Never Enough Read online

Cole was out of the car now, followed by Bill and Tony from the backseat.

  “Oh. All four of you. Fine. Suits me. Who’s first?”

  Dave grabbed Amos by the legs and threw him off the fender, onto the gravel of the parking lot. Amos was drunk, but he was quick and strong. He scrambled up and charged Dave, throwing a shoulder against his chest and knocking him back against the car, where he was vulnerable to the punch to the chin that Amos threw. Dave was dazed for a second.

  Amos set himself to throw more punches to Dave’s face and down one of his opponents. But Cole grabbed him from behind and wrestled him away. He punched him hard on the kidneys.

  Amos broke out of Cole’s grip, turned, and punched him in the stomach. Cole doubled over and vomited beer.

  Bill stunned Amos with a hard punch to the ear.

  Dave had gained his sense with a fury. As Amos was momentarily disoriented, Dave shot a hard fist against his nose, which collapsed in a spray of blood. Amos shook his head and moaned. His knees began to buckle. He was finished.

  But Dave’s anger was not assuaged. He stepped up to the staggering Amos and put every ounce of his weight and strength into a crushing blow to Amos’s jaw. Amos dropped backward to the gravel. His head hit with a sickening crunch.

  The police arrived a moment later. One of the officers knelt beside Amos and examined him.

  “This man is dead.”

  The families gathered at the Bergen County Jail.

  The Sheas were frightened. Dave’s mother was weeping, and his father’s lips trembled. “That poor boy! That poor boy!” Mrs. Shea kept murmuring through her tears. She meant Jim Amos.

  The Jennings family was grimly composed. Stuart Jennings was prepared to confront trouble and had summoned his lawyer.

  The Morrises seemed not to comprehend what was going on. Their faces were blank, as though they were in shock, which in fact they were.

  Anthony DeFelice glowered. When his father arrived he told him to keep his mouth shut and slapped him on the side of the head.

  Witnesses from Pizza Palace assembled to give statements. None of the witnesses was quite sure what had happened, except that all agreed Tony DeFelice had not hit Amos.

  From that point, all was confusion.

  “Those three there, they all hit him. I seen ’em,” an old man with a three-day stubble of white whiskers declared.

  “It was self-defense,” Dave asserted angrily.

  “Three of you? Self-defense against one feller?”

  A fat girl spoke. “Jim Amos was a drunken bully. He was always starting fights.”

  “We know that,” said the chief of police. He was a muscular, middle-aged man in a tan uniform. “On the other hand … well—”

  “He’s dead,” said the old man. “An’ three of ’em were beatin’ up on ’im.”

  “Which one of you swung the punch that broke his neck?” asked the chief of police.

  “Uh … just a moment,” said a white-haired man with a flushed face. “I’m going to advise these boys not to answer that question, or any others, until they’ve had a chance to consult with counsel.”

  The white-haired man was Lloyd Paul Strecker. He was attorney for the Jenningses and had arrived at the police station before they did. He had a formidable reputation in Bergen County, not just for being a tough lawyer but for his political connections.

  An assistant district attorney arrived. Her name was Lela Goldish, and she was about thirty years old, an attractive young woman, with broad hips and a prominent ass. She was also hyper, moved in jerks and spoke in clipped sentences.

  “What’ve we got here?” she asked.

  The chief of police gave her a brief statement.

  “Manslaughter,” she said. “Maybe involuntary manslaughter. Sure as hell not murder.”

  “Okay,” said Strecker. “I think these boys should be given a chance to confer among themselves. They are all involved. They should sing from the same sheet.”

  No one disagreed. Dave, Cole, Bill, and Tony went into a little conference room to talk.

  Dave put his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. “Shit …” he said. “It’s the end for me. Manslaughter charge. There goes my scholarship. There goes my fuckin’ life. Even if I don’t go to the slammer, Rutgers won’t want me. It’s the end!” He looked grim.

  “You didn’t have to hit him that last time,” said Cole. “We had him. He was finished.”

  “I was … pissed,” Dave said. “The son of a bitch …”

  “We’re the witnesses,” said Tony calmly. “Whatever we say happened, happened. Self-defense.”

  “They won’t buy that,” Dave muttered. “Four of us …”

  “Only the guy that shot the last punch,” said Bill Morris. “He was out. The guy that—”

  “Yeah, sure, Morris,” said Dave. “I killed him.”

  “Jesus, man,” said Cole. “I guess it’s gonna go tough for you. I don’t think you’ll get a big sentence, but—”

  “What the fuck does it matter!” Dave glared. “I’ll wind up like my old man. A nobody.”

  “We oughta talk to the lawyer,” said Tony.

  They asked Strecker to come in.

  “Here’s where it stands,” he told them immediately. “We can make it involuntary manslaughter. The man who threw the last punch can plead guilty to that. He’ll get probation.”

  “But he’ll have a felony record,” said Dave despondently.

  “Well … actually, that can be expunged from the records in a few years. It won’t prevent a man from getting into law school, for example—because the record won’t exist.”

  “But right now—” Dave muttered disconsolately.

  “For a while it will be an impediment,” said Strecker.

  “An impediment that—”

  “Can ruin his whole life,” said Cole sadly.

  “I see where this is going,” said the lawyer. “I’m going to leave you boys to talk together.”

  With the lawyer out of the room, the four boys sat silent for a full minute. Then—

  “I’m the one with the most to lose,” said Dave. “You guys are going to college because your families can pay for it. Mine can’t. My scholarship is the only way I’m going to get a college education. The only goddamned way.”

  “What you’re saying,” said Tony, “is that one of us should confess he shot the last punch.”

  Dave closed his eyes and nodded. “I’m the only one whose life is on the line.”

  “I’ll go this far,” said Tony coldly. “If one of these guys wants to take it, I won’t screw it up. I won’t tell the truth.”

  Dave looked at Cole. “You’ve got the least to lose. You’re going to whatever university you choose, because your family will pay for it. You’ve got a first-class lawyer. Your family and your lawyer have got political connections. You can come out of this smelling like roses. I come out piled in shit.”

  Cole drew a deep breath. “Except for you, Tony, we all hit him. All of us. Dave couldn’t have—Well, he couldn’t have if Bill and I hadn’t done what we did. I mean, I figure we share the responsibility. And—Dave’s right. He’s got the most to lose. I’ve got the least.” He stood and opened the door. “Mr. Strecker—”

  The lawyer listened gravely to what Cole told him. He shook his head. “All right. I don’t buy it, but if that’s what you want to do. I know what you have in mind.”

  The newspapers were angry.

  TEENS BEAT NAVY VET TO DEATH!

  Rampaging Wyckoff teenagers, drunk on beer, beat a navy veteran to death in the parking lot of Pizza Palace Saturday night.

  What began as a Saturday-night rumble, arising from the fact that the veteran sat on the fender of a car belonging to Cole Jennings, 18, resulted, after a savage beating, in the death of James Amos, 24, a veteran of four years’ service in the United States Navy.

  Cole Jennings has entered a guilty plea to involuntary manslaughter. His companions, David Shea, William Morris, a
nd Anthony DeFelice, have not been charged.

  James Amos, Senior, father of the slain young man, says that his son had an exemplary record in the navy and had never been in any kind of trouble at home.

  “Half the town believes that,” said Bill Morris.

  “And the other half knows what a prick Amos was,” said Dave.

  “Anyway … it’s all settled,” said Cole. “Three years probation, after which the record will be erased. I’m accepted at Princeton. And—” He turned to Dave.

  “Your scholarship is intact, and you’ll be going to Rutgers.”

  Dave nodded. “I won’t forget this, Cole.”

  Cole looked at him. “Yeah sure.” He knew in his heart that Dave would never look back.

  TWO

  I

  A SUNDAY AFTERNOON IN OCTOBER, 1976

  “I don’t like this. I don’t feel right about it, Dave.”

  “Hey! C’mon, babe. You’re beautiful!”

  She knew she was beautiful. It was the governing fact of her life. It had attracted boys who had mistreated her and made her wary of all of them, Dave Shea not the least.

  Her name was Sally McMillan.

  Now twenty-one, she had been homecoming queen at Ramapo High School three years ago. Now she was a hospital receptionist and was taking courses on her slow way to what she hoped would be a college degree. She was a natural blond, with creamy skin and a spectacular figure that—together with her winsome personality—had won her election as homecoming queen: an honor she continued to cherish.

  “I just don’t feel right about it,” she said again.

  They were on a secluded wooded hillside, in an abandoned eighteenth-century burying ground. Dave had convinced her that posing nude among the ancient, tilted, flaking, greenish headstones would have a special artistic quality—especially now when a low sun cast long shadows, when leaves were yellow and red.

  “Look at this place,” he said. “What a setting!”

  She had removed all her clothes except her panties and bra but now hesitated to go further. “C’mon, now. What is it you’re gonna do with these pictures?”

  “Like I told you. Put ’em in an album.”

  “Just for you.”

  “Just for me.”

  “I imagine you’ve got other girls in that album.”

  Dave shook his head. “I don’t tell tales.”

  She stiffened. “Promise me nobody else will see them.”

  “Nobody else will see them,” he assured her. “You look great, babe. A real Playboy foldout.”

  Sally turned down the corners of her mouth and nodded. “I think I’m doing something stupid,” she said. “I think I’m letting you talk me into being a dummy. You’re not gonna want to—? This would be a perfect setting for that, too, wouldn’t it?”

  “Your body makes me crazy,” he said. “Sure, I’d like to. But it’s entirely up to you. I won’t argue we should. I’m not gonna try to seduce you, babe. Anyway, I took some damned hard shots to the body in that game yesterday afternoon, and I’m not sure I can do it right now.”

  “Well …”

  With what was maybe—or maybe was not—an exertion of will, Sally reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. Her breasts were large but solid; they did not hang down but stood on her chest like two half cantaloupes. Shiny pink areolae covered all the forward part of each breast, and her nipples were dark and wrinkled and prominent.

  “Jesus!” muttered Dave.

  “Wha’d you expect?”

  She slipped out of her panties. That she was a blond was apparent. Her pubic hair was sparse, and her fleshy parts under it were not obscured.

  Dave had a Nikon camera. He had borrowed it from Bill Morris, to whom he had promised a set of whatever pictures he took with it. He was shooting black-and-white film that he and Bill could process in the Morris family home darkroom. Sally supposed he was shooting color film that would show the autumn colors.

  She dodged behind a lichen-covered headstone that read:

  GEORGE MORRIS

  1751–1809

  LIEUTENANT, PENNSYLVANIA LINE

  Behind the headstone, Sally’s breasts were exposed, but her belly and hips were hidden. Dave shot several pictures.

  “Okay, babe. Great so far. But you gotta come out from behind the stone.”

  She sighed. “Okay. But, hey, man, shoot a couple of my butt while I get used to this.”

  He shot one picture of her from behind, then suggested she bend over and pretend she was putting flowers on the grave. She did, maybe aware, maybe not aware, that this displayed her most private parts from behind.

  “Moment of truth, honey babe.”

  Sally nodded. She turned and presented herself full-face.

  “Y’ know … I don’t have to tell you how gorgeous you are. You see that every time you look in a mirror. It’s a real damned privilege for me to see.”

  “C’mon, Shea. Take your pictures.”

  She posed in front of the tombstone, and he shot a dozen pictures. They moved around the old cemetery, and he photographed her standing at the collapsing wrought-iron fence that was supposed to enclose the place. He encouraged her to lie down and roll in the grass.

  “Hey, Shea,” she said after a while. “What you want me to do is spread. I mean, hey, c’mon, the pink parts! Shit!”

  “I’m not asking,” he said guiltily.

  “Well, there they are, kiddo,” she said, spreading her legs wide. “Take a picture of that!”

  The photo shoot had aroused Sally, and she lay back on the grass and let Dave enter her. He was bruised and sore, but the girl was okay; she had made him horny as all hell; and he performed better than he had supposed he could.

  II

  He sold forty-three sets of the nudes of the Ramapo High School homecoming queen at ten dollars for a set of five prints. He sold separately the picture of her with her legs spread wide—five dollars for a five-by-seven glossy black-and-white print—and nineteen boys bought those, too. After he’d paid Bill Morris for the film, paper, and chemicals, and given him his share, he had a profit of about) $275. It would buy his pizza and beer for quite a while.

  That was how it was. He always needed money, and he always had to hustle for it. The university provided tuition, lab fees, books, and room and board. His fraternity waived dues in order to have a star jock on its roster. His father sent him twenty dollars a month.

  When Dave met Julian Musgrave for dinner two weeks after he took his burying-ground pictures and was still peddling them, he came to the restaurant with a sense that maybe something important was about to happen for him.

  Musgrave owned four automobile agencies in metropolitan New Jersey. He was a flamboyant character who featured himself in his television commercials. (“Hey! Check ‘em out! Check ’em all out! If one of my trained salesmen doesn’t make you a better deal, come right in and talk to me face-to-face. If I can’t do better for you than anybody else in this area, I want to know why. If you’ve got a deal I can’t match—and better—buy from the other guy! But I know I can beat ‘em! So, c’mon in! What you got to lose?”

  He was loud but not charismatic. A man of maybe fifty years, he was wiry and bald. He wore a Stetson to hide his baldness and his piercing dark eyes, which belied the bounciness that was his trademark.

  He had arranged to meet Dave in a fine Italian restaurant in Patterson, where he was known and had been given the back booth he had asked for, where almost no one would see him talking with the star football player.

  Musgrave was wearing a yellow-and-tan checked jacket, a white dress shirt, no tie, and did not have his hat on. Dave, not knowing what to expect, wore a blue blazer, white shirt, and striped tie.

  Commenting that an athlete didn’t drink hard liquor, Musgrave had told the waiter to bring a bottle of good, dry Chianti in a basket. When they had toasted, he raised a subject—

  “Dave … has anyone ever suggested to you that you throw a game?”

 
Dave drew a deep breath. “No, sir,” he said emphatically.

  “What if someone did and offered a lot of money?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have met with you.” He moved in the booth, ready to exit.

  Musgrave grinned. “Relax. You’re answering the way I wanted to hear. You say you wouldn’t do it, huh? Good! Believe me, I’m not gonna suggest any such thing. I wanted to hear you tell me you wouldn’t do it.”

  “I wouldn’t do it,” Dave said glumly.

  “Well, you’re the kind of young guy I want to talk to. Look. I’m an alum. And I’m a great booster of our university’s football team. I don’t suppose we’ll ever win a national championship, but wouldn’t that be glorious. I mean, hell, we beat Temple, we beat West Virginia … Great! How ’bout an undefeated season? How ’bout that?”

  “That would be great,” said Dave.

  “I gotta wonder, though,” said Musgrave. “You’re out there on the field. Your thoughts one hundred percent on the game?”

  “What else?”

  “On money. I know something about your circumstances. I take the trouble to look into these things.”

  “I have to hustle,” Dave admitted.

  “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for a set of those pictures.”

  “You know—?”

  “My son bought a set—incomplete, I’m sure. I’ll want ’em all. But that’s small potatoes. Let’s talk, Dave. We can work out something.”

  Over veal parmigiana their talk abandoned the subject Musgrave had raised and ranged over other subjects: the likely outcome of Saturday’s game, Dave’s course of study, his family, the automobile business, the comparative merits of Buicks and Toyotas, Musgrave’s television commercials, the sexual activities of New Jersey girls and whether they were different from those of girls anywhere, Sally McMillan’s tits, Dave’s plans and hopes for the future …

  Then Musgrave returned to what he had in mind. “I’d like to help you, Dave. I’d like for you to be able to focus on the game alone.”