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I WALKED INTO the Nineteenth Precinct on East 67th Street at a little after nine the next morning and was greeted by Detective Mark Ford, who led me back to his desk. It sat in the middle of a slew of other desks, in a large open area that reminded me of every police drama I’d ever seen on television, albeit without the ridiculous “extras” of gum-chewing hookers in fishnet stockings and belligerent drunks hand-cuffed to benches.

Then again, maybe Saturday mornings were just a little slow around here in the real world.

“Have a seat,” Detective Ford told me, pointing to a metal chair that rode sidecar to a file cabinet.

“Thanks,” I said. My butt was still hanging in the air, though, when he cut straight to the chase.

“So, do you have it?” he asked. “Did you bring it with you, Mr. Daniels?”

What, no small talk first? No chitchatting?

Of course not. From the moment Detective Ford had taken my statement at Lombardo’s, I knew that everything about this guy was direct and to the point. His short, cropped gray hair. His rolled-up sleeves. The way his sentences were all about finding the quickest route to either a period or a question mark.

“Yeah, I have it,” I said. “But there’s something I want to talk to you about first. Something I need to know.”

Oh, great
, said his expression. It was as if I’d just told him some god-awful, horrible news, such as the TV show
Cop Rock
was returning to the air. All Detective Ford wanted to do was listen to the recording, and here I was telling him,
Not so fast
.

Just like David Sorren had told me.

As happy as the Manhattan DA had been to learn about my recording, he didn’t want to hear it himself. At least not yet. Not until certain “protocols” had been met, he had explained.

“I can’t be seen playing detective, you know what I mean?” he told me.

I did. Even though that’s precisely what he had been doing with me on the steps of the New York Public Library.

So now here I was, sitting in front of Detective Ford, following protocol. There was just one problem.

“So what is it? Tell me,” said Detective Ford. “What do you need to know?”

I cleared my throat. Twice, actually. “It’s just that … well, I’m a little concerned about —”

He cut me off with a raised palm. “Let me guess — you’re
scared shitless that Eddie Pinero will want to carve your eyes out, too? That it?”

Maybe “scared shitless” was a touch extreme, but I wasn’t about to quibble over semantics. I just would’ve preferred to slip the recording to David Sorren as an anonymous source and then get far, far away from this murder case, police protocols, and anything else that might eventually pop up.

“Will Eddie Pinero know I’m the guy supplying this?” I asked. “Seriously, detective. I’d like a straight answer.”

Ford quickly folded his arms. “Here’s the deal. For the time being, Pinero can’t even know this recording
exists
. If it is what you say it is, then the first time he’ll hear it will be after he’s indicted.” He shrugged. “Now, can he find out that you’re the Good Samaritan who came forward with it? Sure. I won’t bullshit you on that. Will he want to kill you because of it? I highly doubt it. Killing you would serve no purpose. How could it?”

I nodded as Detective Ford leaned back, the legs to his chair squeaking loudly as they scraped against the linoleum floor. If I had to guess, that had been the most uninterrupted string of sentences the guy had put together in a long, long time.

“If killing me would serve no purpose, then what was the purpose of killing Vincent Marcozza?” I asked. “It would seem to be no different — simple revenge.”

I stared at the detective, waiting for him to alleviate my fears, to give me some great and compelling explanation as to why I had nothing to worry about. But that clearly wasn’t his style.

“Look, Mr. Daniels, it’s like this,” he said. “Eddie Pinero is
a sick and twisted motherfucker who kills with little provocation and even less remorse. Personally, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Then again, Vincent Marcozza probably thought the same thing. So it’s your call.
Now, are you going to give me the recording or not?
”

“OH MAN, oh man, oh man.”

Dwayne Robinson sat alone in the darkness of his tiny one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side. The place was barely furnished, almost as empty as the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black tipped over by his feet.

He was mumbling to himself, thinking that he missed his kids so much, it felt as if his heart had been carved out of his chest. For years now their mother had Kisha and Jamal out in California, as far away from him as possible. But even if they lived next door he knew he’d probably be too ashamed to see them. He hadn’t paid child support for over a year. The last time he did, the check bounced, and he was ashamed about that, too.

There was nothing more to hock. His two Cy Young awards were long gone. So were the old Yankee jerseys. On
eBay, the highest bid for one of his signed baseballs was $18.50. His rookie baseball card had no bids at all.

Again, the phone rang.

It had been ringing all afternoon and into the night. Not once did he answer or even check the caller ID. He didn’t need to; he knew who it was.

He was sure that writer, Nick Daniels, was a decent guy, and that’s what made it worse. Dwayne pleaded with himself,
Just call him back and tell him you’re okay
.

Just lie, like you always do
.

But he couldn’t even do that much. He was too scared. The same fearless pitcher who chose to stay here in New York, even after letting the entire city down, was too scared to talk to some writer.

All he could do was close his eyes and let the darkest of dark thoughts creep into his mind like shadows across the outfield and around the monuments at Yankee Stadium.

Never having to open his eyes again. Not ever. That would be good.

“Goddamn it!” he yelled, swinging his huge clenched fist through the darkness. But the invisible demons were always out of reach.

His eyes popped open as he stood, turned on the light, and began pacing the floor. His fear had turned to rage, the alcohol coursing through his blood no longer dulling the pain. Instead, it was greasing the wheels. Every muscle, every nerve ending, fired at once as he lunged for the empty bottle of Johnnie Walker, scooping it up while cocking his arm.

This would be no curveball.

This was a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball aimed right at the bare wall before him.

Smash!

Shards and splinters of jagged glass scattered across the apartment as he fell hopelessly back into his chair, sobbing into both hands.

Dwayne knew one thing for sure.

He couldn’t keep his secret any longer.

He had to talk to that damn reporter, whatshisname — Nick Daniels.

AFTER RETURNING HOME from the Nineteenth Precinct, where Detective Ford had sweet-talked me into handing over my recording from Lombardo’s under the threat of a sub-poena, I spent the rest of my day alternating between calls to Dwayne Robinson and contemplating life on the run from Eddie Pinero.

On the plus side, an extended stint in the Witness Protection Program would make for one hell of an article
.

I could only pray I was overreacting about Pinero and what he might do to me.

As for getting through to Dwayne Robinson, well, that was getting damn frustrating — and I don’t give up easily. Especially not on a story as big as this one could be.

Courtney had given me Dwayne’s home number, courtesy of his agent, but if Dwayne was home he sure wasn’t picking up. The guy didn’t even have an answering machine, so I
couldn’t leave a message, something like
Call me, you self-centered son of a bitch. It’s time to grow up, Dwayne
.

I just kept trying and trying every hour on the hour for the rest of the day. Half the night, too.

I’d like to tell you I had big plans for that evening as a certified, very eligible bachelor living in Manhattan, but I hadn’t expected to be home for the weekend, let alone in the country. There were friends I could call but I wasn’t really in the mood to do anything.

As for the one person who maybe could’ve changed my mind about that, she was with her fiancé. Unfortunately, I happened to know that the future Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Ferramore were guests of the mayor and fellow billionaire Mike Bloomberg at his home on the Upper East Side. Clearly my invitation had gotten lost in the mail.

So instead I ordered in a Hawaiian pizza, popped open a Heineken, and watched some TV. Flipping around the dial, I sampled a few minutes of Larry King and his suspenders, followed by the local ten o’clock news.

Then I landed on the ultimate of ironies.

Staring back at me beneath the brim of his cap pulled tight above those intense, fearless eyes I remembered was none other than Dwayne Robinson. The channel was ESPN Classic, rebroadcasting the game that had first put Dwayne on the map — a twenty-strikeout gem against the Oakland A’s on a very hot August night ten years ago.

Given my fruitless attempts that day to reach Robinson, I was tempted to switch the channel if only out of spite. I couldn’t, though. It truly was a classic game, and no matter how many times I’ve seen it, I always have to watch some of it again.

Apparently, I wasn’t alone.

Out of the blue, the phone rang next to me on the couch. “Private caller,” read the ID.

“Hello?” I answered.

There was no response, but I could tell someone was there, and it was more than just a gut feeling.
Through the phone I could hear the same game I was watching
.

“Dwayne?” I asked. “That you?”

It was my first thought. I mean, if I ever struck out twenty people, I’d be watching a replay of the game, too. Every chance I got!

But if it was Robinson he wasn’t answering.

I tried again. “That was an amazing night for you against Oakland. One for the history books. You’ll never forget it, right?”

After another silence there finally came a voice.
His
voice.

“Yes,” said Dwayne. “It was a special night. Almost seems like it wasn’t really me. Or that
this
isn’t me. I’m not exactly sure, Mr. Daniels.”

I drew a deep breath and exhaled. “It’s good to hear from you,” I said. “I was a little worried.”

“Yeah, I know you were trying to call. I’m sorry I —”

“No apologies necessary. I wanted to make sure you were all right, that’s all. You are all right, aren’t you?”

He sure didn’t sound like it. I could tell he’d been drinking — or doing something — but he wasn’t slurring his words. He sounded more depressed than drunk.

He left my question hanging.

“Dwayne, you still there?” I asked.

“I’m here.” He paused. It felt like a lifetime. “Listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Sure. Absolutely,” I said. “Just tell me where.”

“Not now. Tomorrow.”

No, not tomorrow, right now!
I wanted to yell.

This was no longer about finishing a sports interview, that much was pretty clear. There was something else going on. What the hell was it?

“Where are you now, Dwayne? Are you home? I can be there in ten minutes.”

“No, I’m tired, Nick. A little wasted, to tell the truth. I need to get some sleep.”

“But —”

“We’ll do it tomorrow. I promise. Believe me, I can keep a promise.”

I wanted to keep pressing, hopefully change his mind. Instead, I pulled back.

“Okay, how about we meet for breakfast?”

“I’ve got something to do in the morning. Let’s meet for lunch again,” he said.

We didn’t exactly have a great track record with lunches, but I didn’t want to point that out now.

“Sounds good, but on one condition,” I said.

“What’s that? What’s your condition for the interview?” he asked, and chuckled lightly.

It was simple, and it made all the sense in the world.
“I choose the restaurant this time.”

IT WAS A little before noon when I walked into Jimmy D’s Pub three blocks south of my apartment. Any self-respecting writer has a local bar that doubles as his second home. I read that in Pete Hamill’s memoir, so it must be true, right?

A couple of doors from Jimmy’s I gave a buck to a pan-handler I know named Reuben. Reuben’s a homeless man, nearly blind, unemployable. A quirk of mine is that I leave the house every morning with ten singles. I give them out on the streets until they’re gone. My father used to do the same thing with five singles when we would visit New York together. He didn’t think it was a big deal, and neither do I.

“Hey, Nick,” I heard from behind the bar as I grabbed a stool inside Jimmy’s. It wasn’t quite a chorus of people shouting “Norm!” on
Cheers
, but it was welcome just the same.

“Hey, Jimmy.”

Jimmy Dowd was the owner as well as his own daytime
bartender. He poured a mean shot and could draw a clean pint of Guinness. I had no idea how his mixed drinks were because I’d never had one, let alone seen him make any. Jimmy’s was a pub for those who had only one decision to make with their liquor: straight up or on the rocks?

But I was holding off on either. At least until Dwayne Robinson arrived for our meeting.

Jimmy nodded when I told him as much, and the two of us chatted for a few minutes about the Yankees’ upcoming series against the Red Sox at Fenway. “We’ll take two of three,” predicted Jimmy. “As long as we pitch around Big Papi. Slumping or not, he always kills us!”

There were a lot of reasons why I liked hanging out at Jimmy D’s, not the least of which was Jimmy himself. He was a Vietnam vet who had made some money in stocks and decided to fulfill his lifelong dream of owning a pub. There was also the fact that three years ago Jimmy had saved my life one night. But that’s a story for another time.

The story now was Dwayne Robinson. I checked my watch — he was due any minute. Knowing that Jimmy, a Bronx native, shared the same passion for the Bombers that I did, I told him who I was waiting on.