Double Play (26 page)

The
county clerk’s office was a short ten minute ride from the beauty salon, yet it
seemed like the longest ride of her life. In better times the office would be
open till five, but times weren’t better, and all county offices closed at noon
on Friday. Faye couldn’t help but stare at the clock on her dashboard as the
minutes ticked away. All it would take to lose the ranch she had dreamed about
owning her whole life was one slow train. She held her breath as she approached
the tracks that split Kadele in two and listened for the slow sad whistle. Without
a look either way, she floored the gas pedal, shooting the old Buick across the
tracks just as the guard rails started to lower.

“Thelma
and Louise!” she shouted. “You ain’t got nothin’ on Faye Shaw!”

Her
eyes caught sight of flashing lights in her rear view mirror. Curtis Jones’ fat
face glared at her from the patrol car inches from her bumper. He motioned for
her to pull over. She pushed the gas down a little more, took two corners at
mach speed, and double parked in front of the clerk’s office.

“Not
now, Curtis,” she warned, hurrying up the three steps. She pushed on the locked
door, peering through the glass. “Let me in!” she yelled, beating on the glass.
“It’s 11:57. I got a right to come in!”

A
young man in a white shirt and skinny tie approached from inside and pointed at
the sign in the window. “Closed,” he mouthed, as if she couldn’t read.

“Danny
Tarbell, you open this door this minute!”

The
young man looked surprised.

“I
know who you are. I changed your diapers when your mama took with the fever. I
know all your secrets.”

Danny
cracked the door. “We’re closed, Ms. Shaw.”

“No,
you ain’t.” Faye shoved her way past Danny into the office. “Fire up your
computer. I got some important business to take care of.”

“You’ll
have to come back on Monday, Ms. Shaw.”

“Monday
will be too late. I wanna pay the taxes on Hank Long’s ranch. I wanna buy the
place out from under him.”

Danny
considered. “It’s a large sum of money, Ms. Shaw…”

“I
got it.”

Danny
smiled. “I don’t think you understand.”

“How
much?” Faye demanded.

Danny
sighed and logged on to his desktop computer. “Give me a minute.”

“You
look just like your father,” Faye said whimsically. “He’s a good man, too.”

Danny
smiled and pulled at his tie. “Here we go. The taxes are scheduled for payment
this afternoon. Some LLC out of New York.”

“Cancel
the payment.”

“I
can’t do that.”

Faye
leaned in closer. “Danny, listen up. Your family was one of the first to break
ground in this county. They’ve stuck to this place through good times and bad
times. What do you think your granddaddy would say if you let Hank’s land go to
some person with no name from New York?”

Danny
rubbed his chin.

“You
think they’re gonna farm that land, Danny? Or maybe your granddaddy don’t care
if they build a hundred McMansions and change this place overnight.”

Danny
sighed. “It’s outa my hands…”

“How
much are the taxes?”

“Thirty
seven thousand,” said Danny softly.

Faye
leaned back in her chair, stunned.

“I’m
sorry.”

Faye
took a deep breath and reached into her purse. “Will you take a check?”

Danny
snorted. “Well, yes…”

“I’ve
been saving every dime J.D.’s sent me over the years, hopin’ someday I’d know
what to do with it.” She wrote slowly, clearly, then tore off the check and
handed it to Danny. “I never thought it would buy me a ranch.”

Danny
held the check up to the light. “Well, I’ll be…”

“Now
run that piece of paper through your system and cancel that fancy New York
check. Kadele will be better for it.”

Danny
squinted his eyes at the screen and busied his fingers on the keyboard. Five
minutes later he smiled and blew out a big breath. “I believe you just bought
yourself a ranch, Ms. Shaw.”

“You
done a good thing, young Daniel,” said Faye, getting up to leave. “Your
granddaddy is smiling down on you from heaven.”

“Aren’t
you going to wait for a receipt?” asked Danny.

“Send
it to me in the mail,” said Faye. “I got a ball game to get to.”

J.D.
took the elevator to the Federals Owners Skybox and handed the attendant a
fifty dollar bill before exiting. “Hold it for me, would ya?” he said. “This
won’t take long.”

“Yes,
Sir, Mr. Shaw,” said the young Latino man. His eyes roamed over J.D.’s freshly
pressed uniform with quiet reverence.  J.D. walk down the short corridor toward
the party in progress, his oiled glove tucked tightly under one arm, his cleats
digging into the thick patterned carpet and leaving their marks in his wake. A
corner of the attendant’s lips lifted. “Tell ‘em to kiss your ass,” he mumbled
under his breath.

There
must have been one hundred people crammed into the Skybox, maybe five J.D. had
ever met before. Only a handful had taken a seat to watch the game. The rest
had clearly come for the social event. At first no one seemed to notice the
uniform in the room, but as J.D. made his way through the crowd, the chatter
dissolved into low murmurings. Well dressed women who might have propositioned
him just days before now parted as he approached, as if his injuries were
somehow contagious.

Victoria
Pryor sat like a queen on her throne in the middle of the room surrounded by a
court of jesters in business suits. She’d dressed in patriotic colors for this
momentous occasion and even had a Federals cap nearby in the unlikely event
that she would be receiving a World Series trophy this evening. J.D. worked his
way toward her chair slowly, steadily.

He’d
gotten within ten feet of Victoria when he felt a hand on his sore shoulder,
first light in the grip, then tighter until he thought he might buckle from the
pain. He swallowed hard, coaching himself not to yank the hand away. “Hand me
the gun, nice and easy,” Tony said in a low voice. “Nobody gets hurt.”

“You
hear that in a movie, King?” J.D. sneered, refusing to face him. “Cause from
where I’m standin’, I’d say I got the advantage.”

“Think
again,” Tony murmured in his ear. “Even I can take you at this point. One punch
to the eye or this shoulder and you’ll go down like a sack of potatoes.”

“Give
it your best shot.”

 “I’d
rather win the Series,” said Tony, tightening his grip. “So would you. Hand me
the gun and you walk away.”

“Relax,
King. I wouldn’t waste a bullet on neither of ya,” said J.D. “But I won’t sit by
while Pryor plays her games, neither.”

Tony
eyed him suspiciously, glancing down at the silver sliver reflecting light at
the edge of J.D.’s mitt. He cocked his head toward an empty corner of the room.
“Not here,” he said, taking a few steps in that direction.

J.D.
maintained his intent stare on Victoria. She’d caught sight of him. Her face
was troubled. She moved her thin body to the edge of the chair, ready to react.
 She continued to nod politely while the man next to her rambled on but J.D.
knew he had her attention loud and clear.

Tony
followed his gaze. “Don’t do it, Shaw.”

“You
send a couple of hoodlums after my boy, you got war. Who was in the limo?”

“I’m
not following you.”

J.D.
studied him for a brief moment. Tony’s eyes were blank. “You really don’t know
anything about this, do you?”

“Thankfully
not.”

“So
it wasn’t you in the limo. Bobby was right.”

“I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I
just got off a helicopter from LaGuardia,” said J.D. “The plane we were on was
headed for Boston. You know anything about that?”

“Nada,”
said King, glancing toward Victoria in earnest. She cocked her head and raised
her brows in question.

“So
suddenly after all these years you’re not in cahoots with Pryor. You expect me
to believe that?”

“You
make money, I make money. It’s in my interest for you to show up. Why would I
get in the way of that?”

“You
forget we parted ways.”

Tony
searched J.D.’s hard expression, looking for a hint of mercy. “I’m not going
away that easily.”

“That’s
not what you said in my hospital room.”

“Look,
Shaw, I panicked. You’re my golden boy. You looked like a goner. What did you
expect me to do?”

J.D.
snorted. “Show some loyalty, that’s what I expected you to do. You ain’t been
payin’ attention all these years, King. I’m a winner. I’ll die tryin’.”

King
scanned his battered face and grimaced. “Clearly.”

“I
brought me some backup.” J.D. nodded toward the door, flanked by two gargantuan
New York cops. “Time for Pryor to see the inside of a jail cell. Her buddy
Keeting’s waiting for her to join him.”

“That’s
funny. She says the same thing about you.”

“I’m
fulfilling my contract.”

“The
one she was suckered into signing in the first place.” Tony leaned closer. “She’ll
be back out in a matter of hours and you know it. So will Keeting. Their
lawyers are the best in the business. Why not seek your revenge a different
way? Why not win the Series and sign on with another team for seven figures?”

“That’s
what I intend to do.”

“You
won’t do it from prison.” Tony leaned in closer. “Leave the cops here with me. 
They can have her at the end of the game.”

J.D.
pulled out his cell phone and tapped the surface. “Tell him to play me,” he
said, handing the phone to King.

“It’s
not my call…”

“Tell
him. That’s the deal.”

Tony
raised the phone to his lips. “Art,” he said cheerfully, keeping his eyes glued
to J.D.’s. “Yes, I know it’s not a good time to call.”

J.D.
shifted his mitt. Cold steel flashed in warning.

“There’s
an urgent matter. I need you to start Shaw. Yes, he’s out of the hospital. Trainers
gave him the green light.” Tony squeezed his eyes shut as though her were a
child being scolded. “Yes, he’s here,” he said, setting his jaw. “Why wouldn’t
he be?” He rubbed his temples. “I’m telling you it’s for the best…yes, Sir. I
understand.” He disconnected.

J.D.
shifted and glanced at the clock. “Yes or no?”

“No.”
Tony watched him. “Looks like it’s over. It was good run, John…”

J.D.
nodded toward the cops, then pushed past Tony toward Victoria. Within seconds
the cops flanked J.D., preventing any interference from Tony or anyone else in
the room. Victoria remained fixed in her chair, her eyes narrowed in warning.
“What are you doing here?”

“Still
wearing your jersey. Time to renegotiate,” said J.D.

“I
believe our relationship is over,” said Victoria calmly. Her thin lips formed a
sneer. “We have nothing to talk about.”

“That’s
not what my lawyers say. It’s not what your lawyers say, either. I’ve stuck to
my contract. Now I want a new one.”

“Victoria
grunted. “Look at you. You can barely walk. No one in their right mind…”

“I
ain’t got all night to argue with you, Pryor. I got a ballgame to win. Question
is, do you want to win it?”

Victoria
glanced around her. Dozens of faces were watching the scene. She sat a little
taller. “My managers have their instructions. I’m done talking…”

“Do
you want to win this Series?” J.D. demanded. “Coaches tell me you’ve sold off
all the decent players we have. You’ve done everything you could to keep me
from getting to this game. Makes me think you don’t want this title at all.
Makes me think you’re set on liquidating assets and leaving town.”

A
murmur spread through the crowd.

“We
can make this easy or we can make this hard,” said J.D., glancing at the two
cops next to him. “Here’s my new contract,” he said, pulling some pages from
his back pocket. “I’m the only chance you’ve got, even broken. I expect the
good people of New York would appreciate your investment in a national title.
Or we can talk about kidnapping and extortion charges. Your choice.”

Victoria
connected gazes with her companion. He nodded quietly. She opened the papers
and read through them quickly, gasping as she read. “This is preposterous.”

“Maybe
you’d rather spend a few years in jail.”

A
flush of color rose through Victoria’s neck. J.D. handed her a pen. Slowly,
deliberately, she flipped to the end of the contract and signed on the dotted
line.

J.D.
grabbed the contract and hurried toward the door, then down the hall to the
waiting elevator, N.Y. cops in tow. The attendant straightened his spine and lifted
his chin.

“Where
to, Mr. Shaw?”

“Federals
locker room,” said J.D. with renewed determination. “We got a Series to win.”

***

J.D.
slid Bobby’s gun underneath a stack of extra boxer shorts and smiled at the
photograph of Halee proudly displayed on the inside door of his locker. His
cell phone had been beeping all morning but he’d been avoiding contact with
anyone, mostly the women in his life. Any sympathy right now might weaken his
resolve to follow through on this nightmare of a journey. He needed someone to
punch him and dare him to get back up again, not coddle him and ask him how
he’s feeling. Like hell, that’s how he was feeling. Like he needed a week in
bed, not another night playing ball under the glare of Federal Stadium lights.

Smothers
came up behind him. “Can you see out of that eye?

“Barely.”

“How
are you supposed to catch a ball?”

“I’m
more worried about hitting the ball,” said J.D. “I ain’t never batted left
before. Everybody show up? ”

“Yeh,
if that’s what you call it. Franklin is back looking like he’s the one who had
twins. Callahan is having a mild nervous breakdown and Favier keeps searching
for the flask I removed from his locker. Pryor’s sold off every other decent
player we have. We’re down to bare bones. Even if you were on crutches, I’d be
asking you to take the field. I’m gonna need everything you can give this team
tonight, J.D.”

“Art
Pryor pulled me.”

Smothers
grunted. “He doesn’t run this team.”

“Ain’t
you worried about a job?”

“They’re
going to fire me after we win the Series? It’s just a bunch of wimpy talk. Guys
with no balls like Pryor start cutting off heads when their backs are up against
the wall, forget all about who they’re supposed to be defending. He doesn’t
give a shit about contract fraud and all that other crap in the papers. He’s
waiting to see what you do on the field. You shine, he’s your buddy. You have a
tough night, he doesn’t know you. It’s always the same. He’ll jump on any
bandwagon that comes around.” Smothers adjusted his hat and sighed. “I suggest
you play up the crowd tonight. Remind them you’re their favorite player. Give
them something to smile about.”

J.D.
caught sight of Halee’s picture again and broke into a grin. “Who’s up in the
announcer’s booth tonight?”

“I
suppose it’s old Don Petrone.”

“How
much time do I have before we take the field?”

“Are
you starting?”

“Hell,
yeh!”

Smothers
glanced at the clock. “You’ve got thirty minutes.”

J.D.
shot up the back ramp through the crowds of Federal fans lined up for hot dogs
and beers, turning heads along the way and arriving at the press booth short on
breath and long on hope. Security waved him through the double doors and he
angled himself in next to the main announcer’s chair.

Don
Petrone had about forty years on J.D. and a big beer gut to prove it. His gray
hair had thinned out to reveal a sunburned scalp dotted with freckles. He
turned off his microphone and started up some rock and roll music when J.D.
walked in.

“Jesus
Christ! What happened to you?”

“Hawks
second basemen mistook my face for the bag.”

Don
grimaced. “You gonna play?”

“Hell
yeh. I ain’t missing my shot at a Series crown. But I’m gonna need a little
help out there, Don.”

“You
name it, J.D.”

“What’s
Federals management got planned for the seventh inning stretch?”

Don
peered over his glasses at a sheet of paper. “Says here some commercial for Federals
Charities.”

“Any
names on that?”

“Halee
McCarthy and a fella by the name of Jack Keeting.”

“Mark
his name off the list, would ya, Don?”

“I
don’t know if I can…”

“I
want to ask Halee McCarthy to marry me.”

“Today?”

J.D.
nodded. “On the field. Pitcher’s mound. Seventh inning stretch.”

Don
chuckled. “You do get around, J.D. This is your second proposal of the season,
isn’t it?”

“This
is the real deal, Don.”

“Sure
it is.”

“How
long have you been married, Don?”

“Forty
three years,” said Don with a satisfied smile.

“How
did you know Mrs. Petrone was the one for you?”

“I
didn’t. I just knew I couldn’t live without her.”

“Ever
change your mind?”

“Not
one minute.”

“She’s
the one, Don,” said J.D. “I might never get to another Series, hell, I may
never play ball again. None of it matters as long as Halee says yes.”

Don
broke out into a grin, stretching the freckles along the bridge of his nose. “Well
then, let’s make sure she does.” He grabbed a marker from a nearby pencil
holder and stroked a thick black line through Jack Keeting’s name. “J.D. Shaw,”
he said, writing the name carefully next to Halee’s.

J.D.
gripped the old man’s shoulder. “Thanks, Don,” he said, rushing toward the
door.

“Good
luck to you, Son,” said the old man, chuckling to himself.