Haunted (Michael Bennett 10)

One of the gym rats, dressed in jeans and a Rutgers hoodie, said, “You need to leave, old man.”

“Old man?” Seamus was an old man.

“We decide who comes in here and who gets to talk to our friends. We don’t like the way you look.”

I said, “Is it the age thing? I mean, that’s got to be some kind of discrimination, right?”

The other guy, wearing a New Jersey Devils jacket, said, “Leave him, Jake. We don’t want to explain why we beat an elderly man’s ass.”

Walter added, “Yeah, guys. Leave him alone. I’m fine.”

Now Rutgers stepped in close and poked me in the chest. “I don’t care what Chill says. I don’t want you here. Scoot.” He poked me again. “Now.”

I reached up with my right hand and grabbed his extended finger. I cranked it down with a little force. It looked like I used a pair of pliers by the way this punk dropped to his knees.

He let out a cry that sounded like “Let go.”

I didn’t acknowledge him. I looked at the other guy and said, “Wanna try your luck now?”

The musclehead had no idea what to do. He finally balled his right hand and stepped forward, ready to throw a punch.

I jerked the whimpering guy on the floor in front of me and tripped the attacker. As he fell forward over his friend, I threw my left elbow into his chin.

That was it. No one said another word. They both whined, but they never completed a sentence.

I said, “You two stay right there on the floor until I’m ready to leave. Understand?”

They both nodded.

Now I turned my attention back to Walter. I didn’t have to say anything.

He stammered, “Okay, okay.” He gathered his thoughts. “There’s a group. A new group. They’re using different kinds of people to run their product. Using a lot of students. That’s all I hear. They’re using students to do all kinds of stuff. The students are making meth, distributing, even enforcement. One kid is the muscle. Real ruthless. I’m trying to find out his name. You gotta give me more time.”

I growled, “I want this asshole.”

Walter said, “I want nothing to do with this guy. You may be a big, scary cop, but this kid is a killer. The worst kind.”

Chapter 12

It was a rare quiet time in our apartment. An apartment an NYPD detective could never have afforded on his salary alone. But Maeve, my late wife, had cared for the man who had owned it in his later years. She had made such a difference in his life that he left the apartment to her in his will. That’s the effect Maeve had on people.

With ten kids, I needed a place like this. Close to Riverside Park, close to Holy Name, four bedrooms and a makeshift maid’s room, a big living room, dining room, and kitchen. It was as if God knew what our family needed and provided it.

And now, without my oldest boy, it felt empty.

I sat on the couch and gazed out at the city lights. I kept thinking of the kids I talked to and Walter Nussbaum’s voice as he told me what he knew. They were all scared.

Mary Catherine plopped down next to me on the comfortable couch. She snuggled in close. I wrapped an arm around her and appreciated her head resting on my shoulder. We relaxed in silence for a few minutes. I needed this.

Then Mary Catherine said in a quiet voice, “Can we talk?”

“Sure.”

She sat up to look me in the eyes. “You know, Michael, I’ve never told you about some of the dark parts of my past.”

“No, but I realize Ireland is not all pasture and friendly folk. People there have their issues.”

She nodded. “They have the same issues any modern country faces. I was part of those issues. I’ve sold drugs before.”