by Stephen Frey
“He’ll show.”
Another five minutes passed.
“I’m outta here,” MJ said, standing up. He could picture Jack sitting in the Citation out in the parking lot, pounding the steering wheel. Another couple of minutes and there wouldn’t be a ride home. “I’m gonna miss my ride if I don’t go.” He knew Clemant couldn’t help with a ride. Clemant rode city buses to the ballpark. A couple of times he’d seen the Kid get out a few blocks from the stadium, like he didn’t want anyone to know he didn’t have a car. “If he isn’t gone already.” City buses didn’t go anywhere near his house, so that wasn’t an option, either.
“Don’t worry. Your friend Jack Barrett’s not going anywhere.”
MJ sank slowly back down in his chair. “Huh?”
Clemant snatched an old lineup card off the desk. “Barrett won’t leave you here,” he said, scanning it. “He’ll wait around as long as it takes. Hell, if you walked out there at midnight, he’d still be there. He might not be real happy, but he’d be there. He’s too interested in what you might tell him.”
“How do you—”
“Same as you know I ride the bus to the stadium,” Clemant interrupted. “I’ve seen you get out of Barrett’s car a couple of times. Out of that rusty old bucket of bolts he calls a car.”
You always figured you were fooling people, always figured you knew more than they did, MJ thought. But more often than not, what you were really doing was fooling yourself. It was like his father had always said when they were fishing at that little bridge. People know 99 percent more than you think they know. If you accept that, he’d always say, really accept it, you’ll do yourself a huge favor. Suddenly he missed his father a lot.
“What does Barrett want anyway?”
“What do you mean?” MJ asked innocently.
Clemant tossed the old lineup card back on the desk. “Come on, pal. Don’t pull that crap on me. You and he are working together. It’s pretty obvious. At least to me. Look, he came up to me a few days ago in a bar near here,” Clemant continued without waiting for confirmation of the partnership. “Claimed he was an old Yankee scout. Told me how he could recognize talent anywhere, and that I was the real deal.” The Kid hesitated. “Who is he really?”
MJ hesitated. “I don’t know.” He could tell the Kid was getting pissed.
Clemant shook his head. “So it was all bullshit?” he asked, biting his lower lip. “Bringing my stuff out for me last night in the ninth. That talk we had in the training room after the game. Sticking up for me in the locker room back there a few minutes ago? All that was bullshit, huh? You were just trying to make me think you were my friend so I’d tell you things. So you could tell Barrett.”
“No,” MJ said firmly. “No, I…” He grimaced. God, he hated liars. “Okay…okay, maybe I—”
“Is he paying you?”
MJ didn’t answer. The truth suddenly seemed pretty unpleasant.
“Jesus, what is it you two think I’m gonna say?”
“Hey,” MJ said sharply, “you were the one who told me people might get hurt if you said too much.”
Clemant’s shoulders sagged slightly. “Yeah, I did.”
“That’s a pretty weird thing to say.”
Clemant nodded. “I know. It was just that…I wanted to…ah, the hell—”
“Look,” MJ spoke up, “Jack Barrett really is a retired Yankee scout. I wasn’t sure myself when he first told me. But I had a couple of long talks with the guy about the Yankees, then I checked out the people he talked about on the Internet. It’s all good. Everything checks out. I even called some people in New York, some guys in the press up there. They knew him. Described that guy sitting in the bucket of bolts out in the parking lot down to a tee.” MJ hesitated. “Plus, well, there’s this game Jack remembers from way back in 1968.”
Clemant eyed MJ suspiciously. “What game?”
MJ saw right away he’d caught the Kid’s attention. “The same one you had last night.”
Clemant’s eyes opened wide. “How did you—”
“All right, guys.” Lefty was standing in the office doorway, hands on hips. “I talked to some of the fellas,” he continued, moving to the chair behind the desk and easing into it, sighing like he was completely drained. “And they all say they’re pretty damn sure you took Reggie McDaniel’s wallet, Mikey.” Lefty spoke with an Irish accent. He was first generation. “Whitney and Rodriguez swear they saw you do it. A couple of other guys made it like you were guilty, too.”
“Lefty, I’m not—”
“Keep your damn shorts on, Kid,” Lefty spoke up, pushing back the brim of his bright red Tarpon hat with the smiling fish on the front. “I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I ain’t the dullest, either. I know a lot of this is because they all hate you.” Lefty didn’t pull punches. He wasn’t smart enough to, and he knew it. “But I can’t ignore the fact that Whitney and Rodriguez claim they were eyewitnesses.”
“They’re lying, Mr. Hodges,” MJ spoke up with conviction. “They didn’t see anything. Mikey isn’t guilty. I saw Whitney in front of McDaniel’s locker right before game time, after everyone else went out to the field. He was reading the combination to the lock off a piece of paper. A piece of paper he shoved in his pants pocket after he opened McDaniel’s locker. McDaniel got the paper from Whitney right before you came in the locker room, when everybody was fighting. I saw him holding it. Did you talk to him about it?”
Lefty nodded. “Sure. He said he thinks Mikey did it, too. There wasn’t any piece of paper.”
“He’s lying,” MJ said again.
Lefty threw his hands up, looked at the ceiling, and rolled his eyes. “Oh, right. Everybody’s lying but you and the Kid.”
“This is a conspiracy, it’s a damn coup d’état.” MJ saw both Clemant and Lefty glance up when they heard the words “coup d’état.” Lefty because he didn’t know what the words meant. The Kid because he was surprised to hear a high school dropout say them. Damn, Momma was so right. White folks had all these preconceived notions running around in their heads about blacks—even a young man like Mikey Clemant, who deep down seemed like a pretty good person. “Make me take a lie detector test,” he said defiantly. “But make Whitney and McDaniel take one, too. You’ll see who’s telling the truth.”
“Oh, sure, MJ. I’ll have that all set up for nine tomorrow morning,” Lefty said sarcastically, rolling quickly over to the bookcase on the chair. He grabbed a loose-leaf binder off the top shelf, then rolled back behind the desk. Completing the entire move in seconds, like he did it all the time. “Make sure you’re there. I’m sure McDaniel and Whitney’ll show.” Lefty flipped back several pages in the binder and read for a few moments. Then he closed the binder and tossed it on the desk, knocking over one of the Styrofoam cups of stale coffee in the process. “I gotta make a decision here, gents.”
MJ noticed coffee starting to drip down the front of the desk. “What do you mean?”
“I gotta do something. I can’t just let this go.”
“What are you gonna do?” Clemant asked quietly.
Lefty nodded at the book. “What the book says I can do without going to the owner. You’re gone for two weeks, Mikey. Without pay. Go clean out your locker.” His gaze drifted to MJ. “You, too. Same thing. Two weeks.”
When MJ got back to the locker room, he didn’t bother showering or changing out of his uniform. Just stowed his street clothes into a duffel bag, took off his cleats, and put on the pair of Nike high-tops he’d worn to the stadium this afternoon. As he banged his locker door shut, he glanced over at Clemant. The Kid was sitting in front of his locker, elbows on his knees, head down.
“You all right?” They were the only ones left. Everyone else was long gone. “Mikey?”
“Yeah, sure,” Clemant muttered. “Never better.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll talk to McDaniel,” MJ promised. “I’m gonna get him to fess up to what he did. I know he found that paper in Whitne
y’s pocket. I saw the look on his face after Lefty came in. I’m gonna get him to go to Lefty and admit everything.”
Clement snickered. “Good luck. He hates me as much as everyone else on the team.”
“Then why’d he go after Whitney? Why’d he bother getting the paper out of the guy’s pocket? I saw him holding it, I swear.” MJ had thought this through while they were cooling their heels in Lefty’s office. “He wants his wallet back. That’s the bottom line.”
“He’s probably already got it back.”
“What do you mean?”
Clemant kicked his locker door. “I bet he followed Whitney into the parking lot tonight and pummeled his ass until he got the guy to fork it over. At least the three hundred bucks he was bitching about. That’s why he got the piece of paper out of Whitney’s pocket. He wanted to make sure you were telling the truth about that before he went after the guy. But he figured he could get me in trouble at the same time. Win-win, you know?”
That sounded about right. “I’m still gonna talk to him.”
“Uh-huh. Well, thanks for saying something to Lefty. At least you tried. I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, sure.” MJ turned to go, then hesitated. The Kid seemed lost. Like he was on the verge of suicide without a team. One thing about Clemant, he always had that confident air about him. Not an arrogant or cocky air, just confidence in himself and what he was capable of. Jack had pointed that out several times. But it was gone now. Completely. “You said something to McDaniel before Lefty came in the locker room,” MJ spoke up. “About how you weren’t the greatest teammate in the world. What’d you mean?”
“Just what I said. I’m not a good teammate. Simple as that.”
“Well if you know it, why don’t you try being one? Why don’t you try getting to know the guys? Not ignoring them.”
The Kid didn’t answer right away.
“Why do you have a game like you did last night?” MJ kept going. “Five-for-five and two home runs? Then have a game like you did today? Four baby pop-ups to the infield?”
“That’s baseball.” Clemant shrugged. “Star one day, bum the next. You know that.”
“Why make catches nobody else on this team could possibly make, then drop easy chances like that snow cone you sucked on tonight?”
Clemant shrugged. “I got ADD, and I don’t know when it’s gonna hit me. What the hell?”
“Why are you stonewalling me?”
“What?”
“How come the letters of your name spell Mickey Mantle?” MJ fired away, not letting up. “Don’t tell me it’s just coincidence.”
“Hey, what the hell are you—”
“That game you had last night was exactly like a game Mickey Mantle had in 1968,” MJ kept on. “Same hits he had that day. Even the same order he had them in. And on the exact same day: May 30. Don’t even try to tell me that was a coincidence.”
Clemant’s face went pale. “How’d you figure all that out?”
“I didn’t. Jack Barrett did. He remembered watching Mantle have that game in 1968 at Yankee Stadium. He was there that day. Said he’d never forget the Mick having such an awesome game as beat up by the years as he was at that point. Then Jack went on the Internet and checked it out. Sure enough, he was right. It matched right up.”
“Jesus,” the Kid whispered.
“What’s going on, Mikey?” MJ demanded. “What’s the deal? Why could people get hurt if you told me things? Why won’t you tell me? What won’t you tell me?”
Thirty seconds ago Jack was mad as a hornet for having to wait. It had been two hours since the game ended, and he was worried about Cheryl going crazy because Rosario wasn’t home when she got there. Now he couldn’t believe his eyes, could barely control his emotions. Mikey Clemant was standing right in front of him.
“Nice to see you again, Mikey,” he said, extending his hand, trying to keep his voice calm.
“My name’s not Mikey,” the Kid replied, shaking Jack’s hand with his strong grip. “But it sounds like you already know that.”
“What’s your real name?”
The Kid took a deep breath. “Kyle. Kyle McLean.” His eyes dropped, and he shook his head. “Goddamn. I haven’t introduced myself like that in so long.”
The three of them stood in front of the Citation. It was dark now, but Jack could make out the Kid’s face in the soft glow from one of the parking lot lights. “Why the alias with the same letters as Mickey Mantle’s name?” Jack asked with a raised eyebrow.
“I know you know about all that,” McLean said solemnly. “The five-for-five game, too. How you think I copied Mantle’s 1968 game last night.”
“I told him how you figured it out,” MJ spoke up.
“Let me tell you something,” McLean said before Jack could respond. “The whole reason I’m here is this guy.” He gestured at MJ. “He stuck up for me today in a big way.”
“He’s got a habit of doing that.” Jack gave MJ a wry smile. Now he really owed the young man. “What happened?”
MJ quickly explained the wallet incident and the two-week suspension Lefty Hodges had sentenced them to.
“I didn’t steal the wallet,” McLean assured Jack. “I’d never do anything like that.”
Jack held up his hands. “If MJ says you didn’t do it, that’s all I need to hear.” He hesitated. “So why’d you threaten me that night at the Dugout?”
McLean didn’t answer right away. “Look, this is tough for me. I don’t even know you guys.”
MJ started to say something, but Jack cut him off. “Why don’t you come home with me, Kyle?” he suggested. “My daughter’ll fix us all a nice, home-cooked meal. You can spend the night at the house. It’ll be relaxing. Something tells me you haven’t been able to really relax in a while.” The Kid had been running from something. The strain was obvious. He had that hollow, hunted look about him. “You could probably use the company, too.” It wasn’t much of a leap to infer that he’d been lonely. Probably very lonely. “Come on, Kid. You’ll enjoy it. Low-key, I promise. We just want to help.”
McLean finally nodded. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed softly. “I’d like that, Mr. Barrett.”
“Good.”
McLean put his hand on Jack’s arm before he could turn to get back behind the wheel. “Can I ask you a favor, Mr. Barrett?”
“Only if you stop calling me Mr. Barrett. Call me Jack. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“So what’s the favor?”
“Can you stop at a 7-Eleven on the way home so I can pick up a razor? I want to shave this damn beard off. I hate it.”
Tears streamed down her face as she sat on the floor of Jack’s bedroom reading letter after letter from a woman named Doris. Cheryl had been so angry at Daddy all day as she’d sat behind her desk at the real estate office, then exploded when she got home at five and he and the baby were gone without a note explaining where they were or what was going on. Which was just like him.
She’d always wondered what was in that box she’d seen under his bed every time she cleaned, and she was so mad by seven when he still wasn’t back that she’d gotten up the nerve to look in it. She’d been in here for two hours now, reading and reading, unable to stop. Learning that Jack and Doris had met during their senior year in college, dated for a little while, then stopped when Jack had gone off to the army. How she’d married while he was away and how she’d regretted it ever since. How happy she was to hear that he’d achieved his dream, how he’d gotten further in the Yankee organization than he’d ever thought he would. How sorry she was that Jack’s wife was having affair after affair behind his back but thought he never knew. How she wanted him to call her, how she desperately wanted to hear his voice. How she wished they’d made love just once.
Then the letters had suddenly stopped. She knew because each letter was still in its envelope in order by date, and the last postmark was four years ago. They’d all come from New York City.
Cheryl shrieked
when she heard a car pull up in the driveway. She stuffed the letters back in the box, shoved the box back under the bed, and sprinted for her bedroom, wiping the tears from her eyes as she ran.
36
JOHNNY BREATHED A heavy sigh of relief as he guided the Seville into the parking lot of the Happy Go Lucky Motel. On the outskirts of Edison, New Jersey—a commuter town about twenty-five miles southwest of New York City—it was actually a pretty decent place. Safer than the fleabags he’d been sending her to until now. Not too bad to look at, either. What he could see of it, anyway. Not that he cared right now. His left arm felt like it was going to fall off.
While he was passed out on his couch this afternoon, the weather had turned awful. The bright, beautiful sunshine of this morning had given way to a steady downpour, which was making driving dangerous as the last gray rays of daylight faded into darkness. To make matters worse, he had to drive one-handed. He’d jerry-rigged a sling out of a pillowcase to help ease the shooting pains in his shoulder, but he still couldn’t move his fingers on that hand. He’d almost passed out several times on the Jersey Turnpike—like he almost had on the way back to his apartment after shooting Strazza—but he’d been able to catch himself in the nick of time by shaking his head violently or pinching his thigh hard. He’d done it so many times his leg was black and blue in a couple of places. He reminded himself to climb out of the car slowly as he pulled into a narrow parking space and to walk deliberately to the door. He had to stay conscious. Had to.
After cutting the engine, Johnny stayed in the car for a few minutes, gulping bourbon from a rotgut bottle he’d picked up on his way out of the city. As he took another long gulp, he stared at the number on the motel door. Room 147. It was as far from the office as you could get—which was no coincidence. He took another deep breath and passed his palm slowly across his forehead. He was still sweating profusely, still fighting the fever. Which was a bad sign. He needed to stay levelheaded, needed to think clearly, needed to stay in control. His mind was his only advantage at this point, and if it wasn’t sharp, this whole thing would turn into a disaster. An even bigger one than it already was. Like Treviso, Johnny had his own psycho switch. It had flipped on only a couple of times in his life, but when it had, no one was safe. Including himself.
