The Victim of the System

by Steve Hadden

  “So, I’m assuming you’re calling me with great news?”

  There was no easy way to do this. Ike decided he’d ease into it.

  “First of all, I wanted to let you know I went to Tom’s office this morning.”

  “Great, already on the job.”

  “No, no. I’m sorry but I just went by to see if there was any information regarding that e-mail I received.”

  Lauren said nothing, but Ike heard the boys’ voices fading and a door close.

  “They’d disconnected his e-mail, so it didn’t come from their office. It couldn’t have. But I found out he’d been working on a project for Falzone’s oil and gas subsidiary.”

  “They were a big customer before he married Brenda. He didn’t like it, but he just kept it separate.” Lauren’s voice had turned cold. “Are you going to help or not, Mr. Rossi?”

  Ike shook his head. “I can’t, Lauren. I’m committed to go to Houston.” There was silence on the other end. He heard a sniffle. Then he continued to give the reasoning he’d given himself. He waited for her reply.

  “Mr. Rossi”—her voice cracked initially but turned determined— “let me get this straight. You’re going to abandon us—abandon Jack to face his fate on his own against those people so you can go to Houston and help some big corporation who has an army of lawyers to do whatever they need.”

  “I’m so sorry, but I gave my word. I have a commitment.”

  “That’s a piece of paper, Mr. Rossi. Let me tell you about commitment.” She was yelling now. “My late husband died in the hills of Afghanistan because he was committed. It was his second tour. He could have stayed home with Jimmy and me, but he was committed to the freedom he was fighting for. He was committed to the families of the thousands of people who died in those towers. That’s a commitment.” She began to cry. “You can save this boy’s life. I know that—and I think you do, too. You can always go to Houston and patch up your precious reputation, but you can’t undo what’s about to happen to Jack.”

  Ike wanted to get off the phone with her. “Lauren, I’m sending a report about what I did today to your attorney. Have her check out the leads described in there.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “I’m sorry, Lauren.”

  “Yes, you are,” she said and ended the call.

  Ike jammed the phone into his pocket. “Shit!” He grabbed the sports duffel on the side chair before launching himself out the door and slamming it behind him.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ike drove north, out of the city, window down, toward what he called “The Farm.” The fresh, cool evening air raced through the car and chilled his skin. He was in that place again—the place where he felt like he was standing atop a fifty-story building and looking over the edge. He was boxed in by another dead end in his parents’ case. He was trapped between his word, something he’d never broken, and a helpless kid battling the same system that had failed to deliver justice for Ike. The anger and frustration had him charged like a capacitor ready to discharge its deadly voltage. The Farm offered an avenue to discharge. It was quicker than therapy and Ike got paid for it. He’d embraced the expectation of relief.

  As the last remnants of daylight vanished into darkness, Ike pulled to the entrance six miles outside Harmony. It was rolling Pennsylvania farm land and the only meaningful light in the thick darkness came from the halogen beams of his Shelby Mustang. He rolled to a stop across from the speaker just before the gate. He pushed the button.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s me.”

  The gates opened and he eased the clutch out and prowled past the whitewashed fence and thick tree line, down the smooth black asphalt. Ike began to focus on the techniques his father had painstakingly taught him over the years. He envisioned every move and every counter. He knew inattention now would equal pain for a week. He flexed and released each muscle, ensuring their collective responsiveness.

  The Farm was a ninety-acre property owned by Phil Moretti, a wealthy trust-fund baby whose family had earned their fortune through the glass business as a front for organized crime and gone legit a generation ago. He’d parlayed that fortune into an even bigger one by buying up natural gas royalties around western Pennsylvania before the boom. He was a braggart who paid for all the connections he could. Ike would much rather punch him out than take his money. But Ike wasn’t here for the money, not by a long shot.

  The tree-lined road opened to a smaller gravel parking lot next to a large white corrugated-steel building with four large garage doors. He was sure it had been built as a stable for the guy’s car collection. But the collection had been liquidated, down to one Lamborghini and a Corvette that sat just outside the open center door. At least twenty cars were spread around the gravel and the grass beyond. Ike guessed the owners had all paid six figures or more for each one. These were people with money. Sports figures, bankers, company founders, and even a few Mafia bosses from the old days—all here to see him. He pulled next to the Vette and got out. He grabbed the duffel from the trunk and headed through the door.

  The bright lights assaulted Ike’s eyes, and as expected, Moretti was right inside waiting.

  “There he is. Ike”—he waved—“come over here and meet these guys.”

  Ike walked to Moretti and the four other men while he eyed the small crowd surrounding the boxing ring. Moretti grabbed Ike’s hand and shook it. “You ready?”

  Ike bit his tongue. “Always.”

  Moretti went through introductions. Two of the men were retired founders, one was another trust-funder, and the last was an enforcer from the Penguins.

  “Ike here won the state championship single-handedly.”

  “I remember the play,” the trust-funder said. “Christ, they still show that clip all the time. You were the best quarterback to come out of here, including the two Joes”—he looked at the hockey player— “Namath and Montana.” The hockey player seemed to be sizing up Ike.

  Ike said what he always said. “That was a long time ago.” He shook their hands, excused himself, and walked into the makeshift dressing room to the left. He changed quickly and was joined by Alfredo, a barrel-chested fifty-eight-year-old Mexican immigrant who’d helped his father prepare for the countless kickboxing matches back in the eighties. Ike always felt closer to his father when he was here. A tristate champion until a well-placed kick cratered his knee and ended his passion, he’d taken Ike to nearly every match. Once old enough, Ike became his sparring partner. At the time, he couldn’t believe his father would hit him that hard, but now he silently thanked him.

  Alfredo pulled the tape from the bag and wrapped his hands. “You sure you want to do this again?”

  Ike gave him a gentle smile. “Yes, Alfredo. I have to.”

  Alfredo knew why. They’d had a running conversation for the past ten years.

  Alfredo finished and held Ike’s fist. “Be careful today. This one is a giant.”

  Ike just nodded. Size didn’t matter.

  Alfredo slipped on the thin gloves, made the sign of the cross, and left.

  It was time. Ike ignited the rage. He breathed deeply and punched his gloves together. He thought about his parents, and then he thought about Vic Cassidy and his dead end. He thought about Jack sitting alone in the courthouse. He imagined lead in each fist and an iron shield on his body. He let the beast out of the darkness and stomped out to the ring.

  The ring was empty: no corner men, no announcer and no referee. He spotted his opponent immediately. He towered over the ring, at least six feet eight and pushing 280. He looked perfectly proportioned and toned, with long flowing blond hair. He was built like the defensive ends he’d dodged the first few years at Penn State. Quick and powerful. Where did he get these guys?

  Still, he was ready. Once they entered the ring, Ike’s impression of the man shrank. Size didn’t matter. They never used names, but Ike named each opponent in his mind. Thor.

  “Okay, gents,” Moretti yelled from the si
de of the ring, “betting is closed. Here we go.”

  He picked up a bell and the hammer and struck it. Thor charged through the center of the ring, growling. Ike took three steps. He planted his left foot as Thor threw a right at Ike’s cheek. Ike stopped it with his left. And drilled Thor’s temple with his right. The impact stopped the big man’s momentum, and Thor’s anger switched to surprise. But he could take a punch. His head felt like concrete. Thor squared up and danced to Ike’s left, reassessing his approach.

  Doubt. Once doubt entered their minds, Ike knew he had them. He hit Ike hard with a combination, hard enough to make him want to end this. Ike stepped in, picking off Thor’s jabs and neutralizing his reach. He thanked his father again. Ike imagined his parents’ killer and what he’d do to him. Then Jack’s image burst into his mind. A fatherless boy against the system. Against Falzone. Alone. And Ike had to stand by his word.

  A left hook caught Ike by surprise, but he’d been hit harder. The anger of it all gathered in his fists as if a giant weapon were being charged to fire. He saw the opening, blocked another left, and launched an uppercut. It connected and rocked Thor to his heels. The small crowd rumbled, and Ike followed with a left, then a right to the chin. The left stunned Thor and the right dropped him. The crowd of rich lawbreakers groaned, then cheered. Thor was out.

  Ike dropped his arms and stepped back as a doctor entered the ring and watched Thor regain consciousness. Ike let out a long breath—the anger was gone. He walked over to Thor and helped him to his feet and headed to the corner where his apparent girlfriend waited with tears in her eyes. Thor still looked as if he were in another zip code.

  “You fight well and hit like a freight train. Thanks for the bout,” Ike said.

  Thor stopped and looked at Ike with incredulity. “You ain’t no quarterback. You’re great, man. Just great.”

  Ike handed Thor off to the doctor and his girlfriend. “Water, ice and rest,” he said to the girlfriend. “He’ll be fine.”

  Ike turned and watched the crowd gather around Moretti, collecting payouts. The odds were usually thin when Ike fought, since he’d never been knocked down. He stepped between the ropes and Moretti broke away from the crowd.

  “You call me any time,” he said, grinning as he plucked a neatly banded stack of hundreds from his sport coat and handed them to Ike. “Never seen anything like it.” He turned and walked back to the crowd.

  Ike returned to the dressing room long enough to slip on some sweats and collect his bag. He drove into the city in silence as he always did after a fight. It was a time to be with his dad, or at least his memories of him. He talked about the visit with Emma and wondered what his mom would have been doing that might have ended their lives. He talked about commitment and how his father had told him that his word was everything. Never break it. And finally, as he headed across the Fort Duquesne Bridge, he told his father about Jack.

  Instead of crossing the Monongahela and heading to his place on Mount Washington, he looped into the city, to Lawrenceville. He pulled into the lot of the Boys & Girls Club. They’d taken such good care of Maria. He knew there were other kids, good, innocent kids who needed help.

  He left the car and walked to the glass doors with his bag. He pulled out the wad of hundreds, stuck them into an envelope, and slid it through the slot beside the door.

  Just above the slot, taped to the inside, was a letter and a picture of a young boy, probably six or seven, displaying a wide toothless smile. The writing was blocky and the young author had made a noble attempt to stay inside the lines. The letter thanked the donors, volunteers, and the Boys & Girls Club. But it was the last line that hit him harder than any punch that Thor had thrown.

  I was alone, my mommy and daddy were lost, and I did not know what to do. But my Aunt Jenny took me to you and you helped me. Thank you for making me happy.

  A seven-year-old. Ike dropped his head, then turned and looked up into the night sky. “Sorry, Dad. I’m breaking my word just this one time.”

  He got into his car and headed into Bloomfield.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ike touched the welt on his cheek and wished he were still in the ring. Pacing past his office window again, he looked at his phone for the third time. The tension wound up like a spring charging for its recoil. Soon, he’d be trading away the one thing his father said to never let go.

  It was 10:20 p.m. and he had an hour advantage to Houston, but soon it would be too late to call. He wanted to clear the first call so he could call Lauren. His rule was that a call before the eleven o’clock news was fair game. It was a family tradition, once he reached thirteen, to be sent to bed by his parents immediately afterward. He guessed Lauren would be up until eleven but her kids would be in bed. The news in Houston came on at ten. It was time.

  The phone was heavy in his hand, and he didn’t want to dial. But that was the plan: the chairman in Houston first, then Lauren. He touched the contact on the screen, placed the phone to his ear, and remembered the fight.

  After three rings, the chairman, William Archer, answered. “Archer.”

  Ike could hear plates and glasses clanging in the background. “Mr. Archer, this is Ike Rossi.”

  “Funny. I used to worry about private caller IDs, but now they’re the important calls. You in Houston?”

  Ike shoved his doubt aside. “No, sir. There’s been a development. I’m going to be delayed.”

  Archer’s Texas drawl thickened. “Delayed? What? Son, I hope someone died.”

  “No, sir. But I can’t come tomorrow.” Ike heard footsteps as the background noise faded and then abruptly ended with the slam of a door.

  “Look here, Mr. Rossi. You and I have a contract. I paid you a $200,000 retainer. I have two dead executives and the others worried to death about going to work. You get down here, now.”

  “I’ll wire the money back, sir, and if you can’t wait a couple of weeks, I can recommend someone who’d do a great job.”

  “If I wanted someone else, I would have done that. You were recommended to me by five different people. They said you were a man of your word. The only one to call. Are you going back on that?”

  Ike hit the windowsill with the heel of his hand. “Unfortunately, I have to. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re going to be more than sorry. Do you know who you’re screwing with? I’ll have my general counsel and our best outside firm all over you. I’ll smother you with a breach-of-contract suit and be sure your name isn’t worth shit in the business.”

  Ike straightened up. “You need to get a grip, sir. And know who you’re talking to. My word is still as good as any contract. I have a kid’s life in the balance, and you or your team of lawyers can’t stop me from doing the right thing. Those fancy-suited lawyers can make all the noise you’d like. The fact remains I’m delayed.

  “I’d be happy to help you once I help him, but not before,” he continued. “You can bluster all you want, but it won’t accomplish anything. Call me, send me an e-mail, or have one of your legal lackeys send me a new contract if you agree to the change. If not, my offer stands to give you a great recommendation. Good night, sir!” Ike almost dislocated his finger ending the call. He tossed the phone onto his desk.

  Ike heard Maria’s footsteps. He remembered the look she’d given him when he walked through the bar. The same one he always got when she suspected he’d fought. Her silhouette appeared at the open door and she tapped lightly on the glass.

  “It’s okay.”

  She made a beeline for him, examining his face. “You did it again, didn’t you?”

  “I’m going to help the kid.”

  She stepped back. “What?”

  “I’m going to help Jack.”

  She lunged and hugged him.

  He saw Mac in the doorway. “Might as well join the party,” Ike said.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  “No I—”

  Maria released him. “No. He’s helping Jack.”

  Mac ra
ised his bushy eyebrows.

  “She’s right,” Ike said.

  “What changed your mind?”

  Before he could answer, Maria said, “He was fighting again.”

  Mac scowled. “Let’s pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “Let’s,” Ike said. He picked up a folder from his desk and handed it to Mac.

  “What about Houston? Won’t they be mad?” Mac said.

  “Already called him. Mad, but I’m out for now.”

  Mac glanced through the file, then closed it. “Something’s not right here.”

  Ike picked up his phone from the desk. “Yeah. And I’m about to find out.” He dialed Lauren’s number. Maria held her breath but still grinned.

  Lauren answered on the first ring. “Hello.”

  “Ms. Bottaro?”

  Ike heard a huff on the other end.

  “Mr. Rossi. It’s late,” she said as if she were talking to an ex.

  “I’m going to help. I’m going to help Jack.”

  Another huff. “What do you mean? Help?” Lauren was still ice-cold.

  “I’m 100 percent committed now.”

  A long silence, punctuated by a sob. “What changed?”

  “Let’s just say I had a talk with a very wise man. Jack doesn’t deserve to face this without my help.”

  “I can’t pay you, Mr. Rossi.”

  “It’s Ike, and I wouldn’t take it if you could.”

  Lauren’s voice returned to the optimistic tone Ike remembered. “Why would you do this?”

  Ike thought about his answer. For the first time in a very long time, he opened that place he guarded from everyone and let something escape. “If not for me, then for Jack. And maybe, if for Jack, then maybe for me.”

  Ike noticed that the smile had left Maria’s face.

  “I don’t understand,” Lauren said.

  “It’s about closure. Closure for Jack. His father died and he doesn’t accept how or why. I’ve been there, Lauren. I’ve been there for twenty-two years. I won’t let that be the case for Jack. I promise you.” A strange new feeling overtook Ike for a few seconds. The abyss was still there, but it felt as if someone were standing with him. Someone or something. It was certainty and determination and pride and love all indistinguishably mixed.