Forced Out

by Stephen Frey

  “Don’t tell me,” Biff agreed, shaking his head. “You’re preaching to the choir, old man. Got three kids of my own. All of ’em under five. My wife waitresses at Cracker Barrel so we got two incomes, but we still can’t make ends meet. I just go farther in the hole every month. I’m trying to get another credit card because the ones I have are all maxed out. But I ain’t having much luck.”

  They stood in silence for a few moments, neither one wanting to be the first to bring up why they’d really met.

  “It’s only for a few days,” Jack finally spoke up. “Right? Then that trooper will come and get her.”

  Biff shrugged. “I guess.”

  “You guess? What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t know. Call Tom and talk to him.”

  “Tom?”

  “The trooper. Tom O’Brien.”

  “Oh.”

  “He gave you his number, right?”

  “Yeah, I think I’ve got it somewhere.” Cheryl would never forgive him if he called the trooper.

  “He can tell you what’s going on with all that,” Biff continued, “that’s not my department.”

  “But you were the one who—”

  “I saw him at an accident earlier this afternoon. I think he said there was a problem.”

  “A problem?”

  “The husband’s going crazy trying to figure out what happened to the baby. Tom wrote in his report that Rosario died in the accident, but now the guy’s pressing it. Says he wants to see the body.”

  “Jesus, I can’t—”

  “Look, are you in or out?” Biff interrupted.

  Jack took a deep breath. “I’m in already, I’m in. The baby can stay with me and Cheryl as long as she needs to. I trust you guys. Okay?”

  “I’m not talking about the baby,” Biff snapped. “I’m talking about our business venture. I can’t wait around any longer. I gotta know if you’re in or out. If you’re not, I got somebody else who’s ready to go. I don’t trust him much, so I’d rather it was you. But like I said, I can’t wait around.”

  Jack stared into Biff’s eyes, hoping to find remorse. But there wasn’t any. Not one shred. Just a cold, selfish stare. “Yeah,” he said quietly, hating that it had come to this. “I guess I’m in.”

  Part 3

  25

  HEY, MISTER, FIND our seats.”

  Mikey Clemant was running pregame wind sprints in the outfield, and Jack was admiring how the kid was putting his heart and soul into every step. He wasn’t just half-assing it, wasn’t just jogging leisurely across the grass like most of the players. God, he could run like the wind, too. And his first step was like a cheetah’s. Not a lumbering, locomotive start, like most big men. Jack took a deep breath of warm sea air, thinking how good the kid would look doing his warm-ups in pinstripes on the biggest baseball stage in the world. Yankee Stadium.

  “Mister! Show us our seats.”

  The voice was louder and even more annoying this time.

  “Hey!”

  Okay, it was his job, but did it really take a rocket scientist to find your seat in a stadium this small? Besides, he’d noticed something different about Mikey Clemant tonight. A spring in the kid’s step that hadn’t been there before. Like something good had happened to him, and he was feeling his oats. It was nice to see, but it only deepened the mystery. Only made Jack more determined to get to the answer.

  “Hey, bumblefuck, get your ass in gear and show us our seats. I’m not gonna ask you again nice.”

  Jack felt a hard tap on his shoulder.

  “Or maybe we got it all wrong. Maybe you aren’t an usher. Maybe you’re a bus driver. That’s what you look like, anyway. I bet your kids are reeeeal proud of you.”

  They were howling at him now, making a scene. He sensed people in the stands starting to get a kick out of it, too. No way to ignore it anymore.

  Jack rose up deliberately off the yellow railing and gazed at the two teenage boys coldly. Smug attitudes, smug smiles, and, worst of all, youth. He focused on the one to the left, who had what looked like a volcano rising up from the left side of his nose. He winced and scrunched up his eyes as he stared at the huge pimple, like it was the most disgusting thing he’d ever seen and ought to be on display at a Ripley’s believe-it-or-not museum.

  The boy turned away quickly and grabbed his buddy by the arm. “Come on, Travis, let’s go. Come on.”

  Travis dished out one more impudent grin, then raced after his friend into the stands.

  “Little bastards,” he muttered. “Someday they’ll figure out how tough life is. Just wish I could be there when they do.”

  “Hi, Jack.”

  He turned toward the raspy voice. “Hi there, Lester.” Lester was the frail old usher who’d greeted him that first evening Cheryl and Bobby had brought him out here. The guy had to be at least eighty, but he still had a nice way about him. Most old people Jack knew didn’t. Realizing their time was almost up and wishing they could do it over again usually made them bitter.

  “How are you tonight?” Lester asked.

  “Fine. Thanks for asking.” Jack took another satisfying breath of briny air. “Just glad to be out at the ballpark.”

  “Learning the ropes okay?”

  Jack pressed his lips together and shook his head, like he was having a tough go of it. “Well, this leading-people-to-their-seats thing is pretty complicated stuff. Right up there with putting a man on the moon and nanotechnology. But I think I’m finally getting the hang of it.” Lester didn’t seem amused. “Nice night, huh?”

  “Beautiful,” Lester agreed, his friendly demeanor quickly reappearing. “I haven’t seen a night this pretty in a long time. Not so late in the spring, anyway. Cool, no humidity, no clouds.” He nodded toward the gulf. “This kind of weather makes the water look so pretty.”

  Jack watched Clemant jog toward the Tarpon dugout after finishing his sprints. The kid tapped the second-base bag with his toe as he passed by, then made certain he didn’t step on the foul line as he crossed it. In general, baseball players were a superstitious lot, so it was good to see that the kid was normal. At least in that department. “Yeah, real pretty.”

  “Looks like the sun’s actually dancing on the surface, doesn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Lester grimaced. “But it won’t last.”

  “Nothing ever does.”

  “Pretty soon we’ll be into the rainy season,” Lester observed, paying no attention to Jack’s philosophical waxing. “Humidity so thick you’ll need a machete to get through it, and nasty thunderstorms every afternoon. Like they say in South Florida, if you don’t start your summer golf rounds early in the morning, odds are good you won’t finish.”

  Jack had heard that at least a hundred times since moving to Sarasota. And about how golfers were struck by lightning a lot down here because they didn’t take cover soon enough.

  “In fact,” Lester continued, “I hear it’s supposed to get hot again the day after tomorrow. Temps up into the nineties. Bad humidity. Ugh.”

  “Oh, well.” Over Lester’s shoulder Jack spotted MJ in the Tarpon dugout arranging batting helmets. “I’m thirsty. I’m gonna get a soda. Want one?” Lester seemed mortified. “What’s the matter?” Jack asked.

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “No breaks until after the game starts. And you get only two a game. They can’t last more than five minutes, either. Those are the rules. Didn’t they tell you all that?”

  Jack patted Lester’s bony shoulder gently. The old man didn’t understand supply and demand. The Tarpons couldn’t come close to finding enough people to do this job. They weren’t going to fire anybody for getting a drink. “You’re a good man, Lester. There’s darn few of us left.”

  Jack started toward the tunnel entrance, then stopped abruptly, remembering the deal he’d struck with Biff. And how he hadn’t decided yet why he was really going after the kid. If it was just for money�
��or something better. Lately it seemed like he was doing everything for money. Or his lack of it.

  He started for the tunnel again. Down deep, he’d always considered himself a good and decent man. Suddenly he wasn’t so sure anymore.

  MJ leaned over and undid the shoelace of his left cleat, then took his time retying it. While he was bent over, he tried to figure out what Mikey Clemant was staring at so intently. The kid was sitting off by himself at the far end of the dugout near the water fountain like he always did. But tonight he seemed to be grinning while he studied a small piece of paper he’d pulled from the back pocket of his uniform. Like he was in high school and it was a love note from a girl. Usually the kid wore a mean permafrown and stared everyone down. But Clemant had actually smiled when he strode into the locker room two hours ago. A real smile, not that fake one he usually dished out. It was the first time Clemant had even acknowledged MJ’s existence, though they still hadn’t spoken. At least it was a start. Jack was getting impatient.

  Jack had turned out to be right about the kid. There was something strange about Mikey Clemant, something mysterious. It had been only a week since MJ had started the batboy gig, but he’d quickly become as determined as Jack to find out what was going on. Of course, he’d never let on. Then Jack might stop paying him, might figure he could get his information for free.

  It was interesting that Clemant was in such a good mood, MJ thought as he finished the double knot. It wasn’t like the kid was hitting very well, just hanging around that .250 mark. A hit in every four at-bats in Single-A was nothing to get hyped up about, nothing that was going to get him to the Show. Probably not even to Double-A.

  MJ suddenly realized that Clemant was staring back, and he shifted his eyes quickly away, then began retying the other cleat. He had to be more careful. One thing about Clemant: he always seemed to be on guard, always seemed to be looking around. Watching his back the way a prey animal would. Which was odd for a big man. Little guys, sure, but not a man the size of Mikey Clemant. Maybe Clemant realized how much he’d pissed off everyone in the clubhouse, and he was worried somebody might take a sucker punch.

  It seemed weird for the kid to call himself Mikey, too. Instead of Mike or Michael. Childlike almost. But a couple of the guys on the team had warned MJ on his first night to make sure he called the kid “Mikey.” Otherwise, they warned, he’d get the evil eye. Maybe worse than that in the parking lot after the game.

  That was another thing MJ had noticed about the kid. Despite his cautious and mostly polite manner, he scared people. Scared the hell out of them.

  When the kid stepped to the plate in the home half of the first, Jack was helping an old man find the bathroom. The old codger said he couldn’t understand Jack’s directions and wanted to be led all the way to the damn door. Jack was about to do it—he wanted another drink and there was a concession stand near the bathrooms—when he heard that distinct smack of bat against ball. That unmistakable pop of perfect contact he’d heard in baseball stadiums thousands of times over the years. He whipped around just in time to see the ball rocketing toward the cow pasture. And Mikey Clemant taking the first few steps of his home-run trot.

  It was a big crowd tonight, almost six thousand, and they were loud. The Tarpons were giving away free ice cream to kids carrying coupons from today’s local newspaper as well as one free beer to all adults. Most were already on their second or third cold one. Plus, there was going to be a big fireworks display after the game, so the crowd was in a party mood. The ovation thundered around the park as the ball landed in the weeds beyond the fence, scaring a flock of seagulls. It was louder than any cheer Jack had heard at Tarpon Stadium. But as usual, none of the players gave the kid much of a greeting when he got back to the dugout. A few lukewarm high fives, but that was it.

  The home run had been another monster shot, easily as high and as far as the one Clemant had hit that first night. But somehow it wasn’t as awe-inspiring. Maybe, Jack figured, because he was expecting incredible things out of the kid every time up now.

  Clemant eased onto the dugout bench near the water fountain, then leaned back and covered his face with his hands, listening to the crowd roar fade away as the next batter dug into the box. He could feel tears building at the corners of his eyes, and he didn’t want his teammates seeing them. He knew they hated him, at the very least didn’t understand him. And it killed him to be so distant, and to have them be so distant from him. He’d never been this way. He’d always been a leader, always been close to the other guys. Always been the first one to offer congratulations or consolation. The first to lend a hand. To come out early to the ballpark before a game or stay late afterward to work on hitting or fielding with a struggling teammate.

  But it couldn’t be that way anymore. He had to protect himself. Had to stay off to himself, removed from the camaraderie he craved. It had been like this for two seasons, and it seemed like it would have to stay this way as long as he kept playing. He had only to play for the love of the game now, had to simply enjoy making the bat and ball connect perfectly or making a spectacular catch. Of course, he couldn’t even do that whenever he wanted because that would cause too much attention. And attention was what he feared most. What might allow the dogs to pick up the trail again.

  Clemant pulled the bill of his cap down and wiped his eyes hard, then leaned forward, reached into the back pocket of his uniform, pulled out the crumpled piece of paper, and studied it. A scintillating thrill rushed through his body as he gazed at the scrawled words written there. The same rush he’d experienced this morning when he’d written it all down. He’d been anticipating tonight for months, for what seemed like an eternity. Actually crossed off days on the insurance calendar hanging on the bare wall of his tiny, pathetic, stick-furnished apartment. Anticipated it intensely ever since coming up with the plan one afternoon this past winter as he’d been waiting tables at a local Red Lobster. Ever since he’d checked the records that night when he got home and recognized this red-letter date in the scenario. He was worried about the stir it might cause, but it wasn’t like it was going to happen again. There were no games like this for the rest of the season. He’d be a star for one night, then fade into oblivion. One night of glory wouldn’t be enough for them to find him.

  He gritted his teeth. But then tonight might not be enough for him, either. In fact, finally being able to cut loose and be this good might end up being a very bad outcome, he realized now that he was in the middle of it. Maybe this plan hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Maybe it would whet his appetite so sharply, might be such a tease, he wouldn’t be able to resist his thirst for more. Like a drug addict, he might suddenly need another night like tonight, even though it wasn’t in the record books that way. Maybe he’d be at the plate tomorrow night and veer off course with no warning. Suddenly diverge from the plan, unable to control himself any longer. He could already feel that awful possibility gnawing at him. He glanced up, past the stadium lights, looking for an answer. Wondering why he’d been forsaken. But the answer wasn’t there. Only darkness.

  He carefully refolded the paper and stowed it back into his pocket, then happened to glance to his left—straight into the batboy’s eyes. The young black guy looked away instantly, but Clemant kept staring, wondering. It was the third time tonight he’d caught MJ staring. He shook his head. It had to be that MJ recognized raw talent. It couldn’t be anything else. They wouldn’t recruit a black kid. It wasn’t like them. They didn’t trust blacks. As terrible as that was to say.

  Clemant glanced down and spat. He liked MJ, liked the young man’s confident attitude and that sharp look in his eye. He reminded Clemant of his best friend from home he hadn’t spoken to in so, so long. Clemant felt the heat at the corners of his eyes again. God, he wanted a friend so bad. Somebody he could talk to, somebody he could confide in. Even if it was only a little talking and only for a little while. He hadn’t told anyone anything remotely personal in two years. It was like being in a maxi
mum-security prison without bars. It was a self-imposed island of exile, and he wasn’t certain how much longer he could take it. He’d already noticed himself doing strange things: talking to himself constantly, forgetting where he’d put things, staring at people too long. He took a deep breath. Maybe all this wasn’t necessary, maybe they didn’t care anymore. Maybe time had healed the wounds.

  Maybe he was as naive as they came.

  Thirty minutes later, after two turns in the field, Clemant climbed the dugout steps and headed toward the plate. Halfway there, MJ handed him his favorite bat—the all-black, thirty-six-ounce maple with the two-and-a-half-inch barrel. It wasn’t the same one he’d hit the home run with in the first. That one was made of ash and was heavier. There was always a seed of doubt with that bat. Always the remote possibility of something going wrong. But not with this one. Not with Black Maple. He couldn’t hit the ball quite as far with Black Maple, but he could hit it in the field of play anytime he wanted to. There was no doubt at all with this wand. It felt beautiful in his hands, like a perfectly balanced, razor-sharp sword in the hands of Achilles. He loved this bat, absolutely loved it, and he could do so much damage with it.

  He nestled the toe of his right cleat into the depression at the back of the batter’s box made by all those right-handed batters who’d gone before, took two practice swings, then brought the bat up into the kill position over his right shoulder. He wasn’t going to take long with this turn. He was going to hit the first pitch that was even close. This was just a single and he wanted to get to the fifth, wanted to get to that second big shot. And God, it would be huge.