The Manager (10 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“O
h, for God's sake,” said Tina, following them into the alley.

For God's sake? We're about to get liquidated, and that's your response?

I didn't know what to do. If I followed her outside I could be murdered on the spot. If I took off for safety, she could be murdered and I'd have no way of identifying which one did it.

“Are you coming, Ellie?” I heard her holler from outside. “I could use your help for a minute.”

Use my help for a minute?
She made it sound like she was wrapping a present and needed me to stick my finger in the ribbon so she could tie a bow.

I opened the exit door just a crack and peered outside to the parking lot.

Tina and Jesse were pushed up against the Jaguar, and one of the creeps was busy fitting a silencer on the end of his Beretta.

Tina saw my eye. “Get the hell out here. Now!”

I crept slowly through the door.

“Will you tell these
gentlemen
who my friend is, Ellie?”

“Friend?”

“Oh, God,” she hissed. “Mickey! Mickey O'Shea!”

“Yes. Yes, that's right. She and him are good friends,” I said with a gulp. Then I twisted two fingers together. “They're like that.”

Jesse didn't say a word. Standing there in his trunks and robe, a couple of guns in his face, he watched in fascination as Tina talked down the mobsters.

But the blond wasn't having any of it and signalled the ugly guy to shove Jesse into the trunk of the Jag.

Oh my God. It's all over for us.

Just then a car pulled up and rolled to a stop beside us. It was a metallic silver Maserati with Québec plates.

The door opened slowly, the driver reached for a jacket that was draped over the passenger seat, then he got out and let the door close itself. It locked automatically, and when I heard the click, I jumped, thinking somebody had pulled their trigger.

Is that Mickey O'Shea?

“Tina!” he said, smiling widely and greeting her like she was family and we were all at a picnic. He grasped both her shoulders and squeezed them in a hug-like gesture. Maybe it was a special mobster hug. Then he held up his hand so the banditos would put away their guns.

“Thanks for coming, Mickey,” said Tina.

Thanks for coming?

“That's all right. I was going to stop here to watch Stone anyway.” He checked his watch. “Looks like I made it just in time.”

You can say that again.

“This is the mysterious call you made from the restaurant?” asked Jesse.

Tina didn't answer, just continued chatting with O'Shea. They carried on like a couple of old ladies who finally got through on the party line and weren't going to be interrupted for anyone.

“So, you see why this means so much to me and why I need you to call these guys off.”

“Okay, look,” he said. “I haven't got a fortune riding on this fight, nothing like that. I'm going to let this one go, for you.” He paused. “For
you
, Tina, because I like you. Okay? I know the kind of crap life has thrown at you.”

Thank God he liked her. Thank God life had thrown crap at her.

“Thank you,” said my sister.

“But next time I'm in the Pier, you owe me a few beers, right?”

She smiled at him.

“And I can watch you beat the hell out of some losers at pool.”

“You've got it,” said Tina.

“So that was all made up crap about my sister?” Jesse asked O'Shea.

“I don't know anything about your sister.”

His henchmen didn't answer. Oddly, I had the feeling that maybe – and I hated to think it – maybe they weren't making it up and maybe Meryl was in trouble.

“Okay, slugger,” said O'Shea, slapping Jesse on the back, “let's see what you can do.” He smirked. “Just because I'm letting this one go, doesn't mean you're going to beat Stone, you realize that. This isn't going to be a walk in the park. Frankly, I think he's going to kill you.”

—

Jesse and Stone settled right into a grinding fight. The crowd was loud, obnoxious and out for blood. Not everyone was on Judd Stone's side, but he had the majority and Jesse knew it. He was forced to endure some nasty racial slurs from his opponent's camp, which he did with dignity and style.

I was proud of Jesse and the way he kept up the pressure on Stone for the first round. Still, he was going to need to build some combinations – something to throw Stone off his balance. Jesse's jabs were crisp, but Stone, who had a thick, square neck and stumpy legs like tree trunks, avoided most of them, and even when Jesse connected, it was like trying to knock down a Neanderthal.

Between rounds, Tina hollered at Jesse while I cleaned him up. “What's wrong with you, Mankiller? You're going to be dead meat in the next ten minutes if you don't get your act together, do you hear me? Jab, jab, hook – right?”

He heard her, but the next two rounds were the same. He dodged every hook, but Stone kept plodding after him, with slow, heavy feet that reminded me of sasquatch. After the third round, Tina urged Jesse to take him out with a short right uppercut to his massive jaw. Jesse nodded, but Tina felt that he needed a push to get things moving, so as he was getting ready to head back into the ring, she scooped up a handful of ice from our bucket, pulled open the front of his shorts, and tossed it in there like she was feeding fish at Marineland.

He swore at her, and she swore back, but the bell rang just in time; otherwise, the two of them would have become the main attraction. The ice kept Jesse moving at first, but not long enough, and Stone bullied him around the ring and got him into the perfect position for a significant left hook.

Wham!
Jesse fell back against the ropes. He stumbled up and forward toward Stone, who got him again, this time with a right cross.

Jesse was down. And he was in pain – massive rope burns across his back made it look like he'd been lashed.

The referee started the count.

Tina was screaming at Jesse to get up.

Everyone in the arena was hollering too, catcalls that burned my ears and whistles that were so high-pitched they could penetrate even Tina's skull. Then suddenly they stopped and the place went silent when Jesse got up. Barely.

The doctor rushed over to examine him.

“Who are you fighting?”

“Judd Stone.”

“What city are you in?”

“Portland.”

The doctor was almost finished when someone from Stone's camp decided to hurl an insult at Tina. And it was no paltry little sticks-and-stones-may-break-my-bones kind of insult. It was straight from hell.

“Too bad, Mankiller,” said Stone's cornerman, “but that's what you get when you hire a manager from Oz.” A bunch of idiots started laughing hysterically.

I hoped Tina hadn't heard, but she did. The expression on her face broke my heart.

I think it broke Jesse's too, because when the doctor allowed the fight to continue, he jumped up, threw his towel clear across the ring and came at Stone like he was avenging a murder.

A cocky, grinning Stone sauntered back into the ring, basking in the cheers from the screaming crowd and throwing kisses like he'd already won. That was when Jesse pinned him with several quick uppercuts to the chin and heavy punishing rights to his body. He topped it off with a beautiful looping left hook – sharp, short and on the mark – and knocked Stone out cold. Stone cold.

That knockout earned Jesse more money than he could make in a year anyplace else, meant that he was the new holder of the American title and assured him that he would go to Boston for the North American crown.

—

Jesse was in no shape to celebrate; having taken so much abuse in the first few rounds, he was dazed and exhausted. He answered some brief questions for sports reporters, but the physician took him aside to treat his rope burns and examine his swellings and contusions. Then he warned him to rest.

“Why didn't
you
talk to those reporters?” he asked Tina when we were back at the motel. He slumped into a chair and held an ice pack to his face.

“I have nothing to say. Your performance speaks for itself.”

“You've disappeared after every fight,” Jesse muttered.

I explained why. “Our father follows the sports pages religiously. She doesn't want him to know she's your manager.” I glanced at Tina. “It's a good thing these fights haven't been televised.”

“Jesse'll be on the tube soon enough.” Tina threw herself down on the bed. “You make it to the Boston Garden in September and I guarantee that one will be broadcast right across North America.”

“Won't this next fight be televised?” I asked my sister.

“It might be,” she admitted. “I hope not.”

“Why do you care if Dad knows?”

She didn't answer me and spoke to Jesse instead. “Are you well enough to call Paul, or do you want me to do it for you? He'd probably like to get the news from you – if he hasn't heard it on the radio already.”

“I can do it,” said Jesse. “I have to talk to him anyway.”

“Don't be long,” warned my sister. “You need sleep.”

While Jesse went to use the motel phone, Tina decided to take a shower. The lock on the door was broken, and there was no way she'd take her clothes off if there was even a remote chance of Jesse walking in, so she made me wait inside the bathroom and guard the door like it was the back of an armoured truck.

It seemed like an eternity, but when she finally finished her shower, I decided to have one myself, while Tina brushed her teeth and used the ancient little, low-powered, built-in hairdryer. The water was lukewarm, brown and only one step up from the Valentines' pond, but when you've been spattered with blood and sweat and spit, anything will do.

It must have been half an hour by the time we came out, and we were anxious to hear from Jesse what Paul had to say about his remarkable win. But Jesse wasn't there.

Instead, Mickey O'Shea was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Got some bad news,” he said, lighting a cigarette and searching the drawers for an ashtray. “Yeah, really bad news.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“W
hat are you talking about?” cried Tina. “Where's Jesse?”

I pulled open the door and checked the parking lot. Brandy was there, but Jesse was not. I glared at O'Shea.

“Listen, Tina,” said O'Shea, calmly and between two drags of his cigarette, “my boys had nothing to do with this.” He looked at me. “What's your name again?”

“Ellie.”

“Where is he?” asked Tina.

“He called somebody – in Halifax, I think – and what my boys told him was right. His sister is in bad shape.”

“What are you saying? That he's gone back to Truro?” hollered Tina.

“That's what I'm saying.” O'Shea nodded his head.

“What? You've got to be kidding me. Tell me you're kidding me.”

“Well, you can't blame Jesse for worrying about his sister,” I said.

O'Shea agreed. “I offered the kid a drive to Nova Scotia. I'm headed that way. But he asked me to take you to Boston instead. What's happening in Boston?”

Tina didn't answer him.

“I don't mind doing Mankiller a favour,” said O'Shea, “but you know how I am about favours—”

Tina cut him off mid sentence, grabbed her purse and yanked open the door. “We've got to find Jesse before he gets too far. Maybe your Maserati would be faster than our car.”

“Oh, yeah,” said O'Shea, “it's faster. That's why I loaned it to your friend.”

“You did what?” hollered Tina. “He's in no shape to drive. He could collapse at the wheel any moment!”

“He's not stupid, right?” said O'Shea. “He'll stop somewhere to sleep.”

“No, he won't,” replied Tina. “Why'd you let him take your car? What's in it for you? He won't throw a fight, I know that for sure.”

“I know that too,” said O'Shea. “Maybe I'm just a nice guy, okay?”

I doubt it
, I said to myself.

“Come on,” shouted Tina. “We've got to catch up with him. Somehow.”

We tossed our luggage back into Brandy and hit the main highway. Tina got O'Shea to drive so fast that the neon signs from service stations, truck stops and motels became one long blurry ribbon of light.

“The way he's bleeding, it's a wonder you let him in your car,” said Tina, her eyes fixed on the highway ahead.

I don't imagine blood disturbs him very much,
I thought, taking a good long look at the mob boss behind the wheel. You could tell from the way he dressed that O'Shea was a Montrealer. Despite being a notorious criminal, he had excellent taste and was beyond cool. Not just his Maserati or his leather jacket; his whole demeanor, even the way he combed his hair was cool. Driving with him in Brandy, however, was like hiring James Bond to help you track down a chicken thief.

O'Shea looked at the huge chrome dashboard. “Whose boat is this anyway?”

“I borrowed it from a friend.”

Tina thought for a minute. “Now I get it. You were happy to give Jesse your car because you don't want him to fight in Boston. Right? You think I'm stupid? Sure, send him back to Truro in a Maserati, half crazy from being hit in the head, so he'll kill himself. Your car's insured.”

“Hey, Tina, hear me out. I've got nothing on that fight in Boston now that Stone's out of the match.” He swerved to avoid a pothole.

I'm not sure if Tina believed him or not, but she insisted that we keep driving, all the way back to Truro, if necessary. She was bound and determined that Jesse would fight.

“That kid's a real contender,” admitted O'Shea. He had his elbow out the window and was driving way too fast for my taste. “I'd like to get him on my side.”

“Won't happen,” said Tina. “He's too proud for any kind of deals. Anyway, I thought you were after Ryan Byrne.”

“I'm not sure about him,” admitted O'Shea, and Tina nodded in agreement.

“Well he's Dad's best hope, so I'm rooting for him,” I said.

While we sailed down the highway and the two of them rattled on about boxing, I started to listen in fascinated horror to the sound of my own thoughts.
What if O'Shea
had
knocked off Jesse for winning that fight against Stone? What if he had him chained in a basement someplace? What if he didn't really loan his car to Jesse but had murdered him instead and was simply buying time by driving us back to Canada? What if he was taking Tina and me to some hideout where we, too, would be executed, and he was using Brandy as his getaway car?

“Tina?” I said, my voice creaking like an old rocking chair.

“What is it, Ellie?”

“I'm really tired. We've been up for eighteen hours now. Can't we find a motel or something?”

“Sleep back there,” she barked.

“Yeah, but….”

“But what?”

“Mr. O'Shea must be tired too. We really shouldn't be driving like this, in the dead of night when we're all bone tired.” I didn't know if criminals ever slept but hoped O'Shea would at least want to rest for a couple hours.

He didn't. It wasn't until we veered onto the shoulder a couple of times that Tina realized she was pushing us too hard and that we had to find someplace to sleep. The only problem was that we were out in the middle of nowhere, miles from Portland, miles from any town and miles from the Canadian border.

The only place we weren't miles from was the Valentines'.

—

The house was in darkness except for the glow of a television from the living room. We figured it was Dot watching
The Tonight Show
.

She opened the door when we knocked, but rather than greeting us – she couldn't because her mouth was full and she couldn't leave Johnny Carson – she waved us in, pointed to a plate of donuts (that had obviously come out of a freezer because they were beaded with moisture) and threw herself back down in front of the set.

When O'Shea, a man whom she'd never met in her life, sat down next to her, she didn't even bat an eye, despite being clothed in a big caftan with huge armholes and a low neck that – whenever she reached for a donut or leaned back on the couch – displayed several of her body parts clearly.

He didn't seem to care either, and the two of them laughed hysterically at Carson's jokes (which I didn't find especially funny) and sang along with Barbara Streisand when she did “People. People who need people, Are the luckiest people in the world. People. People who need people….”

At a commercial break, Dot asked Tina if she had the letter for Johnny with her. She wanted to read it, make sure it was right. When Tina lied and told her she'd “lost” it, Dot waddled over to a desk, took out a pad, and started writing another one. I noticed a half-completed needlepoint sitting on the desk; it was quite colourful and the border was comprised of flowers and vines. I picked it up to admire it and asked Dot if she was the one who had done it.

“Yes,” she said, “that's my work. Keeps me happy. Keeps me from getting blue.” Then she pointed to one in a frame on the wall. It had a floral theme also, with a biblical verse in the middle: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”
I looked over at Mickey, and thought to myself that entertaining strangers can go either way.

Tina and I made our way to the guest room and left Dot with Mickey and Johnny. I was completely exhausted and nothing would have stopped me from falling asleep. Tina couldn't though, and she kept me up for an hour, filling my mind with all the terrible things that could happen to Jesse.

“That idiot will try to get back to Truro tonight … Maserati … two hundred miles an hour … nothing to eat … almost knocked out in the third round … no sleep … eighteen hours.”

Her sentences floated through my mind, along with the lyrics to “People,” and I drifted in and out of consciousness until finally my body couldn't take it anymore and I fell sound asleep.

When I woke up, Tina was already downstairs and eating cereal with Ellwood. Darlene and Charlene were in the barn trying to find where we'd hidden Jesse, Dot was in bed, Walter was starting to take Brandy apart and Mickey O'Shea was sound asleep on the living room couch.

“Found him there this morning,” said Ellwood, pouring me a generous helping of corn flakes. “Didn't recognize him, so I figured he must have wandered in from the highway.” He pushed a carton of milk across the table. “Then your sister here said he'd come with you.” He paused to scratch the back of his head. “What happened to that nice young Indian fellow you had with you the last time?”

“He's got a problem at home in Nova Scotia,” I said.

“That's too bad,” said Ellwood. “Too bad.”

Mickey woke up when he heard us talking.

“Set yourself down,” said Ellwood, “and have a bowl of cereal.”

Mickey declined, choosing to smoke instead. He checked his watch a few times, which we took as a hint that he wanted to get going.

“What's that?” I asked him, noticing a large manila envelope in his hand.

“An autographed photograph of Carson,” he said. “Dot gave it to me.” He looked at Tina, then at me. “Nice, eh?”

“I'm surprised she parted with it,” said Tina.

Ellwood wasn't surprised. “She's got fourteen of those things.”

We were on our way out the door – luckily, Walter hadn't gotten too far with Brandy and put everything back in place quickly – when Dot came down to say good-bye. Still in her nightgown and half asleep, she managed to stumble out and stop us before we got away so she could give Tina the new letter.

“Yeah, whatever,” replied Tina, when Dot wished her luck in Hollywood.

“Hollywood?” inquired O'Shea, once we'd pulled out of the driveway.

“Don't ask,” said Tina, ripping up the letter and letting the little pieces fly out the window in every direction.

A few miles down the road, I noticed that Tina seemed much calmer than she had the night before. She wasn't hanging out the window, screaming Jesse's name anymore. I asked her why.

“I suspect that he's been incarcerated by now and some jailhouse physician is looking after him.”

“What makes you say that?” asked O'Shea.

“Think about it. A Native guy, nineteen years old, with a long braid down the middle of his back, covered with blood and bruises, is driving a Maserati down a well-policed highway at top speed in the middle of the night. How far do you think he'd get?”