Forced Out (8 page)

"Pick that up."

Jack eyed the woman who'd just yapped at him like a Chihuahua on steroids. She was standing a few feet away. She was middle-aged, dripping with jewelry, and wearing huge Chanel sunglasses. He'd seen her in the store before--she made a huge production of herself whenever she came in--but he'd never had to lug her bags to her car. Somehow he'd escaped that pleasure--until now.

All the bag boys in the store hated her, cringed when they saw her come in. Just hoped to God she wouldn't end up at their aisle when she was finished shopping. Supposedly she was a rich-as-sin widow, but all she ever tipped was a quid. Twenty-five measly cents to be her man-slave for ten minutes in the steaming hot Florida sun. It was almost like she enjoyed being cheap, the guys said. Said she smiled funny when she dropped the coin into your sweaty palm. Like she knew what a joke it was, and she was having fun toying with you. Well, the way this was going, he wouldn't even get a nickel. He knelt down and picked up the container, feeling the flask of scotch in the pocket of his green apron.

"Let me see it," she demanded, snatching the container from his hand. "It's damaged. I want a new one."

Jack shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with it," he said politely.

"I
want
a new one."

Another bag boy was stowing groceries into the back of an SUV across the lane. A clean-cut, African-American teenager who'd taught Jack the ropes on his first day at the store. Jack caught the kid watching out of the corner of his eye, hiding a grin. "Then get it your damn self," he muttered. "And don't be such a
bitch
." The second he said it, he wished he could have taken it back. Not because of the trouble it could get him in, but because he'd let his temper get away from him. Because he'd stooped to her level and lost his grip on being a gentleman.

The woman dropped the margarine and pressed her hands to her mouth. This time the top popped off and rolled beneath a Toyota parked beside the Mercedes.
"What did you
say?"

The word had come out of his mouth with no warning, a knee-jerk reaction to her unbearable rudeness and arrogance. Helped along by the scotch, of course. For the past few hours he'd been sneaking a snort every time he finished stowing someone's bags, careful not to pull the flask out in front of the parking lot security cameras mounted atop the light poles. He felt bad because he'd promised Cheryl he wouldn't drink anymore, but forty minutes into his shift he'd known he couldn't survive the day without it. Besides, technically she hadn't asked him to stop drinking for good. Just for last night. He leaned down and retrieved the container a second time. "You want another one?" he growled, holding it up so close to her face she instinctively backed up until her wide hips hit the Toyota. "You
really
want another one?" He turned and hurled the margarine as far as he could. Admiring its arc until it finally tumbled into the field next to the parking lot, startling a great gray heron that was stalking something in a puddle out there. For sixty-three he still had a pretty good arm. "Then, like I said, get it yourself." She started shrieking at the top of her lungs as he stalked off.

He pulled the apron over his head when he reached his car--an old Chevy Citation he'd picked up at a government auction last year in Tampa for seven hundred bucks--and pulled the flask out, taking a long swig. His shift didn't end for an hour, but he wasn't going to get caught up in the firestorm he assumed the woman was going to create inside the store. Then he might miss the game. Nope, he'd just show up in the morning like nothing happened and see what was what.

From over the roof of the Citation he watched the woman quickstep back toward the store in her heels and tight skirt, still shrieking in a high-pitched wail. He took another healthy gulp of scotch. What a train wreck. No wonder she was a widow. Her husband had probably committed suicide. And he was probably a lot happier where he was now.
Wherever
that was.

Thirty seconds later Jack was wheeling the Citation out of the Publix parking lot, feeling that excitement building in his chest--and he wasn't even anywhere near the ballpark. God, he'd caught baseball fever again so fast. Last night had brought it all back. Brought back his incredible love for the game, the comforting feeling that he couldn't think of anyplace in the world he'd rather be. It was like being in the womb when he was at a baseball stadium--safe and warm. Last night hadn't washed away all the bad memories, but it had proven to him the truth to an old adage he'd never really believed in: if you really loved something or someone, time healed all wounds. The scars stayed with you, but you could forgive and move on, maybe even learn from the pain. Even at his age. He eased off the accelerator, reminding himself to slow down. There was plenty of time before the first pitch, and he couldn't afford another ticket. When he'd been pulled over last month doing seventy in a forty-five on his way home one night, the cop had nearly made him take a Breathalyzer test--which he would have failed. Miserably, too. Fortunately the guy had shown mercy and told him just to get his sorry ass home and sleep it off. He'd always cursed cops before then. Figured they were never around when you needed them but were always around when you didn't. Now he figured maybe they were people, too. At least some of them. Despite the fact that the guy still had given him a speeding ticket.

Jack raced up fast behind a white station wagon. Too fast. Came way too close to the guy's bumper now that he was starting to feel the scotch. He took another guzzle anyway. Damn that Bobby Griffin. He'd gotten to Cheryl, gotten inside her head. That unfortunate reality had been tattooed all over her face last night at the game, then again at home. Bobby had convinced her there was a chance for them to have something meaningful. The end was going to be awful, but Jack promised himself not to give her the I-told-you-so speech when it happened. He shook his head and took another swig. At least he didn't have to worry about Cheryl moving out anytime soon. She was so right. That would be a bad day. A
very
bad day. Well, he was going to do his best to make sure it never happened.

He banged the steering wheel so hard he yelped at the pain shooting up his arm. That wasn't fair. If he really loved her, he had to let her go. That was the bottom line, what any parent eventually had to do.

But how the hell was he supposed to survive after that?

10

J
OHNNY KNELT DOWN in front of the gravestone, laid a bouquet of two dozen red roses on the wet ground, then ran his fingers gently over the chiseled letters. Karen Nicole Robinson. She'd died seventeen years ago, shortly before they were supposed to be married. He'd never gotten over her, never been able to move on in that part of his life. His grandmother used to tell him time healed all wounds. It was the only thing he could remember her ever being wrong about. This wound would never heal. Johnny took a deep breath as he gazed at her beautiful name, pictured her beautiful face as she lay in the open coffin that day. He still loved her so much.

Marconi wanted Kyle McLean dead. Fast. The old man had made that very clear last night at the end of their second session, and the incentive to get on it right away was the million bucks. Which, after all, was a damn good incentive. It would be an all-cash deal, too--so no taxes. A million dollars with no need to cut Uncle Sam in on a cent. Marconi was going to move the money multiple times in odd amounts through several of the family's Swiss, Belgian, and Antigua accounts so U.S. authorities couldn't trace it. The old man seemed obsessed with McLean. Like he couldn't think of anything else but the kid sprawled on the ground with a bullet through his head. Last night he'd reminded Johnny again to make no judgments, just to follow orders. Johnny shook his head. He was going to keep doing the things that mattered despite the warning. Coming out here was at the very top of that list.

Karen had lived in an apartment building across the street from his grandmother's place in Bayshore. They'd met one summer afternoon during a thunderstorm when they were both running home with schoolbooks over their heads, when they were both thirteen. They'd never dated anyone else, been almost inseparable from that moment on. They'd done everything first together: first beer, first kiss, first sex. He'd loved her so much and not because she was beautiful, which she was: a stunning brunette with long legs and haunting hazel eyes. He'd loved her so much because her heart was pure. She never hated anyone no matter what they did to her. She always turned the other cheek, always forgave, always figured they must have been abused as a child or were just having a bad day. He loved her for that because it was something he wasn't capable of. It wasn't in him to be forgiving or pure to people he didn't care about--sometimes not even to people he did--and he admired her deeply for it. Then she was taken from him with no warning. And that was how it all started.

Her operation was supposed to be no big deal, a routine appendectomy. But somehow something had gone terribly wrong on the table. When the surgeon came trudging out to the waiting room, red eyes riveted to the scuffed tile floor, Johnny knew his world had been shattered before the man even opened his mouth. There would be no wedding, no house in the country with two boys and a golden retriever, no happily ever after. Because he could never love another woman the way he loved Karen.

For several years after her death he'd tried going out with other women, but the dates had all ended up disasters. All hollow reminders of what he'd had with her. So he didn't bother anymore. Now he just called Marconi when he wanted female company, and Nicky arranged it for him. Whenever he did, he always took down the hundred pictures he had of Karen in the Long Island house. And the first thing he did when the girl was gone was put the pictures back up exactly where they'd been before. The anesthesiologist attending on Karen's "routine" operation had given her the wrong dosage, though hospital officials tried to hide the truth. They'd tried to pass it off as her having a weak heart, just one of those unfortunate deaths. But Johnny heard the real story from a nurse who'd been in the operating room. A woman who was friends with his brother. It was his first lesson in the value of firsthand information. He'd waited six months to take revenge. Stalked the anesthesiologist constantly so he knew the doctor's routine cold. Finally put a bullet through the guy's head as he was walking his wife's poodle on East End Avenue in Manhattan one frigid December evening. After the hit, he'd calmly tossed the .22 pistol into the East River, then slept the sleep of the righteous. Eight straight hours more soundly than ever before in his life. The doctor didn't give a damn about what had happened to Karen. Hell, he'd even had the audacity to demand payment for the operation despite what he'd done. Well, he'd gotten his money. He'd gotten justice, too.

The murder had been front-page news in the New York papers because the doctor had been married to a prominent socialite. A woman whose family had all the right connections. People who swore they'd track down the animal responsible for killing the gentle physician as they stood on the steps of City Hall in lower Manhattan two mornings after the hit, flanked by the mayor and the police commissioner. But no one ever came to question Johnny, and the crime went unsolved.

Johnny had never felt the slightest remorse, and he quickly realized where his talent lay. There would be no more stocking shelves at the Sears in Bayonne.

He rose up off the ground when the rain started to come down harder, kissed his fingers, and placed them on her name again. "Bye, baby. I love you. See you soon." He pressed his fingers to his chest and felt the two of hearts. Karen had given him the card right before they'd wheeled her into the operating room, as she lay on the gurney outside of where she would die. She'd told him it represented them--two lovers who would always be together. Since that day it had never been out of his reach.
11

J
ACK SAT IN the gravel parking lot of Tarpon Stadium finishing what was left of the scotch. When it was gone, he tossed the flask in the backseat and headed for the ticket counter, where he treated himself to a box seat with ten of the thirty dollars he'd earned in tips today. Thank God not everyone was as cheap as the woman in the Mercedes. Hell, he still had plenty left over for food and beer. Maybe even for a few drinks after the game.

So he stopped at the hot dog stand outside Section 121 and bought himself a sizzling foot-long. Then smothered it at the condiment station across the concourse with mustard and chopped onions, the same way he always had at Yankee Stadium when everything was right between him and the game. The first bite was so good it hurt his jaw the taste sensation was so strong. He smiled when he made it to the end of the tunnel and the lush green canvas came into view. A baseball game, a box seat, a foot-long, a beautiful spring evening, and a genuine objective. It hadn't been like this in a long time. It was amazing how fast life could turn. On one thin dime.

"Hey, mister, good to see you again. You okay?"

It was the same old man who'd been here last night. "Hey there, my friend," Jack called back loudly. "God, yes, I'm fine. That was all a false alarm last night. People getting riled up over nothing. But thanks for asking. Mighty nice of you." The scotch had him in a great mood. "Good to see you, too."

"Glad to hear you're okay. We were all real concerned."

"Ah, I'm fine. You can't hurt me. I'm a tough old tank."

"Where are your friends tonight?" the usher asked.

"Friends?"

"The people you were here with last night."

"Huh?
Ooooh
. That was my daughter and her boyfriend," Jack explained. "They didn't want to come again so soon. Young people, you know how they are." He winked. "They wanted something faster and louder. You know?"

The usher shook his head sadly. "Don't I? I got a granddaughter just like that. Wouldn't come to a baseball game to save her life. She wants MTV and video games."