the Plan (1995) (18 page)

Ryan Bolt had managed to stay healthy through four Division A-1 college seasons as a wide receiver. He ran his share of blind short-outs, during which linebackers got to unload free shots while his back was to them. Ryan had always been able to feel them behind him. He learned from the conditioning coach that he had exceptional peripheral vision. His focal vision was 90 degrees, his gray vision was 75, but he could sense motion for 10 degrees on either side of that.

He'd sensed the man in the gray tweed overcoat moving fast behind him, and he'd lunged forward, getting partially out of the way before the blow hit. He rolled up in time to see his assailant moving into the room after him, swinging the bat again. He dove to his right and the second swing missed him completely.

"Shit, stay still," the frustrated accounts receivable specialist mu: :zed.

Ryan got a foot under himself and charged low. He dug a shoulder into the huge man, driving him back against the wall. The wind went out of both of them.

Johnny Furie pushed Ryan back and swung his meaty right hand, hitting Ryan in the temple. Ryan saw stars, felt consciousness slipping away so he dropped into a partial crouch, his hands up by his head to block two of Johnny Furie's best lefts. Ryan tried to circle, but he was dizzy from the first blow and went down to one knee. The big man was on him, raining blows on his face. The bat was no longer in Johnny's hand; it was swinging wildly under his arm from the rope, banging him helplessly in the side. Johnny turned his attention momentarily from Ryan to the bat, trying to find it and grab it with his left hand. Suddenly, from behind him, a heavy glass ashtray hit Johnny Furie on the back of the head. He turned around and saw a beautiful girl with black hair standing there, the ashtray still in her hand, a terrified look on her face.

Lucinda had just arrived from New Jersey. She'd seen the big man in the gray tweed coat swinging the bat at Ryan just as she'd gotten off the elevator and watched in terror, not knowing what to do. Then, she'd grabbed the heavy glass ashtray and hit the man in the gray coat on the head as hard as she could.

Johnny Furie grabbed Lucinda by the right wrist and hurled her across the room, but when he turned, Ryan was back on his feet. His head had cleared and he hit Thirteen Weeks with a straight right hand.

Johnny felt bone and cartilage exploding, spreading his nose over his face. He reeled back and Ryan hit Johnny again. This time, Johnny's lip split.

"Shit," he said, blood flowing down on his collar. He grabbed the bat and swung it again at Ryan, missing. Ryan scrambled right and grabbed a heavy pole lamp with a metal base, ripped the plug out of the wall, and faced the huge man. People in the corridor were screaming.

A fat man in a T-shirt and suspendered pants stuck his head in the room and looked at Ryan and Johnny, faced off with blunt instruments. Johnny Furie's face was covered with blood. "My God," the man cried and ran up the hall. "Call the cops," he yelled as he went.

Thirteen Weeks knew the mission was blown. He cursed himself for trying to do it in the hotel. He figured the tapes were probably in the room and that by doing the job here, it would eliminate the need to come back to get them. Now that decision was working against him. He could hear people running in the hall, calling to each other. He reached up and tried to wipe the blood off his face. When his hand came down, it was completely red. Ryan started moving toward him, the metal lamp ready to swing.

"Fuck it," Johnny said, then he spun and ran out of the room.

He used the stairs, got out into the parking lot and into the car. His mind was reeling. What would he tell Charlie Romano? Worse yet, what would he tell Mickey Alo?

Ryan was sitting on the corner of the bed in his room at the Savoy, looking at Lucinda, trying to decide what to think. She was bruised and shaken but collected. He stood up and began to pace around the room.

"Was he trying to rob you?"

"I don't think so," Ryan said, reluctant to tell her what he really thought.

"Ryan, what's going on?"

"I didn't give A
. J
. the tape I made. I refused to let him have it."

"Why?"

"I didn't want to be a part of what they're doing, so I said no. I think that guy was sent to take it from me." He was still not looking at her. He didn't want to tell her about his suspicions concerning her brother--that Mickey was trying to buy the presidency.

Ryan had called Alex Tingredies just that morning. Ale
x w
as a friend in the FBI who had been a technical advise
r o
n one of Ryan's TV projects. Ryan had asked Alex abou t t he Alos and gotten a distressing report. He hated to tell Lucinda what he'd learned, but knew if they were goin g t o continue to see each other, he had to take that chance.

"I called a friend in the FBI. He told me that they wer
e g
etting set to file an indictment against your father for criminal conspiracy."

"So then why didn't they?" she asked angrily. "My father has never had any charges against him."

"They know he's dying and don't want to indict him and never be able to bring him into court. They're switching the indictment over to your brother. It's going to be filed in two months."

She'd always been taught that her family was more important than anything. All her life, she'd fought against believing ugly rumors, but ultimately she suspected they were true. To protect herself, she had looked away, avoiding that reality just as surely as Ryan had buried the drowning of his childhood friend. But it had all crashed in on her one afternoon when she was coming home from college her sophomore year. A taxicab had dropped her off at home.

"You know who lives in there?" the driver asked. "Huh?" she said dumbfounded.

"Joseph Alo," He said in a reverential whisper. "He's head of the Jersey mob." It had been said with such awe and trepidation that somehow she instantly knew it was true. Her brother had followed in her father's footsteps.

The conversation with Mickey was still resonating in her head --I keep Ryan around to watch him fail. The Alo name is like a prison number. *

"Lucinda, we've got to, somehow, deal with this," Ryan said, bringing her back. "I think your brother is trying to hurt me, maybe kill me."

Her mind went back to a time years before when she was just eight. Her mother had left her in a park while she ran an errand. Mickey was sixteen and was there to watch her. Lucinda had been over by the swings playing when a boy about eleven had pushed her off. Mickey had seen it and he'd come over. Lucinda stood in terror as Mickey grabbed the younger boy and hit him in the face. The little boy went down, but Mickey hadn't stopped. He'd kicked him and then rolled him over on his back and sat on th e y oung boy's chest. Mickey was still hitting him when a park policeman ran over and pulled him off. While the policeman attended to the boy, Mickey grabbed Lucinda's hand and led her out of the park. She'd remembered the look in Mickey's eyes, an evil, glowing look of excitement. She knew, even then, he had loved hitting the boy. It was a corrupt memory, half-buried by time. She looked at Ryan and wondered if he could be right . . . wondered if her big brother had sent the man in the gray coat.

"Mickey's at our beach house on Cape May. I think you need to go and talk to him," she finally said. "You need to find out. We both do."

"Yeah." He nodded. "It's time."

He packed and then retrieved the tapes from the concierge, putting them in his ostrich briefcase. On the way out, he saw A
. J
. in the bar. He was tempted to leave without saying anything, but some sense of propriety seized him. He moved into the Buckeye Bar and tapped A . J
. on the shoulder.

"Well, how ya doin', buddy?" A
. J
. slurred. He was slightly drunk. He led Ryan over to a booth where a curvaceous blonde was sitting. A
. J
. made an elaborate introduction. "Miss Veronica Dennis, may I present Benedict fucking Arnold."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Arnold," the girl said, displaying a staggering lack of knowledge in American history. "Do you work for A
. J
.?" She was smiling, showing her small, perfect teeth.

"Yes. Mr. Arnold is our campaign turncoat."

"Knock it off, A
. J
."

"Whatever you want." A
. J
. slumped down into the booth, put an arm around Veronica Dennis. "Veronica likes Haze, but she says he seems cold. That's what our fine data tells us, too. Old Vonnie, here, is better than a tracking poll," the work said drunkenly.

`That's right." Veronica was smiling at Ryan, whom she found attractive. She was working her dimples, archin
g h
er back, giving him her D-cup profile. "I thought he was very impressive on TV, but he was sorta Y'know, like he's not very warm or something."

"Ryan, here, he used t' write and produce TV. Didn't ya, Ryan . . . ? So he knows the medium. Is old Haze coming off like a block of ice, like Vonnie says?"

"A
. J
., I'm gonna be gone for a couple of days." "Hey, what the fuck good are you anyway? You ain't helping me."

"I'll leave a number where I can be reached."

"See, here's the problem . . ." A
. J
. went on, looking at Veronica. "Ryan, here, he takes our money and he shoots our film and then he won't give it to us when we nee d i t ,."

"I'll see ya, A
. J
." He started to leave and A
. J
. grabbed his arm.

"Let's say you have this problem in a TV script. . . . You got a character who's hard to like 'cause people think he's cold. How do you warm him up?"

Ryan wanted to get out of the bar, but A
. J
. was holding his arm.

"Create a tragedy for him," he finally said. "Something that makes people feel sorry for him. I gotta go." He pulled his arm free.

"S' long, Hemingway," A
. J
. sneered.

"Hemingway? Are you related-to Martel Hemingway?" Veronica said, desperately fighting for field position. "Nice to meet you, Miss Dennis."

"Listen, I'm in the book," she said quickly, wishing he wouldn't leave.

A
. J
. watched Ryan go. "Create a tragedy," he said to himself. "Pretty fucking smart."

Chapter
24.

"REMEMBER THAT GIRL . . . WHAT WAS HER NAME? FROM
Coos Bay . . ." Mickey was grinning at Ryan over a plat
e o
f pasta. They were in a booth in the back of the original Mr. A's steak house on Cape May. Large windows over -
looked the black Atlantic swelling with winter cold on th e s outh Jersey shore.

"Susan? Sharon? Yeah, it was Sharon something." Mickey was happy! Funny! Having a ball! His fat, round cheeks pulled up in cherubic delight. All around them, people were drinking beer and eating dinner, as the sound of silverware on crockery mixed with conversation and laughter.

The old-time waiters stopped to say "Hi" to Mickey on their way into the kitchen. Mickey had bussed tables in the restaurant every summer when he and Ryan were in prep school.

"Sharon," Mickey continued the reverie. "The bitch had bugs in her rug. Gave me crabs. No shit, Ryan. I had to shave my pubes and soak my Johnson in vinegar."

"Lucky I never got around to her."

Mickey waved at the bartender who sent two more frosted mugs of beer over with the waitress.

Ryan had been dreading the meeting all the way from Des Moines, but the minute he saw Mickey at the beach house and Mickey threw an arm around him and suggested they have dinner together, he'd felt more relaxed. Ryan had asked Lucinda not to join them. He still wasn't sure how this meeting would end. They'd driven to the restaurant in a black Jeep Mickey kept for the beach and on the way they'd never once mentioned the campaign or the documentary. They had been shown to a table like visiting royalty, and then Mickey had gestured at the restaurant at large.

"First Mr. A's, right on the tip of Cape May. My dad picked this location after he bought the beach house. Pop pointed to this spot and said we're gonna build a steak house right here, overlooking the bay."

"Really?" Ryan said, thinking, How could they afford a beach house before the restaurant had become a success? But that had been hours ago, and that sober thought had now been replaced by memories of dick jousting tournaments. Mickey's demeanor and friendliness made Ryan's earlier concerns seem foolish.

Two hours later, they had moved into the bar and were wrecking the atmosphere with bone-shattering harmony.

"From the tables down at Morrie's to the place where Louis dwells . . ." The "Whiffenpoof Song" rang off the rafters, with Mickey roaring out the words off-key. The bartender kept the shooters coming.

At two A
. M
., they stumbled out into the cold January night and pissed in the snowbank, leaving yellow craters in the fresh drift. Laughing, they piled into the Jeep. Mickey was all over the road. "Wh00000," he yelled as the right front tire hit the curb in front of the Cape May Inn, where Ryan had elected to stay.