murmured. He gestured toward the living room. "Did our young guest tell you what else Mikey Clemant spells? Or did you already figure that one out on your own?" Cheryl thought for a few seconds, then her eyes widened.
"Mickey Mantle."
Jack nodded. "Mantle was his father's idol. His father and just about everybody else in New York City during the sixties."

"Including you," Cheryl pointed out.

"He was," Jack admitted, a faraway look in his eyes. "He was the greatest player I ever saw." For a few moments he reminisced about some of the things he'd seen Mantle do on the field. Finally he shook his head. "So anyway, Kyle switched the letters around in his name to come up with his fake name."

"As a tribute to his father."

"Yes."

Cheryl put the baby back in her high chair. "He's had a couple of tough years, Daddy. We need to help him."

"We will, Princess."

"How?"

"I'm gonna get him a tryout with the Yankees," Jack answered. "Then I'm gonna help us." He gritted his teeth. "I'm gonna get my job back, and I'm gonna find out who screwed me."

Cheryl moved around the table and hugged him from behind, squeezing his shoulders.

"Daddy," she said quietly, "there's something I need to tell you. I hope you won't hate me for it, but I looked in that box underneath your bed." She was ready for him to jump out of his chair and start yelling, but he didn't. "I know Mom made up all those lies about you cheating on her. I know it was really her cheating on you. That you were telling me the truth all along." She hesitated. She could feel his body starting to tremble. "I love you so much."

* * *

"Did you ride your bike all the way out here?" Mitch Borden asked. "All the way out here to the stadium?"

MJ nodded. "How'd you know?"

Borden pointed out the window. "I saw you ride up. How far is it from your house?"

"Nine miles."

"That's dedication, young man," Borden said with the faint smile of sincere respect elders didn't often give teenagers. "You can go a long way in life if you keep up that attitude."

Mitch Borden owned a string of Mercedes dealerships all over South Florida--and he owned the Sarasota Tarpons. He was a tall, gray-haired, distinguished-looking man in his late sixties. He'd been raised in a small Georgia town by a blue-collar father who'd been a devoted member of the Klan until the day he died. But Borden hadn't been poisoned by all that. He'd been strong of will and mind, an independent thinker even as a young man, and he'd turned his back on his father after leaving for college--which he'd paid for himself. Now he was worth millions, into many different businesses and investments. But his pet project was the Tarpons.

"I want to go a long way."

They were sitting in Borden's spacious office, which overlooked the baseball field on one side and the parking lot on the other. "Well, what can I do for you, son? Somehow you got yourself past Patty," he said, motioning toward the office door. "I don't know how, because usually she doesn't let anyone past."

"I got past her," MJ said politely, "because you wanted me to get past her. I'm assuming you know what happened last night."

Borden nodded, his expression turning serious. "I did hear about that. At least I heard Lefty's version. I assume you're here because you have something you want to tell me?

A different spin on it, I'm guessing."

"Mikey Clemant didn't do anything, Mr. Borden. He's innocent. Zack Whitney's the one who's lying." MJ hesitated. "Reggie McDaniel isn't coming clean, either. And Whitney's white and McDaniel is black. So you can see this isn't a race thing for me, okay?"

"Fair enough. Well, what do you think happened?"

"Pardon me, sir, it isn't what I
think
happened. It's what I
know
happened." Borden spread his arms. "Okay."

MJ related the facts quickly.

When he was done, Borden nodded approvingly. "You're a good communicator, MJ. If you write and listen as well as you talk, I know you'll be a great success. Being able to communicate is essential for success."

For some reason Borden seemed fixated on telling him how far he could go in life, on being a mentor. Maybe that was just natural for older, successful men. Maybe they felt like it was their duty to help young people figure it out. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate that, but I--"

"I'll make you a promise, son," Borden interrupted. "I'll check out what happened personally. If I find out your version is the truth, you'll be back in the dugout for tomorrow night's game and your friend Mr. Clemant will be back in center field, too. And some heads will roll."

"How exactly are you going to check things out?" MJ asked skeptically. Judging from his reaction, Borden wasn't accustomed to this kind of scrutiny. But what the hell, this was important, and it wasn't like he was going to get another opportunity like this. It was the least he could do for the Kid after being on the take. "Details?"

"Don't worry about it."

It seemed like the odds were still pretty good that he and the Kid wouldn't be back in uniform tomorrow night. Well, at least he'd tried. "Okay." MJ started to get up.

"Why is Mikey Clemant so hard to reach?" Borden asked, his voice softer. "Why doesn't he want to be anyone's friend?"

"What do you mean?" MJ eased back into the chair. He could tell Borden was seeing right through the smoke screen.

"Don't try that with me, son. I'm helping you. Now you help me." Borden was right. Fair was fair. "I don't know," MJ said apologetically. "I really don't. I'm trying to figure it out, too."

"Why? I mean, I've got an economic incentive. Why do you care so much?" For some reason that was suddenly a tough question. Maybe in the back of his mind he still figured he had an economic incentive, too. Like Jack might give him more money if he kept helping. "I don't know. 'Cause he's my friend, I guess. At least I think he is. I know he doesn't have any other friends on the team."

"You know him before you started the batboy job?" Borden asked.

"No."

"Mmm."

MJ debated with himself for a few seconds about opening up. He didn't know if he could trust Borden, but you didn't get many chances like this. "Look, Mr. Borden, I think Mikey Clemant could be one of the best baseball players who ever lived." MJ was careful to keep using the Kid's alias, even though he knew his real name now. "The world ought to see what he can do. And Mikey ought to have a chance to see the world." Jack had said that over and over. "You gotta help him. You can't let guys like Whitney and McDaniel ruin it for him."

"Well," Borden said quietly, smiling like he thought MJ was going overboard, "I don't know if Mikey Clemant can ever be as good as you say, but I do know this: you're a good man...and a good friend. And strong friendships can be made quickly. Don't ever think they can't. Two weeks is plenty of time to start trusting someone." That really hurt. If Borden only knew his whole reason for doing this had been money--

and that maybe it was still the most important thing for him in this--he wouldn't have quite the same high opinion. So many times MJ had heard Momma say life was all about the devil tempting you with money and material things. He hadn't really believed her, but maybe she was right after all. Why shouldn't she be? She was right about everything else.

"Speaking of caring, why do you care so much about me?" MJ asked. "Why are you willing to check out what really happened in the locker room yesterday for a poor black kid? Is it for the same reason I got the batboy job over all those other white kids? You got a guilty conscience?"

"Maybe," Borden answered honestly. "Maybe a lot of white guys my age do. Even if we never did anything wrong. Is that so bad?"

A wide grin snuck up on MJ. Suddenly he liked Mitch Borden. Suddenly he liked two white guys in their sixties. Sometimes life was a damn trip.

The intercom on Borden's desk buzzed. "Yes, Patty?"

"It's that phone call you've been waiting for."

"Thanks." Borden rose from his chair, leaned over the desk, and held out his hand. "It's been nice getting to know you better, MJ. Should I call you or Mikey when I'm done looking into things?"

"Me."

"Do we have your number?"

The number at the house was on the application he'd filled out. Hopefully Momma had paid the bill this month. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Borden nodded toward the door. "Ask Patty to arange a ride home for you. Somebody who can haul your bike. Tell her I said so."

"Thanks, Mr. Borden."

When he'd left the office and closed the door, MJ headed to Patty's desk.

"How can I help you?" she asked, looking up.

"Tell Mr. Borden I appreciated his offer." Maybe it was stupid, maybe he was just too stubborn for his own good, but he had too much pride to accept the ride. He had an overwhelming desire never to owe anyone but always to be owed. And maybe he needed nine miles of pedaling to think about why he'd gotten into this whole thing in the first place. "He'll know what that means."

* * *

"Well, look who it is," Jack called warmly as the Kid opened the screen door leading outside from the kitchen. Jack was by the shed, crouching beside a pine box the size of a large desk drawer. "How'd you sleep?"

"I'll tell you what, Mr. Barrett, I don't think I've slept like that in a long time."

"Call me Jack, will you please?"

"Yes, sir."

Jack liked what he saw. Kyle McLean seemed much more relaxed this morning. The beard was gone, too, and it was a big improvement. Cheryl was right. The Kid was going to need a team of bodyguards to protect him from the girls in New York.

"Thanks."

The Kid smiled as he walked across the scraggly lawn. "I went to bed around ten last night, and here it is after eleven in the morning. I didn't wake up once. That couch is pretty comfortable."

"I know. I used to fall asleep on it all the time until I got that easy chair." Jack stood and held out his hand. "Hey, I'm glad you decided to stay."

"Well, like I said last night, all I got is this cheap little rental downtown. I hate it."

"You get what you pay for."

"You get what you can afford."

Jack smiled as he thought about the simple truth embedded in both statements. How most of the world's problems could be defined by one or the other. "Why don't you move in with us? At least until your suspension is over."