F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero

“They’ve got no right, yeah—I make the call as to who gets to stay here. But they’re all pretty worked up and worried about catching something and I’ve got no good excuse for why I should be letting someone with AIDS hang around.”

“You can tell ’em all to just fuck off, can’t you?”

Hank nodded. “Yeah, I can do that, but that’s not the Kicker style, know what I’m saying?”

Yeah, Darryl knew. Hank was the headman—hell, he invented the Kickers—but he didn’t want to look like the boss. Everyone treated him like he was, but he liked to pretend there was no boss.

“Well, then, tell ’em if they don’t like it, they can move out.”

He sighed. “Darryl, I need a reason why you should stay and they all should go. Got one?”

Darryl’s mind raced. They couldn’t kick him out. He couldn’t let this happen.

“I’m like your number-one assistant, right? So you’ve got to keep me here where you can reach me day or night. That works.”

Hank shook his head and looked away again. “Afraid not. That ain’t gonna fly.”

“Sure it is. It makes perfect sense and . . .” A realization sucker punched him in the gut. “Hey, wait. It’s you. You’re the one who wants me out!”

“No, it’s them. But I gotta say . . .”

“What?”

He looked at Darryl again. “Working with a guy with AIDS gives me the willies. How do I know I haven’t caught it from you already?”

“That’d be impossible, Hank. I don’t know much about it, but I know you need a needle or sex or something to catch it. It doesn’t just come out the air. You gotta work to get it.”

“Yeah, well, so you say—”

“That’s what everybody says!”

“It’s not what your fellow Kickers say. They’re scared to have you around. In just a few hours you’ve become a major distraction. You’re all anyone’s talking about. And that’s not good. We’ve got an evolution to run and nothing’ll get done as long as you’re here. So . . . you’ve gotta go, Darryl. I know it sounds cold, but I’ve got to put the Kickers first.”

“But I am a Kicker.”

“That’s right. And you’ll always be a Kicker. You just won’t be living here.”

Darryl fought back tears. His insides felt like they were tearing in two.

“But where’ll I go? I can’t go back to Michigan.” He didn’t know a soul who’d want to take him in except the police—for a ton of missed alimony and child-support payments. “And I don’t know anyone to crash with here.”

“Get an apartment. Get a hotel room.”

“Ain’t got no money, Hank. I’ve been working for you here for next to nothin’.”

“I’d hardly call room and board in this city next to nothing.”

“I should have five grand in my pocket for finding Dawn.”

Hank looked at the ceiling. “Let’s not get into that again. Yeah, you found Dawn, but is she here? No. She’s with the creepy guy.”

Yeah . . . the guy with the eyes.

“Maybe, but if he hadn’t taken her, we’d still have her. Not my fault she was stolen away. I still think I got something coming.”

Hank sighed. “Yeah, well, maybe you do. I’ll dig you up some cash so you can—”

“I don’t want money, Hank.”

“You can’t stay here, Darryl. I’m sorry, but you’re too much of a distraction. You’ve gotta be out of here sometime tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? Where was he gonna go? What was he gonna do? This was all he had, all he knew.

“But I can’t—”

Hank jabbed a finger at him. “You can and you will. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.” His voice softened. “I . . .”

He looked like he really and truly hated what he was doing, and that made Darryl feel a little better, but not a whole hell of a lot. Not if he wasn’t going to change his mind.

“Maybe I could—”

“You’ll always be a Kicker, Darryl. Don’t you ever think otherwise. But you just can’t stay here.”

As Hank started for the door, he half reached out to Darryl’s shoulder but then dropped his hand.

He’s even afraid to pat me on the back.

He hoped Hank didn’t stop on his way out because Darryl didn’t know how long he could hold back the tears that had begun slamming against the backs of his eyelids.

“Remember,” Hank said as he closed the door behind him. “Gone tomorrow.”

When the door clicked shut, Darryl sank back onto the bed, buried his face in his hands, and bawled like a goddamn baby.

6

“You look tired,” Gia said as she sliced Vicky’s everything bagel. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Some.”

Jack had grabbed a few hours of shut-eye, showered, and shown up at Gia’s door with half a dozen bagels—including two everythings for Vicky.

He drained his mug of coffee and stepped to the counter for a refill. Gia’s super-strong Colombian was working its wake-up magic.

“Ran into two blasts from my past yesterday—Eddie and Weezy Connell from good old Johnson, NJ.”

Gia smiled her smile as she dropped the everything halves into the toaster slots. She was barefoot, wearing loose jeans and a tight pink sleeveless top. She had nice deltoids for someone who never worked out.

“Weezy? As in ‘movin’ on up’ Weezy?” She grinned. “Does she live on the East Side in a deluxe apartment in the sky?”

“She was Weezy before The Jeffersons .”

“How’d this happen?”

“Weezy’s got trouble. Stuck her nose into places where, apparently, people don’t want to see any unfamiliar noses, and now . . .”

The smile disappeared. “Is she in danger?”

As he reseated himself at the kitchen table, he glanced at the folded copy of the Post he’d picked up on his way over. The front page showed Weezy’s house engulfed in flames under the headline BACKFIRE! A brief, hastily written article inside told of three dead, unidentified gunshot victims found in the backyard, and how they’d been linked to a van containing firebomb materials parked out front.

“Oh, yeah.”

Odors of garlic and onion tinged the air as the bagel heated.

“Can’t she go to the police?”

“It’s complicated.”

“It usually is by the time they call you. Do I want to know any of the details?”

“Probably not. It sounds pretty wacky, and all her reasoning may be way off base, but she’s definitely stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

Gia pulled the bagel halves from the toaster and began buttering them with Jif Extra Crunchy. Jack shook his head. PB on an everything bagel . . . blech.

“Vicky!” she called. “Jack’s here and he brought bagels!” She glanced at Jack. “Weezy and Eddie . . . were you close as kids?”

“Yeah. As close to them as anyone. For years Weezy and I were best buds.”

“You’ve never mentioned them.”

“Do I mention anyone from those days? To tell the truth, I’ll bet I haven’t given them a single thought in the last ten or fifteen years.”

Pounding footsteps on the stairs, then Vicky charged in.

“Jack!”

“Hey, Vicks.”

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek, then darted to the waiting bagel.

“Everything! Awesome!”

She dropped into her chair and tore into it.

“Human bites, Vicky,” Gia said as she placed a glass of milk before her. “You’re not a crocodile—human bites.”

Jack leaned back and looked around as he sipped his coffee. Sun streamed through the open door from the small backyard as Gia wiped the bagel crumbs from the table and Vicky chowed down in lip-smacking joy.

Hard to believe that relentless forces were at work to take all this away, to make a moment like this impossible.