Bayview Heights Trilogy (12 page)

God, he’d almost begged her in the car that
night not to let Lansing turn her against him.
And tonight made
me think maybe he could take you away, too. You know, turn you
against me. All I’d have left then is Zorro and the Blisters.
How humiliating. Well, never again. He faced his buddy. “What you
takin’?” he asked Zorro.

His best friend in the world slapped him on
the back and crossed to the scarred dresser in the corner. He
pulled open the bottom drawer. Johnny followed him and glanced down
at the chains, clubs and even some old-fashioned brass knuckles
Zorro had found at a pawn shop in Times Square. Bending over,
Johnny picked up a chain. The once-familiar weight was heavy in his
hand.

But he hadn’t forgotten how to wrap it around
his fingers. When he did, it felt more comfortable.

It felt right.

o0o

FROM THE DOORWAY of the office at the
Forty-Second Street Clinic, Mitch watched his brother Kurt close
his eyes, lean back on a chair, link his hands behind his head and
prop his feet up on the desk. His sagging posture testified to his
fatigue. Operating an independent clinic in the heart of New York
City was tough, even if Kurt did have the help of two partners. His
brother’s desire to do humanitarian work, like running this clinic,
rather than earning money as a hotshot doctor on Park Avenue, had
cost him his marriage.

Mitch slouched against the door frame. “When
are you going to get some more help around here?”

Kurt’s eyes opened and a smile spread across
his face. “You volunteering?”

“Nope, I shoot them. You patch ‘em up.”

The old joke between brothers widened Kurt’s
grin. Mitch sauntered farther into the small office. Dropping onto
a faded chair facing the desk, Mitch’s smile quickly transformed
into a worried scowl. Kurt’s eyes were bloodshot, and there were
deep lines around his mouth.

“Seriously,” Mitch said. “I thought you were
going to hire some help.”

“I did. Five premed students from Columbia
University. One lasted a week, one ten days. The jury’s still out
on the others. Real life in the city is too much for them.”

Mitch rolled his eyes.

“You wouldn’t know anybody interested in
medicine who can handle what goes on in the trenches, would
you?”

An image of hostile black eyes and a sneering
mouth popped into Mitch’s head.
Johnny wants to be a
doctor...He didn’t take the scalpels...He loves his job...He’d
never do anything to jeopardize it.

“
Do
you know someone?”

“Yeah, but it’s complicated. Let me think
about it.”

“Fine. It’s nice to see you.” Kurt peered at
his brother intently. “Something’s wrong.”

Without warning, Mitch felt his heartbeat
quicken with the familiar welling of panic he experienced every
time he considered opening up. “Not wrong, exactly.”

Kurt unlocked his hands from behind his neck,
dragged his feet off the desk and rose. He went to the small
utility table, poured coffee for them both, gave Mitch a mug and
sat down in the chair opposite him. And waited.

Looking into the cup, Mitch took a couple of
sips before he said, “I’ve met someone.”

Coffee sputtered from Kurt’s mouth. Laughing,
he wiped his face and said, “Sorry. But, my God, are we talking
about a woman?”

“I do occasionally spend time with them, you
know.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never come in here wound
tight as a spring and told me you cared about one. I couldn’t be
happier. It’s about time some female penetrated that wall you’ve
built around yourself.”

“I never said I cared about her.”

His brother sat back, still smiling. “Okay,
who is this woman you don’t care about?”

“A teacher at the school.”

Kurt sobered. “Is it still hard for you?
Being there?”

Mitch was tempted to brush off his brother’s
concern, but he needed help tonight and Kurt was the only person in
the world he could be honest with.

“Yeah.” Mitch dragged his hand through his
hair. “It is hard. But I like it, too. I like the students. Cassie
has a saying on her wall, ‘Teachers change the world, one kid at a
time.’ I can help do that and it feels good.”

“Is Cassie this
someone
you’ve
met?”

Mitch nodded.

“What’s she like?”

Blowing out an exasperated breath, Mitch
stood and paced. “She’s opinionated, obstinate, feisty and mostly a
real pain in the butt.”

“Oh.”

“She’s also loyal and brave and almost as
concerned about helping others as you are.”

Kurt smiled. “My kind of woman.”

“Well, she isn’t mine.” Mitch paced to the
other side of the room.

“So I can see.”

Mitch let out a string of colorful
obscenities—which made Kurt laugh again. When Mitch glared at him,
Kurt said, “You obviously like this woman. Let yourself seek a
little human comfort.”

“It’s not comfort I want from her.”

“Oh. You can barely talk about her and it’s
all sex? What is she, a runway model gorgeous?”

Mitch stopped in his tracks. “No, not at all.
She’s pretty enough—she doesn’t wear any goop on her face.” He
hesitated. “She’s wholesome-looking, I guess. Except for the tattoo
on her ankle.”

“The what?”

“It’s a long story.”

Kurt glanced at his watch. “Well, my partner
should be here in ten minutes. I’ll buy you a beer and you can tell
me about this plain-Jane.”

“All right.” He glanced around. “And maybe we
can discuss getting another helper around here.”

“It’s a deal, buddy.”

o0o

“THIS WAS THE THIRD DAY he was out of school.
No one answers his phone or doorbell.” Cassie, perched on top of a
ladder, looked over at Zoe, who was across the room on a makeshift
scaffold. They were stenciling the walls of Zoe’s bedroom.

Zoe said, “I know, Cass.”

“I can still see his face. In that split
second when I doubted him.” She swallowed hard and blinked. “He’ll
never forgive me for that.”

“I think Johnny Battaglia is a bigger person
than that.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Zoe turned back to the painting job. The
design was of abstract birds in various tones of silver. “Johnny’s
got a lot of depth and sensitivity. Especially when it comes to
you.”

“Maybe too much. How
could
I have
believed—even for a moment—that Johnny would lock me in the storage
closet? Lansing’s accusation was totally unfounded.”

“Oh, now it’s Lansing. Not Mitch or even
Captain.”

“Don’t start.” Zoe was quiet. Cassie
continued with painstakingly small brush strokes. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. Obviously it’s a sore spot with
you.”

It was still hard, after all these years, to
talk about her feelings. Even with Zoe, who was a wonderful, loyal
friend. But damn it, Cassie needed to get some of this out or she’d
go nuts. “Actually, it’s more than that.”

Much more
. Cassie could vividly
remember the feel of Mitch Lansing’s chest against her cheek, the
steady thud of his heart beneath her ear, the all-consuming, potent
smell of him.

Zoe didn’t answer.

“I’m having some unexpected feelings for
him.”

“Honey, every female at Bayview Heights High
School except you has been having those feelings for him.” Zoe got
down from her ladder and set the brush in its can. “Let’s take a
break. I’ll get us coffee.”

Cassie was sitting on a drop cloth when her
friend returned. Zoe sank onto the floor, handed her a mug and
faced her squarely. “Tell me.”

“You’ve got paint on your face.”

“And your feelings are written all over
yours. Even if you can’t express them.”

“I express my feelings all the time at
school. Much to the dismay of people like Jerry Bosco.”

Zoe reached over and squeezed Cassie’s arm.
“Feelings about school and the students. Cassie, the kids aren’t
enough.”

“I’m scared,” Cassie finally admitted.

“You’re also lonely and ready for more in
your life.”

“But why did I have to pick
him
? Why
couldn’t this be easier?”

“I doubt if you’ve ever done anything the
easy way in your whole life.”

Cassie’s shoulders sagged. “Damn. This isn’t
fair.”

“Honey, you always tell the kids that
nothing’s fair. Griping about it won’t change that. Do what you
always tell them to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Go after what you want, no matter what the
risk.”

“How do I know what I want?”

Zoe chuckled. “As I said, it’s written all
over your face.”

o0o

FEBRUARY SLUSH had turned the small lawn in
front of Battaglia’s apartment house into mud. Mitch pulled over in
front of the Franklin Street address, mentally kicking himself for
getting involved. He didn’t want to get close to any of these kids,
especially not this one. But all week Cassie had been so sad that
Mitch couldn’t take it anymore.

Angry at himself as well as Battaglia, he
stormed out of the car and up the small walkway. He stumbled once
on the cracked cement, but righted himself with the agility of a
trained soldier.

Battaglia would love it if I fell on my
face at his doorstep
.

The notion made him madder. He found the
number of the kid’s unit on the mailboxes and proceeded in. When he
was just about to knock, the door opened.

The oldest eyes he’d ever seen looked up at
him. They belonged to a small-framed woman with mousy brown hair
and pasty skin. “Oh, Captain Lansing.”

Mitch cocked his head. “Do we know each
other?”

Her thin hands fluttered to her neck. “No,
no, we don’t. I’m Betty Battaglia. I’ve seen you at the diner where
I fill in on the night shift.” He nodded, then her face crumpled.
“Oh, no, it’s Johnny, isn’t it? He’s in trouble.”

“He’s been truant from school for the last
four days.” Mrs. Battaglia’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Do you
know where he is?”

“Why, yes. He’s in bed.”

“Here?”

“Yes.” She checked her watch. “But I’m late
as it is. I don’t have time to get him.”

“It’s all right. You go ahead. I’ll wake him
up myself.”

After a hesitant look, Betty Battaglia’s eyes
filled with resignation and she left. Inside, Mitch closed the door
and looked around. The living room was about ten by fourteen, with
a sagging sofa covered by a throw, and two chairs with springs
sticking out of them. A heavily draped picture window took up part
of one wall. Faded pictures hung tipsily on the others. There were
stacks of magazines by the couch, and a forgotten breakfast lay
half eaten on the coffee table. A fine layer of dust covered
everything.

He spotted a hallway leading to the bedrooms
and followed it. Only one door was closed. He opened it slowly. The
morning light peeked through half-closed venetian blinds, letting
in a fair amount of light. Johnny lay asleep on the bed, his face
buried in a pillow he grasped with his left hand. There was a stark
white bandage across his knuckles.

Mitch studied the room. Unlike the living
room, not a thing was out of place. The closet and drawers were
closed. Posters on the walls were arranged artistically. A bureau
top was clear, sporting only a lamp and some keys. Mitch walked
over to the desk. Johnny’s books were neatly stacked with pens and
pencils propped in a cup. He noticed a frame that had been turned
facedown and picked it up. It was a picture of Cassie. She was
sitting at her desk, flashing a smile that both scolded and
laughed. It was black and white, probably taken for a yearbook.
Mitch set it down carefully.

As he turned, his foot connected with
something on the floor. Leaning over, he picked up an empty bottle.
The label read 110-Proof Vodka.

Sensing he was being watched, Mitch looked
across the room.

“I call this trespassing,” Battaglia said
from the bed. He was sitting up now. He wore only a pair of ragged
sweatpants. The sunlight angled on his face, showing the beard of a
man and the eyes of a street kid.

Mitch held up the vodka bottle. “I call this
stupid.”

“Who gives a shit?”

Without hesitation, Mitch answered, “Cassie
does.”

Johnny sucked in his breath, then sagged back
on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Sure she does.”

“I just left school. Remember how she looked
that day when Brenda told her she had an abortion?”

Johnny tried to ignore him, but Mitch could
see him swallow hard.

“That’s how she’s looked all week.”

“Somebody else get knocked up?”

“No, but somebody else let her down.”

Johnny sat up so fast Mitch stepped back.
“Yeah, well she let me down, too.”

“I imagine she did.” Mitch chose his words
carefully. Lying to this one would never work. “You never make a
mistake, Battaglia? You never jump to a stupid conclusion or say
something dumb that makes you wish you could bite your tongue
off?”

Again, the maddening teenage silence.

Wanting to strangle the kid, Mitch battled
back his temper. He’d come here with a purpose. “Well, I have. And
it tastes bitter.” He jerked a piece of paper out of his suit
pocket. Walking closer to the bed, he tossed it to Battaglia. “My
brother’s a doctor. He runs a clinic in a dirt poor section of the
city. He’s looking for some people interested in medicine who can
handle the street stuff they’d see.”

Johnny stared at him unblinkingly. “So?”

“So, you’ve got an appointment with him today
at four o’clock for an interview. If you can clean yourself up,
sell yourself to him, you’ve got yourself a job.” Mitch gave him a
meaningful stare. “Like the one I helped you lose.” Straightening
to what he hoped was an imposing height, Mitch finished, “The catch
is, you gotta stay in school and not cut out when you get pissed
off at somebody.” Then he turned and walked to the door.