Lights Out Read online

  ‘I’m not rushing the job,’ Ryan said.

  ‘Who said we gonna rush it?’ Carlos said. ‘We just gonna work fast, that’s all’

  ‘What’s the matter,’ Franky said to Ryan, ‘you don’t wanna get the bonus?’

  ‘It’s fifty bucks,’ Ryan said. ‘It’s nothing to get a boner over.’

  2 ‘So if I gave you a fifty-dollar bill you’d rip it up right now?’ Franky asked.

  ‘That’s not what I’m talking about,’ Ryan said. ‘You heard what Tim said - quality over quantity. I’m not gonna slap on the paint for fifty fuckin’ bucks.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you anyway?’ Franky said. ‘All day - no, all week - you been acting like you got a big fat dick up your ass.’

  Ryan dropped the scraper and took a step toward Franky. He wasn’t really going to go after him; he just wanted to make a point.

  ‘Come on, chill, y’all, chill,’ Carlos said. ‘Yo, maybe Ry’s right. We’ll take it easy, yo - do up all the wall repair today and get on the primer. If we just don’t fuck around and bullshit, we’ll get this house down in four days, no problem. So just everybody let’s just chill and get to workin’, what y’all say?’

  For several seconds Ryan and Franky remained facing each other, and then they started working again. Usher was singing ‘Yeah,’ and Ryan climbed to the top of the stepladder to work on a big crack near the ceiling when his beeper went off. He glanced at the readout - CHRISSY WORK - and got down off the ladder and headed toward the front door.

  ‘Another fuckin’ break?’ Franky said.

  Ryan went outside, took out his cell, and called Christina.

  ‘I was so glad it was you,’ Ryan said. ‘I was thinking about you before.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Christina asked. She sounded like she’d been crying again.

  ‘Work - where do you think? You okay?’

  ‘Is Jake home yet?’

  ‘You know how many times I got asked that question today?’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘Don’t be. You’re gonna do great tonight - I guarantee it. And just remember - I love you.’

  ‘Shit, I gotta go. Dr Hoffman needs me for a root canal.’

  ‘Hey, I just said I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’ Christina waited a few moments, then said, ‘I don’t think I can do it.’

  Ryan rolled his eyes. ‘You gotta do it, Chrissy - it’s the perfect time.’

  ‘Why? I mean, why can’t you just come over tonight and we’ll stay locked in my house till he leaves? I’ll leave a message at his parents’ house, say I’m sick - I have the flu.’

  ‘We’re not doing that.’

  ‘Why not? I’ll take off from work tomorrow and we can stay in my room all day and—’

  ‘We gotta take care of this thing tonight, get on with our lives.’

  ‘I know, I know, but—’

  ‘You’re not gonna chicken out on me, are you?’

  The line was silent for a while, and then Christina said, ‘Come by my house after work - I have to see you first.’

  ‘You wanna do this or not?’

  ‘Of course I wanna do it.’

  ‘Then just go to Jake’s tonight and—’

  ‘Let’s go together.’

  ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘I need you there with me. Just show up with me, then you can leave.’

  ‘Why can’t you—’

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘If you’re there .. . I don’t know . . . I’ll feel more comfortable. You don’t even have to come in. You can just wait outside. He won’t even see you.’

  Ryan shook his head, knowing he’d give in, but waited awhile anyway before he said, ‘Fine, but then you’re gonna do this tonight, just like we planned it. No backing out.’

  ‘Coming,’ Christina said to someone. Then she said to Ryan, ‘I’ll see you later .. . I love you so much.’

  ‘I love you too,’ Ryan said, but Christina had hung up.

  Ryan remained on the stoop, lighting another cigarette. After taking a couple of long drags he stomped out the butt and went back into the house.

  Two

  Exiting the gate and heading into the United terminal at LaGuardia, Jake Thomas didn’t want to be recognized. Usually he didn’t mind getting stopped - he wasn’t one of those asshole celebrities who punched cameramen or started fights with reporters - but today, with all the shit that had been happening in his life lately, he just wanted to be left alone.

  He flipped down his Gucci shades and no one seemed to notice him, not even a good-looking blonde sitting off to the right. She must have been foreign or something because she definitely didn’t seem to know who he was. She was just staring at him in a way that said, Ouch, he’s hot, and why shouldn’t she? Jake knew he was styling in a beige Helmut Lang suit and a black Armani shirt. The suit jacket was open and the top few buttons of the shirt were undone, showing his custom-made gold-and-diamond JT name-plate necklace from Jacob the Jeweler. He had a Louis Vuitton carry-on bag over one shoulder and was wearing black Ferragamo loafters, a Charriol watch, Neil Lane rings, and a Tiffany twocarat princess-cut diamond stud in his left ear.

  Continuing through the terminal, passing a gift shop, Jake saw a kid up ahead pointing at him. At the ballpark he was always friendly with kids, flipping them balls in batting practice, signing as many autographs as he could before and after games - and even outside the ballpark or in the hotel lobby. Jake loved making kids’ days, but he did it mostly for PR. At the ballpark, he never knew who might be watching. Reporters could see him blow off a kid and it would make the papers the next day. Or the kid could be the GM’s son or nephew or whoever, and if word got out that Jake Thomas was blowing off little kids, the ad guys at Nike and Pizza Hut and wherever would start freaking and it could turn into a big-time headache. By always being Mr Nice Guy, smiling widely, asking kids their names and chatting with their parents, Jake had developed a rep as being one of the most accessible pro athletes in the country, which boosted his profile with the ad agencies. He already had the perfect look for the marketing world. His father was black, and his mother was half-Italian, half-Irish, so he had that whole light-skinned, melting-pot, Derek Jeter/Tiger Woods thing happening. He also had a great smile - recently porcelain-veneered sparkling-white choppers, contrasting perfectly with his complexion. All of this contributed to his ninth-place position on Forbes’s list of the top fifty most marketable athletes in the world - and that was as a member of the Pittsburgh Pirates. He knew he’d make the top five easily, maybe even beat out Tiger for number one, once he started playing for a big-market team.

  The kid, probably ten years old, was tugging on his father’s sleeve, and Jake could read his lips: ‘It’s Jake Thomas! It’s Jake Thomas!’

  When they reached Jake the kid asked, ‘Hey, are you Jake Thomas?’

  ‘Nope,’ Jake said, and kept walking.

  He bypassed the baggage claim-area - he’d had his luggage overnighted to his parents’ house in Brooklyn - and approached a squat, bearded guy who was holding up a card with RYAN ROSSETTI written on it. Since he’d made it to the majors, Jake had been using Ryan’s name with limo drivers and at hotels, airports, and restaurants, so he wouldn’t get harassed.

  ‘Mr Rossetti?’ the driver asked Jake. He had a Russian-or-something accent.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jake said. Then the driver led Jake over to a Lincoln Town Car and opened the back door for him, and Jake said, ‘Whoa, what’s this?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ the driver said. ‘I bring car to drive you to Brooklyn.’

  ‘I didn’t order a Town Car,’Jake said. ‘I ordered an SUV limo.’

  ‘Yes. But this is car I bring. Come, get in car. It’s okay.

  ’ Jake was going to insist on an SUV. Then he saw a few kids noticing him, and he knew that if he stood around waiting for the SUV he’d get swarmed.

&nb
sp; ‘Whatever,’ Jake said, and got in.

  As the car curved around toward the terminal’s exit, Jake took out his cell and called his agent in LA.

  ‘So you don’t return my calls anymore, huh?’ Jake said.

  ‘I called you twice,’ Stu Fox said.

  Jake didn’t know if this was true or not, because he hadn’t checked his messages.

  ‘Where are you?’ Stu asked.

  ‘Backseat of a Town Car.’

  ‘Moving down in the world, huh?’

  Jake laughed, although he didn’t think it was funny, then said, ‘So did Ken get back to you yet?’

  ‘Yeah, he won’t give. He says if they let your PT into the clubhouse next year it’ll damage team morale.’

  ‘What morale? We finished thirty out.’

  ‘I’m just telling you what he told me.

  ’ ‘Did you tell him that if I don’t get my own trainer, in the clubhouse, I’m not showing up to spring training?’

  ‘Come on, Jake, nobody gets a PT in the clubhouse after all that Giambi shit.’

  ‘He says no, ask him who else but Jake Thomas is gonna get asses into the seats next year. Ask him whose face he’s gonna put on the yearbook cover. Ask him what player on his team’s gonna be starting in the All-Star Game, and what player will probably finish in the top five in the MVP voting this year, if I don’t win the damn thing. Without me, I bet the team gets contracted, has to move to San Juan or Monterey, and you think Ken doesn’t know that?’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Stu said, ‘but it may not make sense to get confrontational right now. I mean, the season just ended two weeks ago and—’

  ‘Jesus,’ Jake said. He tried to flex his legs, his feet hitting the back of the front seat. ‘You should see me right now - I’m curled up like a goddamn pretzel. Which reminds me - I want my own SUV limo on the road next year.’

  ‘I think that’s out of the question.’

  ‘With fish tanks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want fish tanks in the limo, and DIRECTV and a fully stocked bar. Oh, yeah, and I want room upgrades on the road - suites with Jacuzzis.’ He heard his call-waiting beep, then said, ‘Call me,’ and took the other call. ‘J.T.’

  ‘Jake - Robby.’

  ‘We get the GQ cover?’ Jake asked.

  ‘Not quite,’ Robert Henderson, Jake’s publicist said. ‘But some other great things came down the pike this morning. Dave Shaw from TSN wants to do a sit-down with you next week.’

  ‘Next.’

  ‘He said he’ll come to your—’

  ‘Next.’

  ‘Mike Winter from SI wants to ask you a few questions for an article he’s doing.’

  ‘Is the article about me?’

  ‘Well, no, not really. I mean, it’ll include quotes from—’

  ‘Who’s the article about?’

  ‘Albert Pujols.’

  ‘Next.’

  ‘We’re talking about Sports Illustrated here, Jake. Can’t you just talk to the guy for five minutes? He’ll do it on the phone, or e-mail you the—’

  ‘Next.’

  ‘ESPN talked about doing a segment about you in a couple weeks, but it’s not solid yet.’

  ‘What’s the deal at GQ?’

  ‘They’re still featuring you in next month’s issue, but they haven’t made a decision about the cover yet.’

  ‘Who’m I up against?’

  ‘Ben Affleck.’

  ‘What?’ Jake said. ‘You’re telling me that I’m gonna get bumped for Ben fucking Affleck?’

  ‘The GQ cover’s a tough nut to crack.’

  ‘Come on, man. After the year I had I should be on the cover of SI, TSN, Details, and GQ in the same month. My on-base percentage was four-seventy, I stole thirty-four bases, plus I hit three fifty-one, knocked in a hundred six. You know what my average was with runners in scoring position?’

  ‘Three ninety?’

  ‘Four-oh-two. But you know how many SI covers I’ve got in my career?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Bingo - when I was a fucking rookie! It’s a disgrace is what it is. If I was a mutt like Randy Johnson, okay - but Jake Thomas should be fending off the covers.’

  ‘I got you on the cover of Details.’

  ‘Fuck Details. I want GQ, baby. Make it happen.’

  As the Town Car exited the airport and was zipping along the Grand Central Parkway, bouncing over potholes and grooves in the tar, Jake played his voice mail. He skipped through messages from his lawyer and his accountant, but listened to the entire message from Natalie - a European model, maybe from France or Italy, but who lived in LA - whom he sometimes saw when he was on the coast. Natalie sounded sexy on the phone, with her European accent, talking about how much she missed him and wanting to know when he was going to be in LA again. He skipped through messages from his personal shopper, his stylist, then listened to one from Max Manikowsky, the Pirates’ PR guy, who wanted to know if Jake was interested in appearing at a fund-raiser for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation this December. Jake loved doing medical benefits and visiting sick kids in hospitals - shit like that was great for his image. He called Manicocksky back and left a message on his voice mail to definitely count him in. He listened to a couple more messages, including one from Cheryl, a cocktail waitress from Phoenix, and then clicked off.

  ‘Tell me,’ the driver said. ‘Your name - it’s not really Ryan Rossetti, is it?’

  Jake looked up and saw the Russian’s big dark eyes in the rearview mirror.

  ‘I know who you are,’ the driver went on. ‘I hear you on phone and I see you on TV. You’re that baseball player on Pittsburgh Pirates - the one from Brooklyn. You’re Jake Thomas.’

  ‘My name’s Ryan Rossetti.’

  ‘Come on,’ the driver said, smiling. ‘I hear you say your name’s Jake Thomas. You’re famous baseball player, right?’

  ‘Just drive the car, Vladimir.’

  ‘My name is not Vladimir.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Jake said.

  As the car continued along the Van Wyck Expressway, Jake relaxed, zoning out, thinking about Patti, the stewardess on his flight from Pittsburgh. She was thin with long, straight blond hair and looked kind of like a low-budg Cameron Diaz. When the plane was going into its descent, she leaned over Jake’s seat and brought her face up to maybe an inch in front of his and told him that she was going to be at her place on the Upper East Side for a few days and that he should give her a call. Then she slipped a United business card into his hand with her name and number written on it, a little heart instead of the dot on the / in Patti.

  Jake remembered Patti mentioning that she lived with ‘a few other girls,’ and he wondered if ‘a few’ meant three, four, or even five. If it meant more than four and the other girls were anything like Patti, that meant there would be a significant possibility of getting into a six-way. Jake had never been in a six-way. His personal record was four girls at once, and the record had an asterisk next to it because two of the girls had been in pornos and one was a stripper-slash-prostitute.

  Jake flipped open his cell phone, ready to leave a message for Patti. He’d tell her, Yd love to get together tomorrow night, and maybe your friends would like to meet me too? He’d leave it vague and polite-like, but still make it obvious what he had in mind. He took out the business card and started to punch in the digits when he realized, sadly, that arranging to meet Patti - especially over the next few days - was out of the question, since the main reason he was coming home to Brooklyn this weekend was to finally set a wedding date with Christina, his high school sweetheart.

  Although Jake had been engaged to Christina for six years, nowadays they barely spoke. It was weird, because when he started going out with her during the summer before sophomore year he didn’t think he’d ever even want to date another girl. She was beautiful, without a doubt the best-looking girl in Canarsie, maybe in all of Brooklyn, and he was positive he was going to marry her somed
ay. As high school went on and things started getting crazy, what with the big-league scouts chasing after him and all of the national media attention, he became even more convinced that Christina was the one for him. Fie knew she was his rock, that she loved him before he made it big, and that she’d love him forever no matter what. Yeah, he fooled around a little bit on the side, but how could he resist? Girls were throwing themselves at him left and right, and he was only a teenager. He figured he’d sow his oats for a few years and then marry Christina and live happily ever after.

  After high school, he used part of his signing bonus to buy her a fifty-thousand-dollar, two-carat emerald-cut diamond ring from Harry Winston, and then he proposed to her on the Canarsie Pier, but they didn’t set a wedding date. They both agreed it would be best to get married in a couple of years, when they were older and things were more settled. His first year in the minors he saw Christina as much as he could. Then, when he got called up to Pittsburgh, he still talked to her on the phone a lot, but they rarely saw each other. There were more girls too - a lot more girls. They’d line up for him after games, or just show up at his hotel rooms. He was the new golden boy of baseball, he was just starting to make it big, and he was having the time of his life. He still had it in his head that he’d marry Christina someday, but he thought about her less and less. Although he kind of liked the idea that she was waiting for him, after a couple more years went by he decided it wasn’t right to keep leading her on this way. He was planning to break up with her last summer, and probably would’ve if it weren’t for a fourteen-year-old Mexican girl named Marianna Fernandez.

  When Jake met Marianna in June at that club in downtown San Diego he had no idea she was in junior high school. Yeah, her braces and kind of young-looking face should’ve been dead giveaways, but a lot of adults wore braces these days, and she definitely didn’t look like jailbait. She had a curvy Latina body and was wearing something low-cut with her cleavage all pushed up and a skirt that must’ve shown ninety percent of her ass. Jake figured she had to be at least eighteen.

  And it wasn’t like he didn’t try to figure out her age. In his hotel room, before they started going at it, he said, ‘So how old are you?’ and she said, ‘Twenty.’ Not even eighteen or nineteen, so Jake figured he had a couple of years to play with even if she was lying.