by John Lansing
“You tell me how you want to start the conversation.”
“I’ve been involved in some things that I witnessed, some things, but I didn’t do them.”
Dead silence.
“Depends on how involved.”
“I think you know.”
“I’m not that smart.”
Jack’s eye caught Chris start across the busy traffic on Glencoe. In his mind he thought, Oh, he’s got it.
Then a car abruptly sped up and Jack’s heart stopped.
“I’ve been breakin’ the law,” Johnny confessed.
Chris was struck by a seven-thousand-pound Escalade. He was thrown through the air with such force, his young body disappeared from Jack’s line of vision, obstructed by the corner of his building.
Hot tears seared Jack’s eyes, blinding him to everything except the pain. “Chris!” he shouted, already in motion as he pounded out the door, down the hallway, and banged into the stairwell, bypassing the elevator.
“Are you hearing me?” Johnny asked, confused.
Jack would never remember running down the four flights of stairs.
He blasted out of the stairwell and slammed the front door open.
“Fuck you, man, fuck you!” Johnny hung up, hearing muffled sounds, but not quite sure what had just transpired.
J.D. from Bruffy’s was in front of his tow yard, stopping the flow of traffic.
Chris’s broken body had been thrown under a parked white Econoline van with a bicycle strapped to its front bumper.
Jack ran around the other side of the van and lay down on the sidewalk by the curb, trying to view his son’s face. He reached under the van with his hands and stroked his cheek. “I’m here, Chris. Lay still, we’ll get you out,” Jack cried to his son’s motionless body.
Chris was unconscious, and his arm was twisted at an unnatural angle. Jack could see something white jutting out just below Chris’s elbow. Horrified, Jack realized it was a piece of bone that had broken through Chris’s perfect skin.
The van shifted and a scruffy man who called the van home stepped out over Jack, disoriented, and stumbled away as if he had awakened from a bad dream. Jack was praying feverishly to God and he never noticed.
—
The waiting room at St. John’s in Santa Monica was the same as hospitals the world over. Only the modern art on the pastel walls was of a higher quality than most. The air was thick with worry and grief and anger. Jack had lost count of how many times he had looked up at the Seiko wall clock. Was it really six o’clock? How could time be passing if it felt like it was standing still?
The fire department had responded within minutes and used a large hydraulic jack to lift the van while the paramedics extricated Chris. With precision and compassion they had strapped him to a backboard to immobilize him against spinal injury, slammed fluids into his system to prevent shock, and secured him in the ambulance.
Jack didn’t remember much about the frenetic drive to St. John’s. Sirens wailed, and he was tossed about in the back of the LAFD ambulance. His eyes never wavered from his son’s still form. The only picture that remained with him, one that would haunt him for the rest of his life, was how fragile and otherworldly white his son’s face looked.
Two hours had passed since the surgeon’s last report. They were going to keep Chris sedated, and wait for the swelling in his brain to go down, before conducting further neurological tests. They couldn’t determine yet if he had suffered any permanent brain damage. The MRI had been inconclusive. The doctor said the next twenty-four hours would tell.
An orthopedic specialist had been called in to operate on his arm, and the good news, the doctor said, was that the surgeon was a genius, and the break was clean; there was no gross muscle or nerve damage. They would be setting the bone and inserting titanium pins. Because of his age, theoretically the bone should heal stronger than before the accident.
The big unknown was the acute nature of the head trauma. Chris had been thrown headfirst into the concrete curb.
Brain damage—theoretically—should heal—head trauma—titanium pins—inconclusive—sedation. Jack wanted to shut down. His heart was broken. He was awash with guilt.
Jack had called New York and spoken with Jeannine, who understandably fell apart when she heard the news and the circumstances that had led up to the attack. She and Jeremy were already on a flight out of LaGuardia, and Jack had arranged for a car to meet them at LAX.
Tommy had been ready to drop everything and fly out if needed. Jack asked him to stay put, but he appreciated the heartfelt offer.
Macklin was sprawled across three seats, red eyed and emotionally spent. Chris’s friend had chased after the Escalade and was able to write down the first four numbers of the license plate before losing the big car in traffic and barely avoiding a collision himself.
He and Jack had both given statements to the LAPD.
Yes, Jack had seen the car purposely veer into his son. No, it was not an accident, but attempted murder.
Macklin had corroborated his story, and the cops immediately put out an APB, an all-points-bulletin, to search for the hit-and-run driver of a black Cadillac Escalade with front-end damage.
Jack’s cell phone chirped just as a registered nurse walked by. She threw him a dirty look and pointed to a sign prohibiting their use. Jack pulled out the phone and walked it toward the exit doors.
“Bertolino.”
“What the fuck are you up to, man? You told me to call.”
Jack was in no mood for a punk’s attitude. “I’m going to ask you something, Johnny. If you answer honestly, we can talk about your problem. If you lie to me, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
“Stop with the macho shit, ese. You don’t scare me. I’ve faced the devil, you see. Ask away.”
“Who ordered the hit on my son?”
“What?”
“Who ran my son down?”
The voice sounded genuinely flustered. “Don’t know anything about a hit on anybody’s son. And you are strictly off-limits. Orders. So it wasn’t Angels’ business or I’d know about it.”
Jack thought about the implications if Johnny was telling the truth.
“Who gives the orders?”
Johnny said more reluctantly, “A chain-of-command thing. Never really know where it originates.”
Delgado was all Jack could come up with. He would never deal directly with the soldiers, but would still control the play.
“You still there, man? Don’t go doing another disappearing act on me, or we’re done.”
“No, I’m here. I’ve got to get back inside. Let’s talk tomorrow and we’ll set something up. Give me a number where you can be reached.”
“I’ll call you. And don’t waste your time; I’ve got more phones than you’ve got dollar bills. Later.”
—
“So, are you ready to go?” Johnny asked Angelina as she stepped out of the bathroom dressed in skintight black jeans and a lacy black bra that pushed her breasts together, accentuating her cleavage.
It was good for tips, she’d said.
She had an eyeliner pencil in her hand and Johnny could see that only one of her strong, unblinking brown eyes had been lined. The bruise on her cheek from their fight had faded, and now, with the foundation she wore, had disappeared altogether.
“Yeah, I’ve been giving it some thought,” she said. “I got a few ideas. I’ll run it by Felix tonight if it’s not too busy. I can get Izel to cover the bar. You think she can handle it? Yeah, she can. When do you want to go?”
Angelina stepped back into the bathroom and started to carefully apply the black liner to her other eye. Johnny thought it made her look hard but not enough to mention it.
“Don’t ask Felix. Don’t talk to Izel or anyone else.”
She finished up and walk
ed back into the room, opened the closet, and pulled out three blouses and held them up for Johnny to make the decision.
“The blue number,” he said.
She hung the other blouses back in the closet. “I’m not getting fired, Johnny,” she said, buttoning the blouse and checking herself out in the bathroom mirror. Satisfied, she walked back into the bedroom and stood facing him.
Johnny was sitting on the edge of the bed. He took off his sunglasses and put his hands around her waist and pulled her a little closer.
“I’m not talking about a vacation. I’m talking about making a change, starting over somewhere. Somewhere new. Haven’t you ever thought about that?”
“You’re not making any sense,” she said, checking her watch.
“How much do you love me?”
“Enough to put up with your crap.” She stared into his hazel eyes and could see something was off. “Are you in trouble?”
Johnny didn’t answer right away. He knew he was taking a big risk confiding in Angelina.
“Big time. And if I don’t make big-time changes, I’m going to end up taking a bullet, or locked up forever. Either way I’m a dead man. It’s just a fact of my life right now.”
Angelina put her arms around his neck and pulled him close. He could smell the perfume he loved, especially when it mixed with their sweat.
She suddenly pushed him back. “What happened, Johnny?”
“It didn’t just happen, but it’s going to hell and taking me with it.”
“Make some sense!”
“We have a big deal coming up, and I’ve been saving and investing. It’s time.”
Angelina was no-nonsense now. “It’s crazy is what it is. I can’t just leave. My family, my home, my job. And they’d find us. I’m not gonna spend my life hiding out. That’s crazy.”
No compassion or empathy now. Dark, powerful, and cold emotions. Her eyes bored into his.
Johnny stayed aloof, not letting her read his thoughts. He did realize, though, that it was time for him to change his tune. “You’re right, just crazy talk, between you and me. Only. Right?” Johnny wasn’t asking. “I’ve just gotta be careful is all.”
“That’s right, baby, I don’t want anything to happen to my pretty boy. So what’s coming up?” she asked as if she wasn’t really interested.
“Just some good business opportunities. You know, I can’t say. It’s better if you don’t know.”
She nodded her head in agreement even though her pursed lips showed what crap she thought it was. “You watch who you talk to, Johnny. Stop the crazy talk. They’re not going to let you leave. It don’t work like that. And if you run, they’ll find you.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Johnny!”
“I’m just saying . . . hey, forget it. It’s just talk is all.”
But Angelina could read Johnny like a book and she didn’t like where the story was heading.
“Who were you talking to?” She nodded outside the apartment door.
“What?”
“Why’d you take the call outside?” she asked, not pulling any punches.
“You fucking spying on me?” Johnny asked. His eyes turned cold.
“No, Johnny. I stepped out of the bathroom is all, and I saw you were outside on the phone.”
An easy lie came to him. “Hector, I was talking to Hector, and you were steaming up the room. I needed some air. We’re gonna connect later.”
Johnny stood up from the bed, wanting to end this conversation.
“C’mon, I’ll drop you off at the Stallion. Everything’s cool.”
“Doesn’t feel cool, Johnny.”
“Everything’s cool, I’ve got it under control.”
“You better.”
“I do.”
He gave her his best tough look, and her face softened some.
“That’s better,” she said. “We gotta enjoy what we got. Will you still take me somewhere new, like you said? Someplace I’ve seen in a magazine?” Angelina sounded young and vulnerable now, and Johnny was hooked.
“Anywhere you want.”
“That’s my strong bull. I’ll start looking for someplace sexy.” Angelina checked her cell phone for the time. “Shit, I’m late. Damn you, Johnny, Felix is gonna dock my pay.” And she was out the door.
Johnny slid on his mirrored sunglasses, ready to face the night. He was worried he had said too much, but Angelina would be cool, he decided. Christ, she couldn’t keep her hands off him.
—
Angelina banged through the red door and all but ran into the Black Stallion. It was still early and only about fifteen patrons were scattered around the room. It would be full to the rafters by nine.
Felix glared at her from his regular booth as she smiled and mouthed sorry. He shook his head to say what else is new, and went back to his paper.
Angelina put on an apron, scooted under the bar, and spelled Izel, who was prepping lime wedges.
“Glad you could make it.”
“Johnny’s all mouth, all the time. I lost track.”
“Everything’s under control. Except the prick is over in the corner. Fat fuck gives me the creeps. Why don’t you get Johnny to make him disappear?”
Angelina could see Hector, sitting by himself, nursing a Dos Equis. She walked to the end of the bar and got his attention.
“You ready for another?”
“I’m good.”
“Johnny’s outside.”
“Okay.”
But Hector didn’t move.
“I thought you were hanging tonight?”
“News to me.”
Angelina turned away, pulled some lemons out of the fridge, and started peeling off the skins to make lemon strips. She went on as if it was business as usual. As if she wasn’t chilled to the bone. Johnny had talked about running away. So if he wasn’t talking to Hector, who the hell was it?
37
The lights were dimmed in the ICU. Jack had been camped out in the room for hours, watching his son lying in a state somewhere between life and death. His right arm, his pitching arm, was encased in a full plaster cast, braced away from his rib cage with a piece of padded aluminum and now elevated slightly off his body by a metal rope-and-pulley system.
The nurses were monitoring his brain activity for any signs of internal bleeding or increased swelling. Four other beds were occupied, human beings kept alive by modern technology, separated only by the thin veil of white hospital curtains.
The doctor reported that he would keep Chris sedated for at least another twelve hours. He was resting comfortably and Jack should think about doing the same thing. Jack wasn’t sure how the doctor knew what his son was feeling but didn’t argue the point. He didn’t have the strength. He also refused to leave.
The orthopedic specialist had been pleased with the results of his operation, and Jack was grateful. It went without a hitch, the surgeon’s words. A few months of physical therapy and Chris should be able to throw a ball again. Hopefully, by next season. Should. Hopefully. Jack was trying to stay optimistic.
Jeannine was due to arrive any minute, and Jack wished he could teleport himself to any other place on earth. The sound of the monitors and the constant green blip of lights that moved across the multiple screens became mind numbing. The adrenaline that had fueled the first fourteen hours of the ordeal had dissipated and left him feeling drained. Jack’s eyelids started fluttering, his head started nodding like a heroin addict’s, and he fell into a deep and disturbed slumber.
He was back on Staten Island, just a kid. Eight or nine. Playing with a friend of his at Miller Field, an old army base. They were throwing at Pigeon Tower.
Pigeons used to lay their eggs in the rafters and the kids would toss the eggs off the edge of the tower, amazed at the popping sou
nd they made on impact and the yolk art created on the weed-strewn lot below.
A couple of guys drinking down at the beach were on the prowl. When they saw Jack and his buddy, Sal Traina, exiting the tower, they beat the shit out of them. Just for fun.
Franky Risucci, a sanitation guy who lived next door to the Bertolinos, asked Jack what had happened. Franky’s brother was connected to organized crime. They all used to fish off the rocks and eat veal parmigiana sandwiches together. Lou Terracino, another neighborhood tough, was there and itching for retribution.
Jack and Sal stood by the curb, all lumped up, and watched as Franky and Lou took off in a bright orange Camaro. The air was thick with the smell of burning rubber and testosterone heading down the road toward Pigeon Tower.
Those two guys were beaten to within an inch of their lives. You never fucked with anybody from the neighborhood. Violence was met with violence, a simple formula. And Jack, even in his dream state, was gearing up.
His eyes blinked open and dread enveloped him when he realized where he was sitting and who was standing in front of him.
Jeannine was leaning over Chris, and her boyfriend, Jeremy, was standing in the doorway to the ICU, looking extremely uncomfortable.
Chris had always said that Jeremy looked like a thinner version of Jack, and although he was loath to admit it, he could see the resemblance, a second cousin maybe.
An RN pushed past Jeremy into the room and said in a hushed but firm tone, “We can only have one family member in the ICU at a time.”
Jeannine looked fiercely down at Jack, and his heart sank. He could read her pain and knew he was the cause. He stood up, stroked his son’s face, and walked out past Jeremy into the hallway.
Jeannine was right on his heels, and he turned to face her, his arms at his sides. Jeremy had the good grace to move down the hallway and let this family emergency play out.
“What are you doing, Jack?” she asked, so cold and so intense it threw him.