Crash Tack

by A. J. Stewart

  “Mmm, good,” she said, looking at me with her Caribbean blue eyes.

  “So, what’s up?” I asked.

  “Can’t a girl drop by for a visit?”

  “No, not really. We broke up, remember? When that happens, people don’t usually drop by for a visit anymore.”

  “Oh, there’s breaking up and there’s breaking up, sugar.”

  “And we did the version where you took all your stuff and left.”

  “Are you still sore about that?”

  Fact was, I wasn’t sore. I was lazy. Beccy had come into my life when there was still hope for my major league career, and she was covering the minor leagues for a local paper. But she was headed upwards onto television, where she now did sideline work on college games for a local affiliate, and had no intention of stopping there. So when my baseball career went south, so did the relationship. I didn’t break up with her, but I wasn’t sad she left. She was sure nice to look at, and energetic in the sack, but after a while I realized, like Drew Keck, that I couldn’t afford the upkeep. There was never any downtime, always something to do. As if kinetic energy gave her life, and slowing down and smelling the roses would be the end of her.

  “I’m sure I can make it better,” she said, running her finger around the rim of the martini glass. I couldn’t remember which movie I had seen that in, but I recalled it had been black and white and I hadn’t seen it with Beccy.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, sugar, can’t we still be friends?”

  “Sure,” I said, but I didn’t really believe it. Ships in the night seemed to be the metaphor that kept making itself at home in my mind. That was Beccy and me. She was on her way someplace big, somewhere I wasn’t going to go, and once she got there, she would do everything she could to forget the path that had taken her there.

  “Friends with benefits?”

  “Bec, I have to be somewhere.”

  “A girl?”

  “A case.”

  “Right, the detective thing.” When I’d hung up my cleats Beccy hadn’t believed it. She said I’d be back in the spring, missing the boys and the action and the smell of the grass. But when spring came and went, and I graduated with a master's in criminology and joined Lenny full-time, she realized that I had moved on. Or quit, as she put it. You could have been great, she had said. And I realized at that moment that what I wanted more than anything, and had wanted all along, probably since the day the cancer took my mother, was someone who thought I was great already.

  “You really think those guys will be there for you? Come on, Miami. I’m your Annie Savoy, and you’re my Crash Davis. You know it’s true.”

  I didn’t appreciate the metaphor, or the reference to Bull Durham . Mainly because she had it all wrong. If she was Annie Savoy, then I was Ebby Calvin LaLoosh. I wasn’t a catcher, or a hitter, or a sage on the ballpark. I was a pitcher. I was the meat. And in the end, Ebby Calvin went away. Beccy had the story all wrong.

  “I really have to go,” I said, picking up my keys.

  “Did I tell you I’m looking at an apartment in Hollywood? Right on the beach.”

  “Sounds nice,” I said, grabbing my helmet off a lounge chair.

  “You’re kicking me out? I haven’t finished my drink.”

  “Feel free to finish the drink, Bec.” I turned and walked away down the hallway.

  “Will you be long? I could wait.”

  I opened the door and glanced back into the bland apartment, the only spot of color coming from Beccy Williams. She was bright, she was beautiful and she was a shooting star. A lonely shooting star.

  “Don’t wait,” I said, closing the door behind me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE TRUTH WAS, I did have an Annie Savoy. There was a person who sat in the stands in St. Lucie West and passed notes to me about my pitching. Someone who watched pretty much every game, and gave me wisdom I couldn’t comprehend at the time. The difference was that my Annie, my Susan Sarandon, was a balding old man with mob ties and a great eye for batters’ weaknesses.

  Sally Mondavi’s Pawn and Check Cashing sat on the wrong side of the turnpike along Okeechobee Boulevard. I parked the bike in front of a Chinese restaurant that also claimed to specialize in Amercian cuisine. My headlight lit up the guy in the window and he gave me a savage look, and not just because I wasn’t going into his restaurant. I suspect I had parked in the spot his delivery car usually occupied.

  I left my helmet hanging on the handlebars and tried to smooth out my sweaty hat head. Riding a motorcycle in Florida wasn’t that much different than having a personal sauna on your head. I wished I’d brought a cap, but it wasn’t the first time Beccy Williams had put my thoughts all out of kilter. The little bell dinged as I opened the door and stepped into the cool of the store. I nodded to the girl in the check cashing booth, hiding in full view behind Perspex and chewing gum like a professional baseball player. I hadn’t seen her before, and the look of disinterest she gave suggested we weren’t going to become best buddies.

  I wandered along the low glass cabinet that ran the length of the store, not looking at the rings and cameras and music players inside. I could hear some grunting coming from the aisles of shelving that made up the bulk of the space, and I followed my ears and found Sal Mondavi with a massive amplifier in his arms. He was trying to put it on a shelf above his head but he couldn’t get the thing higher than his chest.

  “Some help there, Sal?”

  “Excellent timing, kid.”

  I grabbed the amp and Sal pointed to the top shelf, and I lifted it up into place.

  “Why do you put the heavy things up top?” I asked.

  “Do I tell you how to pitch?”

  “As it happened, you did.”

  “Only when you done it wrong.” He smiled his nicotine grin. “Which wasn’t often.” He slapped my back and led me to the rear of the store. Sal Mondavi had become an unlikely friend. We had met when he had sent a note to me during a game at Tradition Field. When the bat boy handed me the note, the entire dugout went silent, assuming a love letter from a fan, and then every guy with the single exception of the manager jumped up onto the grass to see who had sent it. The disappointment when the bat boy pointed out the old man in the Jets cap was palpable, and I was the subject of ridicule for weeks. But the note hit home, and after giving up five hits in the first two innings before getting the message, I pitched a clean sheet before I was relieved in the eighth.

  “So to what do I owe this honor? Shouldn’t you be out with the ladies or something? ”

  “Beccy came to see me at home.”

  “She’s a feisty one. I thought that was done.”

  “It is.”

  “But she came to your home.”

  I smiled. “And that’s why I’m here.”

  “Kid, if I’m the best option you got, you gotta work on your strategy.” He stepped in behind the glass counter at the rear of the store. “You still in that tiny little holiday apartment?”

  I nodded. “It suits my purpose.”

  “It’s for divorcees and golf nuts. You need a real house.”

  “I have neither the time nor the money to go looking at houses, Sal.”

  “Balls. Time is right. The market is tanking, kid.”

  “Isn’t that bad?”

  He shook his head and gave a phlegmy cough. “Aach. You sure knew baseball but you don’t know nothing about business. When the prices are tanking, that’s the time to get in. I am.”

  “You? You’re buying property?”

  “Hey, Mr. Smart Guy, watch yourself. I get into anything that’s profitable. Just because property is all aboveboard, doesn’t make it a bad investment.” To look at Sally’s store anyone would think he struggled to rub two bits together. And that was how Sally liked it. He was a simple man, with simple needs.

  “And just because property is a good investment doesn’t make it all aboveboard,” I grinned.

  He raised his eyebrows
, made a gun with his fingers and pulled the trigger.

  “Here,” he said, handing me a brochure. “This is how you get a house, kid. Foreclosure auction.”

  “I fear you’re going to explain what that means. ”

  “You know all these moron banks giving millions away to folks who can’t pay it back? Well, eventually the math catches up with them. And when these folks can’t make payments, the bank forecloses.”

  “But what does that mean? The bank takes their house?”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s rough, Sal.”

  “It is. But folks really need to do the math before they go taking all this money. It’s not a giveaway, is it?”

  “No, but still. Seems everyone gets nailed except the banks.”

  “That’s always true. The big end of town always comes out smelling like roses. But here’s where you get your pound of flesh. Because the market is tanking, no one wants to buy the property for what is owed. So the court auctions the property, and the bank gets whatever they get. Sometimes cents on the dollar. There are some bargains to be had.”

  “But I don’t want to be part of a system that kicks folks out of their homes, Sal. Even if they have made dumb choices.”

  “I thought you’d say that, kid. Take a look at page three.”

  I flipped the brochure open, where Sally had circled a listing for a property. It sounded like a standard house, three bedrooms, one bathroom, built 1973.

  “It’s older than me,” I said.

  “Most good things are. But I checked the title history on it. It’s not a family home.”

  “It sure sounds like one.”

  Sally shook his head. “It’s on Singer Island. A developer bought the house when the owner passed on, with a plan to knock it down and build one of those ugly minimansions we see everywhere now. But the bottom fell out of the market and they couldn’t afford to develop it, so they walked away.”

  “Walked away? I thought banks were believers in the until death do us part thing. How do you walk away?”

  “Don’t return calls. Don’t pay the property taxes. Don’t pay the mortgage. So the bank takes it back. If you bought the property, you’d owe about two large in back property taxes. You should go take a look.”

  “If I take a look, will you stop going on about it?”

  “It’s your best chance. And you’ll need to pick me up to go to the courthouse for the auction.”

  “Why on earth are you going?”

  “To make sure you don’t do something stupid. And I might pick something up.”

  “You’re not going legit on me, are you, Sal?”

  “Stranger things have happened, kid.”

  I shrugged. Strange indeed.

  “There’s one other thing, Sal.”

  “Name it.”

  “Lenny says I need a piece.”

  “A piece?”

  “A gun.”

  “What’s with the piece ?” Sal frowned, giving a face full of wrinkles.

  “Isn’t that what you guys call it?”

  “No, whitebread, that isn’t what we call it. We call it a gun. Aach, Francis Ford Coppola has a lot to answer for. But yeah, Lenny’s a smart guy. You need a gun in your line of work.”

  “Lenny suggested I needed a second gun, if you know what I mean.”

  “One on each hip? What are you, a cowboy now? ”

  “An emergency weapon. I have an official handgun already, a Ruger, but he suggested it was worth having something off the books. Something not traceable back to me.”

  “Yeah, he’s a funny-looking piece of work, but he knows what he’s saying, does Lenny. Okay, kid. A spare piece. Let’s take a look.”

  “I thought you didn’t call them pieces.”

  “Just checking you’re awake, kid. I am about to hand a gun to a Connecticut Yankee.”

  Sally reached into his cabinet and pulled out a boxy-looking weapon with hard edges. He pulled back the mechanism and looked inside, and then let it slide back. He handed it to me.

  “It’s a Glock. Austrian. Decent gun, if you like that sort of thing.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Foreign.”

  I nodded. I had nothing to say to that.

  I held the gun in my hand and felt it. “It’s light.”

  “There’s no mag or rounds in it, genius. Loaded it’s heavier.”

  I nodded again and looked at the gun. I didn’t like the feel of it, but then I didn’t like the feel of any gun. If I ever pulled this baby out, things were not going well.

  “I know you’re not a gun guy, kid. So I gotta ask. You know how to use this thing? I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

  “Lenny’s been taking me to the range every week.”

  “Good. That’s good. Is it comfortable?”

  “Is it supposed to be comfortable? It’s not a pair of slippers.”

  “I’ll grant you that.”

  “So is this thing registered? I don’t recall doing that with my Ruger.”

  “Florida doesn’t register guns. You got a license to carry, you can have a gun. But this ain’t the one I’m gonna give you. I just want to see how it fits. I got another, same gun, untraceable. Sellers sometimes keep records, there might be a paper trail. The one I get—no paper trail, guaranteed. As you say, for emergencies only. But it’s not here.”

  “Okay, thanks Sal.” I placed the gun back on the glass countertop. “It’ll do.”

  “Every gun’s different, right? So when you get the other one, you test fire, make sure you know how it feels.”

  “I’ll practice, don’t worry.”

  “Not at the range. That can be traced back to you. Take it out into the ’Glades. Go shoot a gator.”

  “I’m not shooting a gator, Sal. But I’m sure I can rustle up some old beer cans.”

  “As you wish.”

  “I appreciate this, Sal.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  So I didn’t mention it. I didn’t offer to pay, either, because that would have just got his blood pressure all out of kilter.

  “Hey, the GM at St. Lucie offered me some seats in one of the corporate boxes, anytime. We should go catch a game, eat a hot dog.”

  “I sorta lost my enthusiasm for it, since they were too stupid to keep you.”

  “Come on, it’ll be fun. Like old times.”

  “Old times? You gonna take the mound?”

  “No, Sal. They got young guys for that.”

  “I bet you’d pitch ’em under the table. But sure, that sounds like a plan.”

  “All right, I’ll give them a call. And this thing?” I asked, nodded at the gun on the counter.

  “It will find its way to you.”

  “Thanks, Sal. I’ll see you later. ”

  “You bet, kid. And go look at that house.”

  “Sure thing, Sal.”

  I walked out into the evening light. There was no breeze this far inland and the air had a thick quality to it. The Chinese restaurant was still empty, save the guy in the window, who was still watching me with a look of disdain. For a moment I contemplated some Chinese food, but decided against it. I got on the bike, gave the guy in the window a wave, and then headed back to my little apartment, and only half of me hoped that it was empty.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE MORNING BROUGHT a glorious Florida day. The grass behind my apartment glistened with dew as I put on some coffee, and there was a coolness to the air that hadn’t been there when I went to bed the previous night. It wouldn’t stay cool; the heat was just there, lurking in the background, waiting to strike. But these mornings were my favorite, crisp and clear, the sky more blue than white. I unlocked the front door and sat on the back patio, watching squirrels rush about madly. Lenny arrived and helped himself to coffee, and then sat on my only other chair.

  “So, what’s the plan for today?” I smiled.

  “You look chipper,” he said.

  “Chipper? What are y
ou, Dick Van Dyke?”

  “I get around,” he said. “So.”

  “I’m feeling kind of righteous.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Beccy came over last night.”

  “Oh.” He sipped his coffee.

  “So I went out.”

  Lenny raised an eyebrow.

  “Alone,” I said.

  “Is that growth?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. ”

  “Don’t look at me, MJ. That girl comes to my house, there’s no way I’m going out.” He raised both his eyebrows.

  “Maybe I’m overthinking it.”

  “You are overthinking it. But that’s what you do. And in my experience, you can’t change that, so you have to learn to live with who you are. That’s your way. You can’t just have the fun—you gotta think about it later.”

  “You don’t seem to have that problem.”

  “I’m not you, MJ. And you’re not me. I have my own limitations. I can have the fun and not overthink it, sure. But I’m the wrong side of fifty and a bachelor. What does that say?”

  “Footloose and fancy-free?”

  “There is that. But sometimes ladies need a guy who does overthink it. And young Beccy, she just ain’t that girl for you.”

  “This is a very depressing conversation.”

  “Ah, but there’s a silver lining.”

  “You think?”

  “I never had a sexy deputy come hunt me out at Longboards.” He gave me a cheeky grin.

  “Now you’re overthinking it,” I said.

  “Time shall reveal all. Now, I’ve got an address on this Michael fellow. Let’s get some breakfast, then pay him a visit.”

  We ate toasted sandwiches at a diner and then headed across the bridge to Cocoanut Row in Palm Beach. Michael Baggio turned out to be exactly what Ron had said, an architect. He was working for Shute and Marrow, an unlikely name for one of the most prestigious architectural firms in South Florida. They specialized in corporate and retail redevelopment—that is, taking old buildings and making them new, rather than knocking them down and starting afresh. It was a novel idea in Florida, where keeping historical buildings erect for history’s sake was a recent and fairly unwelcome concept. Lenny had worn chinos despite the likelihood of heat, so I followed his lead, and we looked borderline professional when we asked at the reception desk for Michael Baggio. Michael came out to meet us. As with most of the crew, he looked better than the day I saw him arrive home on Toxic Assets . He was shorter than I had thought, but in great shape. He was probably late twenties, and his shoulders were broad and his waist trim, as if he had been a wrestler at college. He had Sicilian features, dark, slicked-back hair and heavy eyebrows, but his facial structure struck me as feminine.