The Devil's Necktie (20 page)

“I love my Johnny,” she said in a whispered tone that made him hard again.

He pulled off his sunglasses and stared into her eyes. “You feel like taking a trip?”

She stirred, disturbed by the change in direction their conversation was taking. “Where you gonna take me that I haven't already taken you?”

“Pick a spot. Someplace you've seen in a magazine.”

“Mexico?” she said.

“Shit, we live in Mexico.”

Angelina looked mystified. “Why are you talking about a trip now?”

“I'm thinking somewhere we've only read about. France, Italy, Spain. At least we could communicate in Spain,” he pointed out. “And the food's supposed to be good.”

“What's going on?” Angelina asked, cutting to the chase.

“Why the fuck are you always so negative?” Johnny said defensively. This was not going to be easy. “I'm talking about taking you the fuck out of Ontario, and the fuckin' Stallion, and you're giving me the fifth degree?”

“Because you've been acting weird for a while now. No fooling, Johnny. I mean strange even for your pretty self. I don't know what to expect anymore. No offense.”

“Fuck you.”

Johnny grabbed his shirt off the front seat, opened the door, and jumped out, slamming it behind him. He put on his mirrored sunglasses and let the cold night air dry his sweat and clear his head.

He heard the car door open but didn't turn around. He felt Angelina put her arms around his waist and her fingers move down the front of his pants.

“I'm sorry,
mi amor
. You're right. I'll think about it. Somewhere special.”

Johnny wanted to say more but kept his own council. He turned and picked up Angelina, who instantly wrapped her legs around him. He pushed her up against the car and could feel the heat of her sex boring into his bare waist. He put his tongue into the golden ring that pierced her right nipple, Angelina tugged on the back of his long black hair, and Johnny became aroused for the third time that night.

36

Jack worked the stove while Chris sipped black coffee from a mug. He had scrambled some eggs and cooked turkey bacon, his only concession to being health conscious. When the toast popped, Chris jumped off the stool. He burned his hand while he grabbed the slices and threw them onto his plate, where he proceeded to drench them in butter.

“What time is Macklin showing up?” Jack asked as he scooped the eggs onto two plates and pushed one in front of his son.

“He should be here in fifteen,” Chris said, grabbing a strip of bacon and polishing it off in a swallow before it reached his plate. “He said I could crash with his friends from UCLA. They play ball, so we can get a little work-playtime in.”

“And when are you driving back?”

“Early Sunday. I've still got some homework and a seven thirty practice on Monday.” He gave his father a sideways glance. “And trust me, I'm gonna call you before I show up next time.”

“That would probably be wise,” Jack said, thankful that his son had recovered. He still hadn't been able to forgive himself for what had almost happened the night before.

Jack waited for him to go on. He didn't want to push his son but was anxious to hear how he was feeling about the team and the coach and just playing in general. Jack watched, amazed, as his son shoveled down the eggs. Did he eat like that as a kid? Yeah, he thought, he probably did.

“I decided to double my hustle and see if that would work,” Chris finally said.

“And how's that going?”

“Coach Fredricks didn't stare directly at
me
when he lectured the team about commitment. I still don't think he's gonna put me in the starting lineup this year, but you never know. A lot of things can happen in a season.”

“That's true,” Jack said, happy with the direction the conversation was taking. “How's your mother?”

Chris smiled. Jack was always trying to do the right thing, keeping the divorce on an even keel to protect his boy.

“She worries too much, calls too often, complains about Jeremy”—he looked to check out his father's reaction when he spoke the Jeremy word—“too often, and other than that, she's still mad I didn't pick a school closer to home.”

“So everything's normal,” Jack said, eliciting a snorting laugh from his son.

“You're giving yourself too much credit if you think life at home was ever normal.”

“And nobody appreciates a wiseass,” Jack said, smiling.

Both of their cell phones chirped at the same time. Chris was already in motion, picking up his knapsack and heading for the door.

“I'll be right down,” he said into the phone.

“Jack Bertolino here,” he said, heading toward the door to walk Chris to the street. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end of the line was tentative.

“My sister, she told me I could, uh, call, ya know. If I wanted to talk.”

“Hold on.” Jack hugged his son, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. “I've got to take this. Call me as soon as you're settled.”

“Love you, Dad.” Chris burst out the door, running toward the elevator.

“Are you still there?” Jack asked cautiously, trying to keep his voice uninterested.

“Yeah, still here,” Johnny Rodriguez answered. “Don't know if I'm gonna stay on long. Depends.”

“Well, I'm in the dark here, and you've got to fill in the blanks. Who am I speaking with?”

“Don't fuck with me, bro, you know who I am, all right.”

“Okay, Johnny, what can I do for you?”

“Well, better. I think that will be a two-way street. It's up to you.”

Jack walked to the rear of the loft, slid open the glass doors, and walked out onto the balcony. His eyes scanned Glencoe and settled on a Volkswagen Jetta, parked in a red zone next to Bruffy's Tow. That was probably his son's friend Macklin. The window was rolled down, and the scrubbed young driver looked like a jock.

“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 walked 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.”