Forced Out (21 page)

----"

"Hey, boss."

Marconi dabbed at the food in his lap, irritated that some of it had gotten on his freshly dry-cleaned maroon polyester pants. "What is it, Goliath?"

"Ricky Strazza's here."

"Yeah, okay, let him in."

Strazza was a Lucchesi soldier in one of the Manhattan crews. He was of average height and average build. Not outstanding in any way, so he blended into a crowd naturally. Which was exactly what Marconi wanted.

"Hello, sir," Strazza said when he was inside the bedroom and the door was shut. "How can I serve you?"

Marconi jabbed at the television, irritated at the interruption even though he had summoned Strazza to the row house for the meeting. "Turn it up."

"Yes, sir."

Marconi didn't even give Strazza the chance to sit, just motioned for the young man to kneel next to his chair and lean in close. He wanted this to go fast, wanted to get back to the show. "I got two things for you," Marconi said, leaning forward so his lips were close to Strazza's ear.

"Anything," Strazza whispered, ecstatic to be of help to this man. Marconi gestured toward the door. "That guy outside."

"Yeah?"

"I want him dead by tomorrow night," Marconi ordered quietly. "You and your crew kill him tomorrow morning after he leaves here, then take him to New Jersey and bury him in our landfill out in Bergen County. Nicky can help you with the details. He knows what's going on."

Strazza smiled like a child who'd just gotten exactly what he wanted for Christmas.

"Yes, sir."

"After that I want you on Deuce Bondano's tail like stink on shit." Marconi pointed at Strazza. "And don't ask me why I want you to do it, just do it. Report in to me three times a day about where Deuce goes and what he does. But under no circumstances do you let him know that you're on him. Don't fuck this up."

Strazza took one of Marconi's hands and kissed it. "Yes, sir. Thank you for letting me serve you."

* * *

Johnny knelt down in front of the gravestone and laid the bouquet of two dozen red roses on the ground, like he'd done so many times before. The cemetery's sprinklers had been on all afternoon and the ground was drenched, but he hardly noticed that his pants were soaking wet.

"Hi, sweetheart," he said softly, pressing his fingers to the letters of Karen's name the way he always did. "I love you." He looked out over the graveyard. The place was huge, at least thirty acres, but there wasn't anyone else around, not even workers. "I've done a bad thing," he murmured, "but you probably already know that." He bit his lower lip. "I was with another woman last night. Someone I actually care about. Not those girls I pay. Her name's Karen. Just like you." He rubbed his eyes, then touched his shirt pocket. "I'm sorry,
real
sorry." The lump in his throat grew big, and tears formed at the corners of his eyes. "I know I told you I'd never do that," he continued, his voice raspy, "but I've been so lonely." The first tear rolled down one cheek, followed quickly by several more down both. He brushed them away but more kept coming. "So lonely," he whispered. "Please don't hate me."

He took a few moments to gather himself. "I need to talk to you about something," he began again, trying to make his voice strong. "You always know what to say." He hesitated. "You know what I do for a living, you know I kill people. The way I killed that doctor who murdered you." A gentle breeze blew across his face, and he glanced up into the trees. The leaves weren't moving. He shook his head, wondering if that had been her. "I know it's not right, I know you wouldn't approve. But at least I've always killed people I figured deserved it. Murderers, cheaters, liars. But now they want me to kill somebody who doesn't deserve it. This kid." He put his face into his hands. "Please tell me what to do," he whispered, hoping the breeze would come again. But it didn't.

"Please, sweetheart," he begged once more. "Please." But nothing.

He'd never felt so completely alone.

24

C
URTIS! CURTIS BILLUPS! Come here right now!"

MJ was lying on one of two bottom bunks in the tiny bedroom he shared with his three younger brothers. His three younger sisters had the room next door, which was only slightly larger than this one.

"Curtis!"
his mother shouted again from the kitchen in her deep voice. "Don't make me take the Lord's name in vain. Don't make me do it, young man." Anthony, MJ's ten-year-old brother, leaned over the side of the top bunk and peered down, a mischievous grin on his face. "You better get out there, MJ. Momma's pissed. You're in trouuuuble."

MJ rose off the bed and slipped the
Sports Illustrated
he'd been reading under the mattress. "Shut up, Anthony. Or I'll make you wish you'd never been born." Anthony stuck out his tongue.

"Curtis!" MJ's mother yelled again.
"God help you!"
MJ grabbed the dog-eared copy of
Tale of Two Cities
he was supposed to be reading off the cardboard box he and his brothers used as a nightstand and dashed for the kitchen. But not before giving Anthony a quick, stiff punch on the upper arm. "I'm here, Momma," he said breathlessly as he rushed into the kitchen, making certain to prominently display the paperback she'd borrowed for him from the library. "What do you need?" he asked, taking pleasure in the howls of pain coming from the bedroom. She pointed at the book. "Were you really reading that or--"

"Man, it smells delicious in here, Momma." MJ put his head back and took a deep breath, then patted his chest. "You make the best country fried steak in the whole entire world." He gave her a big hug. "I love your cooking. It's awesome." Yolanda Billups had been beautiful as a younger woman: tall and statuesque with long black hair and unblemished caramel skin. But the sands of time and seven pregnancies had done their work. She weighed almost two hundred pounds now, and her arms, shoulders, and legs had grown thick. But her face was still pretty. Expressive, too. She couldn't hide her emotions, so she didn't try. "Don't butter me up, Curtis." She ruled the house with an iron fist--at least most of the time. "I know what you're doing. It won't work."

MJ gave her his best hurt-puppy-dog look. She was still angry, but she was cracking. He could see that big smile of hers--where he'd gotten his--trying to break through. Like the sun on a foggy morning. "Jeez, Momma, I'm not trying to butter you up. I mean it. You're the best cook ever. I can't even eat anybody else's--"

She broke out laughing, a deep baritone he-he-he-ha-ha-ha. She grabbed MJ and hugged him tightly. "I swear, I can't resist you. I love you so much, Curtis."

"I love you, too, Momma." MJ pulled back from the embrace, proud of himself. He was the only sibling who could consistently break her anger so quickly. His expression turned serious. He'd noticed how depressed she seemed lately, so he figured she needed some pepping up. "You take such good care of us." He held the book up. "I started it, and it's worse than
Moby Dick.
But if you tell me to read it, I will." He promised himself he wouldn't open the
Sports Illustrated
again until he'd finished the book he was holding. "I know you just want the best for me."

She wiped a tear from her eye. It had welled up fast. Of course, she cried at least a few times almost every day. Sobbed uncontrollably at church every Sunday during the recessional, hands raised in the air as she swayed back and forth in the pew with her two best girlfriends. "I do want you to read it," she said. "I want the best for you. I hate that you gotta work and you can't go to school because I need you to earn money because your damn daddy was a bastard." Her evangelical persona suddenly shone through. "By God, child," she said, raising one hand, index finger pointed to the sky, "I'm gonna see to it that you know more than all those other kids in school put together. I'm gonna make sure you're smarter than all of them. I know that book's boring for you, honey," she continued, "but white people will be shocked that you've even heard of it, let alone read it. God forbid you're able to discuss it intelligently. And I'm not saying I want you to be some yes-sir-no-sir Uncle Tom. That's not what I'm saying, child. But it's still a white man's world, and you gotta be real about that if you wanna get ahead. Like I always told you, conform, conform, conform. Until you're in charge. Then control, control, control. But not in a bad way," she added, raising her voice. "Not with malice or vengeance, young man. There's no place in this world for the devil's work. Right, Curtis?"

"Right, Momma."

"With fairness and equity. With benevolence. Remember, it's not a black world or a white world. It's just a world. You hear me?"

MJ nodded, remembering Jack's stunned expression when the old man realized that a dropout black kid knew who Captain Ahab was. It was the first time what his mother had been preaching for so long had made a real impact. Jack had treated him differently from that moment on. The change was subtle but undeniable. Knowledge really was power. People respected you when they knew you had knowledge. Some of them even feared you. He wouldn't tell Momma he understood that, though. "I hear you, Momma." She took a deep breath, then reached into her apron, her contented expression fading.

"We need to talk, Curtis," she said holding up a wad of twenties. "This is why I called you."

MJ's eyes bugged out. "Where'd you get that?"

"From your underwear drawer."

"Momma!"

"Anthony told me it was in there."

"Why, that little--"

"Don't blame him, Curtis," she warned, holding one hand up and wagging a finger. "And don't take it out on him later. He just loves you, he just cares about his big brother. Now tell me where you got this," she demanded. "There's two hundred dollars here and they're all crisp twenties, so I know this isn't tip money. I may be getting old, but I ain't getting dumb."

"You're not getting old--"

"Don't try to butter me up, child.

"And you'll never be--"

"It won't work right now, Curtis," she interrupted sharply. "Understand, I let you do that to me when I want to. Now isn't one of those times."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I know this isn't your paycheck because you always sign that over to me," she kept going. "Are you selling drugs, Curtis?" she demanded shrilly. "I swear, if you are I'll whip your little black--"

"I'm not selling drugs, Momma. I promise. You've taught me too well." He sighed, pissed off at Anthony. He'd wanted to keep this from her. Wanted to keep the surprise.

"Momma, remember how I told you I wanted to get rich enough to own a pro baseball team?"

She gave him her here-we-go-again look. "Uh-huh."

"Well, I'm on my way."

* * *

"How's Rosario?"

Jack and Biff were standing beneath an oak tree on one side of an elementary school parking lot. "She's fine. My daughter's taken to her. Harry was right. Thank God, too," Jack said, shoulders sagging, "because I wouldn't have the patience. Rosario's a little cutie, but she's so much work. I'm too old for all that." Maybe this was how he could justify what Biff had suggested. He'd been wrestling with it so hard. Usually he was good at rationalizing anything, but this time it wasn't working. Of course, he'd never considered doing something like this before. Well, once. "It's damn expensive, let me tell you. Pampers, formula, food, clothes, all that stuff. Incredible." Cheryl had put it all on her credit card this morning. Fortunately, the charge had gone through. They weren't sure it would because the amount would push the balance on her card right to its limit. Maybe even a little over. "I had no idea."

"Don't tell me," Biff agreed, shaking his head. "You're preaching to the choir, old man. Got three kids of my own. All of 'em under five. My wife waitresses at Cracker Barrel so we got two incomes, but we still can't make ends meet. I just go farther in the hole every month. I'm trying to get another credit card because the ones I have are all maxed out. But I ain't having much luck."

They stood in silence for a few moments, neither one wanting to be the first to bring up why they'd really met.

"It's only for a few days," Jack finally spoke up. "Right? Then that trooper will come and get her."

Biff shrugged. "I guess."

"You
guess
? What does that mean?"

"It means I don't know. Call Tom and talk to him."

"Tom?"

"The trooper. Tom O'Brien."

"Oh."

"He gave you his number, right?"

"Yeah, I think I've got it somewhere." Cheryl would never forgive him if he called the trooper.

"He can tell you what's going on with all that," Biff continued, "that's not my department."

"But you were the one who--"

"I saw him at an accident earlier this afternoon. I think he said there was a problem."

"A problem?"

"The husband's going crazy trying to figure out what happened to the baby. Tom wrote in his report that Rosario died in the accident, but now the guy's pressing it. Says he wants to see the body."

"Jesus, I can't--"

"Look, are you in or out?" Biff interrupted.

Jack took a deep breath. "I'm in already, I'm in. The baby can stay with me and Cheryl as long as she needs to. I trust you guys. Okay?"

"I'm not talking about the baby," Biff snapped. "I'm talking about our business venture. I can't wait around any longer. I gotta know if you're in or out. If you're not, I got somebody else who's ready to go. I don't trust him much, so I'd rather it was you. But like I said, I can't wait around."

Jack stared into Biff's eyes, hoping to find remorse. But there wasn't any. Not one shred. Just a cold, selfish stare. "Yeah," he said quietly, hating that it had come to this. "I guess I'm in."

Part 3

25

H
EY, MISTER, FIND our seats."

Mikey Clemant was running pregame wind sprints in the outfield, and Jack was admiring how the kid was putting his heart and soul into every step. He wasn't just halfassing it, wasn't just jogging leisurely across the grass like most of the players. God, he could run like the wind, too. And his first step was like a cheetah's. Not a lumbering, locomotive start, like most big men. Jack took a deep breath of warm sea air, thinking how good the kid would look doing his warm-ups in pinstripes on the biggest baseball stage in the world. Yankee Stadium.