Forced Out (4 page)

They were silent for a few moments.

"Why'd you want me to come over tonight, Angelo?" Johnny finally asked in a low voice. He'd learned how effective it was to speak softly now that he carried a big reputation.

Marconi patted Johnny's hand again. "I always liked you, Deuce. I always wished you could have been a real member of the family, wished you could have been a made man someday. You deserve it more than most of the jerks we make." He hesitated. "But...

well, you know."

Johnny nodded. "I know, I know, I'm a quarter Russian. It can't happen." His expression turned grim. "My granddaddy couldn't keep his snake in his pants, so I pay."

"But I've always taken care of you," Marconi spoke up quickly. "Always thought of you as one of my guys. You know that."

There was something odd about this conversation. Like it was forced, Johnny realized. Like Goliath might bust in here any second and start shooting. Amazing how he could make the leap from a forced conversation to a hit so fast, but that's how it was with these people. You picked up on subtle signals, or you died. He'd never heard of a hit going down in Marconi's house, and didn't know what he could have done to deserve it. But you never knew with the Lucchesi family. There was very little predicting. Which was the insidious part about getting into bed with them, and why you
always
had to be on guard. Well, if that was tonight's plan, he wasn't going down without a fight.

"You agree with that, Deuce, don't you?" Marconi pushed. "That I've always taken care of you? Always made sure you got paid good for what you do?"

"Yeah, sure. Of course."

Johnny made more than a million bucks a year working for Marconi. Thanks to the old man he owned a house in a quiet town out on Long Island's north fork and a condo down in Tampa overlooking the bay. In addition to the apartment he kept here in Queens. He'd never had to kill more than three people a year, and they'd all had it coming. All been scum of the earth.

Johnny always made certain of that before he pulled the trigger. Always made absolutely certain the men Marconi contracted with him to kill were lowlifes. It was important to Johnny that he never execute anyone who didn't clearly deserve it, because that allowed him to accept what he did for a living with a clear conscience. Allowed him to sleep soundly every night. It was his code of honor. And it could never be compromised. Not if he wanted his self-respect.

Everyone thought he'd offed the owner of the liquor store down the block, but he hadn't. You didn't kill a man for calling you a name. Of course, he'd never denied responsibility for what had happened to the guy, either. Never admitted or denied it when he was asked. Just ignored the question the same way he did when somebody asked him about the two of hearts. After all, he had a reputation to maintain. The cops had hauled him into a precinct out near LaGuardia Airport to interrogate him about the deal because people on the street could never keep their mouths shut. But he'd just laughed at the NYPD boys when they got tough. They'd released him an hour later.

"You know I appreciate your generosity, Angelo." Johnny hated being so gracious, so respectful. It didn't come naturally. But he'd learned that it was the right thing to do if he wanted to keep making a million bucks a year. He'd never let his pride get in the way of that. "No question."

"Good, good." Marconi gazed at the TV for a few moments. "I'm going to ask you to do something, Deuce."

Now Johnny felt better, breathed a semisigh of relief. This was how it usually went, how Marconi usually carried on the conversation. And the old man's tone suddenly seemed more normal, too. The tension in Johnny's body eased, but he still kept an eye on the door. Of course, he always kept one eye on the door wherever he was. "What is it?" Marconi gestured toward the window. "You remember that thing that happened in front my house a couple a years ago?"

Johnny's eyes raced to Marconi's.

"When my grandson was run over," Marconi continued, "when my daughter's only son was...when he was murdered."

"I remember," Johnny murmured, aware that Marconi's voice had cracked. It was the first time he'd ever heard the old man come close to choking up.

The boy had been the victim of a hit-and-run right in front of the row house while he was riding his bike in the street just after dark. Right about this time of the evening. Marconi had rushed outside when he heard yelling and cradled the battered little boy in his arms until he died. The ambulance had screamed to a stop at the scene a few seconds later, but there was nothing the EMTs could do. Nothing Marconi could do, either. All he'd been left with was revenge.

"What was the guy's name?" Johnny asked. "The guy who did that thing?"

"Kyle McLean."

"Yeah, right, Kyle McLean. Well, I thought that had been taken care of." Johnny was certain he'd heard McLean was dead. Certain he'd heard that McLean had died in a car accident the next night. Figured the real story was that some of Marconi's men had taken McLean out and made it look like an accident. "I thought it had kinda taken care of itself."

Marconi shook his head. "Turns out it hasn't. At least there's a chance it hasn't. A
good
chance." He pointed at Johnny. "I want you to find out for sure. And if it hasn't, take care of it for me once and for all. Make sure McLean gets what's coming. I'll pay you a million bucks for this one thing, Deuce. You'll do it as a personal favor to me." So this wasn't something that had been sanctioned by the council--which all killings related to family business had to be. This job was outside that. A job Johnny had to do out of respect for the man who'd made him a millionaire. Even more important, a man who'd picked him up when he was on his ass and helped him climb out of the depths of despair. A job that would be ten times harder to refuse than any family contract.

"I know you want your marks to deserve what they got coming," Marconi said evenly. "I know about the research you do," he continued, "and the judgments you make in each case. I know about your code of honor."

Johnny pursed his lips. He'd never had any idea Marconi was aware of all that. Now he understood why the man was so powerful, what set him apart from the other wiseguys. He saw all the things they did--and all the things they didn't.

"Johnny."

Johnny's eyes rose slowly to Marconi's. He couldn't remember the last time the old man had called him anything but Deuce. "Yes, sir?" And he couldn't remember the last time he'd called Marconi sir.

"I just want you doing what I say. I just want you to kill Kyle McLean. You got that?" Johnny had been told from the beginning that sooner or later this moment would come. A moment when he'd have to compromise his code of honor. When he would have no choice. But he'd always believed he could keep the relationship on his terms. Always felt like he'd be able to make the ultimate decision. Now he realized how naive he'd been. The people who'd warned him were exactly right. Everything would always be on Angelo Marconi's terms.

"Yeah," he finally said, his voice barely audible, "I got it." Marconi hesitated a few moments, then nodded. "Good man."

"You got somewhere for me to start?" Suddenly Johnny felt like he couldn't get out of here fast enough. "Some way for me to pick up the trail?"

"Yeah. There's an ex-cop named Stephen Casey, who I hear may have some information on McLean. It won't be easy to get it out of him, but you're good at that. Getting dirt out of people." Marconi snickered. "You know, you're good at putting people
in
the dirt, too. Funny how that goes, huh?"

"Uh-huh." It wasn't funny at all.

Marconi reached into his pocket and handed Johnny a crinkled piece of lined yellow paper. "That's Casey's address down in Brooklyn. I want to hear back from you by tomorrow noon. No later than that, and the earlier the better." Stephen Casey might be on vacation, might be staying at a girlfriend's house, might be working the graveyard shift at whatever job he was doing now that he'd quit the NYPD. But none of those things mattered to Marconi, not in the slightest. The old man had achieved a position in life few men did but all aspired to. He didn't accept excuses from anyone--even if they were legit. Because he didn't have to.

"Deuce?"

"Yeah, okay." At least Marconi was calling him Deuce again.
3

A
S MIKEY CLEMANTS ambled toward the plate--a forty-ounce ash bat slung over his right shoulder--a few faint cheers rose from the crowd. But they were quickly smothered by a chorus of enthusiastic boos and a loud chant of "You suck, Mikey" rising from several rows directly behind Jack. Growing in intensity as more people joined in with each chorus. The beer taps didn't close after the sixth inning here, the way they did in a lot of major-league stadiums, and the fans had turned rowdy since the seventhinning stretch. For the owner of the Sarasota Tarpons every day was a financial struggle, Jack assumed. It was for most of the Single-A independents, he knew. The guy needed to make money any way he could, despite only paying his players $1,500 a month on average. So he kept the beer taps wide open until the last fan was gone.

"Clemants is gonna ground into a double play," Bobby predicted, nodding at the kid, then at the runner who was creeping off first to a short lead. "Betcha." Maybe Bobby had been right about the kid after all, Jack realized. Maybe Mikey Clemants wasn't a diamond in the rough, wasn't the next Single-A prospect about to burst onto the major-league stage like a fiery meteor out of the night sky. Which was difficult for Jack to admit. He'd been so sure watching the kid head out to center for the top of the first that he was the real deal. Even more convinced after the circus catch a few moments later. But since that first inning Clemants had done exactly as Bobby had predicted: played like crap. He'd grounded out to short, been called out on strikes, and hit into a force play in his three at-bats. And he'd turned a single into a triple for the visiting team by botching a routine line drive over the second-base bag in the fifth. Thanks to which the Tarpons were now down a run with one out in the bottom of the ninth. It looked like they were going to hang a big "L" on the broad shoulders of Jack's can't-miss kid.

"Betcha," Bobby repeated. "Come on."

Jack would have taken the other side of that one in a heartbeat after the catch in the first. Not now. "Nope."

The kid popped the first pitch up. A moon shot that rocketed into the darkness above the stadium lights for a few moments, then came screaming back to earth and caromed off the yellow railing in front of a gang of young boys who'd raced out of the stands to shag it. The ball nailed the railing right beside the cowering old usher, glanced off one of the boys' arms, bounced on the fourth step, and smacked into Jack's outstretched palm. The crowd roared its approval at his barehanded catch. It was the loudest cheer of the night.

"Nice catch, Pop." Bobby patted Jack's shoulder. "Take a bow, old man." Jack hated attention. "Nah." A second later the boys were in his face, begging and shouting for the ball. "Get out of here," he said with a hiss. "All of you."

"Please, mister," one of the boys yelled, lunging for the ball.
"Please!"
Jack yanked the ball away from the boy's mustard-covered fingers. "No! Go on, get! I said,
get
!"

The cheers turned quickly to boos as the boys sulked away empty-handed. Bobby patted Jack's shoulder again. "Nice going. Good luck getting out of here alive now. And don't expect me to save you, Pop."

"Oh, I won't," Jack muttered as the pitcher wound up for his next delivery. "Believe me." The second the kid swung, Jack knew it was gone. From the distinctive smack of bat slamming ball. From the way the opposing pitcher hung his head and started for the dugout without even looking at where the ball was going. From the way Clemants flipped the bat playfully in the air as he started his home-run trot. It was a herculean blast that seemed like it was still climbing as it sailed over the center fielder's head, then landed somewhere out in the pasture, startling one of the cows grazing at the edge of the stadium lights. A five-hundred-foot blast. At least. And it didn't even look like the kid had swung that hard.

"Incredible," Jack whispered, feeling vindicated as the kid circled the bases. Clemants had made two of the greatest plays Jack had ever seen on a baseball field in one night, and he'd done it in a Single-A stadium. Admittedly book-ending an otherwise bushleague performance, but still. "He's got so much talent." It was strange, though. The kid had just smashed a walk-off home run--the most dramatic play in baseball--but there was no one at the plate to congratulate him. No teammates, no coaches, not even the guy he'd batted in. Just the umpire standing by with his mask off and his hands on his hips, waiting to make sure the kid touched the plate. The fans were finally whooping it up, but Clemants's teammates didn't seem to care at all. Typically, the whole team would have been there. In fact, most of them had already exited the dugout and were heading to the locker room.

After the kid crossed home plate, Jack stood up stiffly, pulled his ticket from his shirt pocket, smiled at it again, stowed it in his wallet, then started limping up the stairs. He'd never seen anything like it on a baseball field before. Hell, Ty Cobb's teammates still congratulated him when he made a great play--even though they hated him.

"Hey, Pop!" Bobby yelled. "Where you going? Game's over. Let's get out of here!" Jack kept going, ignoring Griffin. God, his knees ached. Elbows, too, all of a sudden. Old age was nothing but a legalized form of torture.

The little boy was sitting in the aisle outside the top row of seats in a wheelchair. Which, from the looks of his misshapen, gnarled legs, he'd never get out of. He was ten or eleven years old, twelve at most, but he looked like an old man sitting there between the chrome armrests. God, it was terrible.

"Here, son," Jack said softly, leaning down and handing over the ball he'd snagged a few minutes ago. He'd noticed the boy as he was climbing the stairs to his seat with Cheryl before the game. Felt terrible about the little guy's situation for nine innings--until he'd caught that foul ball. He'd known from the second it smacked his outstretched palm what he was going to do with it. He'd thought about coming up here as soon as he made the catch--which probably would have made him more popular with the fans--but he didn't want to embarrass the boy by making a big deal out of it in front of everybody. So he'd waited until the game was over. "Enjoy."