Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles) Page 5

  “Eddie, we need an ambulance!”

  “They’ll kill me,” he gurgled, still laid out flat. “Don’t…”

  “I’m callin’ an ambulance!”

  “No!” he groaned, shifting to his side and trying to sit up. “I’m okay. Wait. Just wait.” He reached for Everett’s glowing phone. Everett pulled it away.

  Drooling and moaning, Eddie forced himself up. “Knicks were…on the take last night.” He smiled, eyes closed. “Had to be. Favored by eight over Atlanta. Only won by one in overtime… Turn off the phone, brother.”

  “Is that what this is about?” Everett closed the phone, slid it into his pocket, and examined his brother’s mouth and facial cuts.

  “Hawks. Worst team in the league. And they come within one of the Knicks. Had to be fixed.”

  Everett scanned the parking lot. “You lost twenty-four grand on one game?”

  “It was double or nothin’.’” Eddie groaned, licking a small cut at the corner of his mouth. “I owed twelve. Couldn’t believe they gave me eight points and the Knicks. It was a no-brainer.”

  “Are you on anything? You been drinking?”

  “Nothin’.” He grimaced. “This is who I am, brother.”

  “Who’d you bet?”

  “Let’s go, can we? I’m soaked. Think I cracked a couple ribs.”

  “You need a doctor.”

  “No.” Eddie looked around for the first time, getting his bearings. “I’ve had worse. Just get me to a hotel. I don’t want Sheila to see me like this, or the kids.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “A lot near my office.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “Cab.”

  “I’m not takin’ you to a hotel. I’ll take you to a hospital, your house, or my house. You make the call.”

  Eddie closed his eyes and could only shake his head, wincing.

  “Never mind,” Everett said. “I’ll decide.”

  Slowly, Everett helped his brother make it from the car to his house. Karen rushed to meet them at the door, gaping at Eddie’s bloodied body and shooting Everett a look of distress.

  As they entered the toasty kitchen, Eddie barely made eye contact with Karen, insisting that his injuries were not substantial. But his body language said otherwise.

  After taking a pair of blue sweatpants and an old white sweatshirt of Everett’s that Karen had retrieved, Eddie insisted he didn’t need his brother’s help changing. Thirty minutes later, he gingerly emerged from his room carrying his dirty suit and overcoat in a white laundry sack Karen had given him.

  In the light of the family room, Everett was taken aback by how much his brother had aged—mostly in the past year, ever since David had perished. Long, wavy cracks creased his forehead, and myriad lines trailed from the outsides of his eyes like streamers. He looked beaten and resembled their deceased father, Vince, more each time Everett saw him.

  The abrasions on Eddie’s thin face had been cleaned, but his normally shining brown eyes looked tired and sunken above his puffy cheeks. He had combed and spiked his hair, which was more gray than black now.

  Eddie seated himself in a soft chair by a standing lamp, with Karen at his side. She used a washcloth and warm water from a silver bowl to clean the wounds on his face again, as well as several they discovered on the back of his head. From the opposite side of the chair Everett followed with peroxide, Neosporin, and several butterfly bandages.

  “What’d they use, bro? A lead pipe?”

  “One of ’em pistol-whipped me.” Eddie stared straight ahead. Everett could tell he was embarrassed, especially with Karen there.

  Everett shook his head. “How many were there?”

  “Three. They liked to kick. I’m pretty bruised up.”

  His older brother had always been tough, seldom shedding a tear, even when their father had beaten his bottom raw with his thick leather belt. “Who are they, Eddie?”

  His weary brown eyes flicked to Karen, who tried to look busy putting away the first-aid supplies.

  “You know I’ve been strugglin’ with betting at the casinos, and whenever I travel—”

  “Yeah, but I thought you had it under control.”

  “Not quite.” Eddie chuckled. “Couple months ago I made the mistake of getting a bookie.” He looked at Everett, who peered back at him, waiting. “A friend told me it would be more convenient than going all the way to the casinos or the track. Plus, I wouldn’t be taxed on the winnings.”

  “And…” Everett prompted.

  “And pretty soon I was betting every day.”

  “On what? What could you possibly bet on every day?”

  The tilt of Karen’s head and her slow blink told Everett to cool it. He felt the strain in his face, his neck, his whole body. Be patient. He made himself relax.

  “You name it. Between the horses, the pros, college—there’s always something. My bookie gives me the spreads, and I make my picks. Or he gives me total points, and I say over or under. You remember how dad used to do it—”

  “Five bucks, Eddie. He bet five bucks once in a while on the Browns.”

  “I got no excuses.” He turned away.

  Everett felt like shaking him, screaming at him to grow up and straighten out his life. He was embarrassed by his brother in front of Karen. But just as quickly, he remembered his own pitiful life. He, too, was but dirt. He, too, had been trapped in the mire and blinded by Satan. “Who did this to you? The bookie? His cronies?”

  Eddie exhaled and his shoulders slumped. “I thought the bookie was just some empty suit.” He looked at the floor where Rosey and Millie had curled up. “Apparently, he has connections.”

  “With who, the mob?”

  “I dunno, Ev. Maybe. Possibly.” Eddie stood and walked away from them. “These guys tonight were definitely somebody’s hired guns. All business.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “That I needed to pay what I owed by Friday.” Eddie found a mirror and touched several of the wounds on his face.

  “Did they mention your bookie or anyone else?”

  “Nope, just pay what you owe by Friday.”

  “Or what?”

  Eddie turned to face Everett. “If these are wiseguys, you don’t want to know ‘or what.’”

  “I thought the mob was dead,” Karen chimed in.

  Eddie looked at her one of the first times all evening. “There are still pockets. And they don’t mess around.”

  “Well, we need to pay ’em their money and be done with it,” Everett said. “And we need to get you some help.”

  Eddie closed his eyes, looking like a teenager who’d been told what to do once too often. “I’ve tried to get help.”

  “Where?” Everett challenged.

  “Gamblers Anonymous…my psychiatrist. None of it’s worked.”

  “Maybe there’s a treatment center that could help you,” Karen said. “There must be places around here that deal with gambling addiction, maybe even from a Christian perspective, if you’d be interested…”

  Eddie pursed his lips, stuck his jaw out, and nodded. “This thing tonight sobered me up. If you can help me pay the $24K, Ev, I’ll pay you back, a little each month.”

  Everett patted his older brother on the back and kept his hand there, rubbing gently. “Let’s not worry about your paying us back. The first thing we need to do is get the bookmaker his money and tell him this’ll be your last transaction. How ’bout we do that tomorrow?”

  With his mouth sealed, Eddie closed his eyes and nodded slightly.

  “And after that, we’ll see,” Everett said.

  “Honey,” Karen peered at Everett, “can we pray?”

  “Yeah.” Everett glanced at his brother, feeling a bit awkward. “Okay with you, bro?”

  Eddie shrugged.

  Keeping his hand on Eddie’s back, Everett closed his eyes. “Thank you for sparing Eddie’s life tonight, Lord, for protecting him from worse. We pray You’ll help end t
his relationship with the bookie and whoever he’s hooked up with. And that You’ll free Eddie of this problem.”

  During a brief pause, Everett raised his head slightly to find Eddie staring wide-eyed at the dogs, mouth closed tight. They made eye contact for a fleeting second, and Everett dropped his head again.

  “Lord, please also heal Eddie’s marriage to Sheila and his relationships with Wesley and Madison. Help them to be a loving family.”

  Everett heard Eddie stand and cross the room. He opened his eyes and watched his brother tilt open the top slats of the plantation shutters and look out at the darkness. “I’m sorry, but you don’t know how bad I don’t want to hear that right now.”

  Everett shot a helpless glance at Karen and got the same in return.

  “Eddie—”

  “When you’ve lost your seventeen-year-old son,” Eddie’s voice overtook his brother’s, “lost your marriage of twenty-three years, lost your children’s hearts—and lost everything you’ve worked all your life to build…” The emotion rose up and choked him midsentence.

  “I’m sorry, Eddie. I’ve just seen God do so much in my life—”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I believe there’s…something bigger out there.” His laugh was strained and crazy as he seemed to fight for breath. “But I also believe you play the cards you’re dealt. And it looks like you just got a better hand than I did, little brother.”

  7

  BY THE TIME THE white Yukon crept down Old Peninsula Road, past the driveway and well-lit house at Twin Streams, it was approaching 11:50 p.m. Tony sat tight-lipped and beady-eyed in the passenger seat, glaring back at the Lester estate while Wesley’s heart thundered beneath his old green army jacket.

  The white lines on the narrow weathered street were barely visible, and there were no streetlights, nothing but New York night. The darkness didn’t faze Wesley. The meth they’d smoked made him feel like a Navy SEAL on a midnight operation, wearing infrared night goggles, with caffeine coursing through his veins.

  “Turn around,” Tony mumbled.

  Wesley swung the Yukon into the next driveway, nearly bashing into a shiny black gate he hadn’t seen until it was two feet in front of the SUV. Heading back up the sloping road toward Twin Streams, Wesley slowed the vehicle to a crawl as they approached the house again.

  “Old Uncle Everett’s up late.” Tony peered through Wesley’s window toward the cozy house. “Aw, ain’t that purty. They got the Christmas lights goin’. Tree all lit up. And the manger scene. Stop and turn out the lights, Wes.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah, here. Just for a minute. Ain’t no cars out here. This is Boonesville.”

  The Yukon crunched to a stop on the frigid street. Wesley glanced over at Tony, who was opening his door.

  “Shhh.” Tony held a gloved index finger to his lips. “Come on.”

  Nudging his door shut just enough to douse the dome light, Tony crossed in front of the SUV. His shadow expanded several hundred feet as he passed one headlight, then the next. He scampered down through the ditch toward the house, waving for Wesley to follow.

  Wesley looked in all directions and cursed Tony under his breath. He was stoked about spooking his uncle but didn’t exactly plan on getting caught, either. He put the Yukon in drive and pulled into the dirty snow at the side of the road. Clicking the lights off, he quietly opened the door, endured the shock of the cold night, and closed the door behind him.

  “What’re you doin’?” he yelled to Tony, who was walking casually through the brittle grass, still covered in great part by large patches of snow.

  Tony swiveled his head back toward Wesley, scowled, and gave him a regimental “c’mon!” with the jerk of his arm. Uh-oh. Tony was mad because Wesley didn’t leave the car smack-dab in the middle of the street.

  Weirdo. Wesley hated it when Tony got angry, because when he did, he got crazy angry.

  The manger scene, still about fifty feet in front of Tony, was lit by a single floodlight. Joseph, Mary, and baby Jesus appeared to be made of wood. The figures cast long shadows onto the snowy lawn and up against the stately white house.

  Hands in the pockets of his army jacket, Wesley trotted toward Tony with his eyes glued to the lit rooms in the house. This was getting close—too close. Although he was amped with a ten-million-watt buzz, the people inside the house were not.

  “What’re you doin’?” Wesley caught up with Tony, attempting to defuse the time bomb.

  “Why’d you move it, Lester?”

  “I’m not gonna leave a truck in the middle of the road.”

  “You’re gonna need to learn to do what I say, or we ain’t gonna have a future.” With both hands on one of the manger figures, Tony rocked it, front to back, then side to side.

  Wesley kept his eyes on the house.

  “Here.” Tony grunted, finally loosening the figure from the frigid terrain and hoisting it at Wesley. “Run this to the car. We’re takin’ it.”

  Wesley checked the house, then the street, and made a run for the Yukon, banging the heavy figure against his legs and cursing as he ran. Stealing a religious figure—especially Jesus—spooked him. The more he dwelled on it, he nearly convinced himself he’d be cursed by God for the crime.

  Once it was in the rear hatch, he stood there a moment, actually contemplating dumping the figure and taking off in the SUV. But he didn’t dare. Badino was such a mental case, who knew how he would retaliate? Wesley dashed back toward the house.

  “Good job.” With the gray ski cap pulled well below his ears, Tony bent over and started running toward the big house, black trench coat flapping behind him.

  Nutcase.

  Wesley darted behind Tony all the way to a clearing at the side of the house where they glided to a stop, side by side, backs to the wall, puffing steam into the night.

  “The shutters are open at that window.” Tony nodded. “Let’s take a look-see.”

  Without waiting for a response, Tony quick-stepped it along the side of the house, then slid to his knees, crawling beneath the glowing window, then stood. Wesley took the same path, stopping on the opposite side of the window.

  Easing his head about an inch in front of the window, Tony stared at the interior of the house. Following Tony’s lead, Wesley did the same.

  It looked like a Hallmark card—warm and cozy. Like make-believe. There was a large family room with shimmering wood floors, big rugs, expensive furniture, a baby grand piano, and a Christmas tree with colored lights—and gifts beneath. In the distance were a carpeted dining room and several cabinets with glass doors, filled with silver and china.

  Wesley would always be an outsider to such an idealistic world, a world where family members interacted in harmony and love flowed from the foundation. He strained to hear but couldn’t make out any voices—just the snow crunching beneath his feet.

  Ducking underneath the window, Tony patted Wesley on the back as he walked past him. “Follow me,” he whispered and dashed along the side of the house.

  Wesley glanced back at the street and was startled to notice how clearly he could see the upper half of the Yukon from his vantage point. He could actually hear his heart: th-thump, th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. The chill disappeared, and he found himself almost sweating.

  He looked back and forth, listening intently for anything—anyone.

  SMAAAAACK!

  His head snapped forward. The back of his neck stung from the impact of Tony’s ice ball then went numb as snow trickled beneath his shirt and ran down his skinny back. Along the side of the house, Tony motioned for Wesley to get over there.

  Wesley got his bearings and made a dash for him.

  “What the heck are you thinkin’?” Tony grabbed Wesley by the lapels of his baggy coat. “Are you with me or not, you moron? What are you, scared?”

  “I can see the SUV clear as day!” Wesley squealed, looking back at it again. “I’m ready to get outta here. Why’d you hit me?”

  “No you�
��re not!” Tony bent him to the ground. “Get down on all fours. I’m gonna hop on your back and look inside.”

  “This is it.” The icy wetness seeped through the knees of Wesley’s baggy cargo pants, and he wanted to be back in his apartment. “We’re going after this. Hurry up.”

  “I’ll tell you when we’re going.” Tony hiked up onto Wesley’s back with his left foot, then the rest of his weight with the right.

  Wesley groaned and bowed, letting his shaved head rest on the surface of the snow. Tony continued to reposition his boots on Wesley’s back, but he became indifferent to the weight. This is about what I’m good for. He shivered again, anguish creeping up on him. What was it, guilt for being here? Condemnation about taking the Jesus figure?

  “We need to do some more of that cristy.” Wesley turned his head sideways. “You hear me?”

  When no reply came, Wesley craned his neck just enough to see the light from inside the house reflecting in Tony’s little black eyes as they invaded the privacy of his uncle’s home.

  “No way… You ain’t gonna believe this.”

  “What?”

  “Your old man’s in there with Lester and the wife. Looks like he got the crap beat out of him.”

  “Who?”

  “Your old man.”

  “Lemme see.” Wesley squirmed and Tony jumped down, landing with a thud on both feet. He hit the ground and squared his back so Wesley could hop up.

  Everett and Karen were seated next to each other, holding hands on a flowered loveseat. His dad was on the edge of a chair next to them, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

  Although he tried, Wesley couldn’t make out a word of what looked like an intense conversation.

  Suddenly, Karen rose and leaned over to say something to Everett, her long, shiny blond hair brushing against his shoulder. Then she left the room and the collies eased up from the floor to follow her.

  When Karen was gone, his dad raised his head toward Everett. There were bandages on Dad’s forehead and cheek. His eyes were bloodshot. He squinted and pleaded urgently with his hands.

  What’s he doing here?

  Both Tony and Wesley’s heads spun as a bolt lock clicked and a door opened on the front porch just around the corner. Then a bunch of light footsteps. Claws clicking on wood. And jingling.