Forced Out

by Stephen Frey

  Howard Olsen sat by himself in a box seat a few rows up from the dugout, smiling smugly.

  Other than Kenny Palmer, the pitcher; Tray Buford, the Yankees’ second-string catcher; Olsen; and the people in the dugout, the stadium was deserted except for a few janitors sweeping aisles. Even they were slowing down, casting sidelong glances toward the plate, anticipating what was about to happen.

  The batter’s box was only a faint outline around the plate because the chalk hadn’t yet been replaced since last night’s game. The Kid hesitated when he reached it and looked up. He’d been to Yankee Stadium a few times as a boy, but he’d never been on the field. The place looked even bigger from down here.

  “Scary, huh?” Tray Buford was just pulling his mask over his face.

  Olsen had warned Kyle that Buford wasn’t going to be very friendly. “Yeah, scary.”

  “You’re gonna have to cut that mop off your head if you actually expect to sign a contract with us,” Buford said, squatting down and banging the pocket of his glove a few times. “The Boss doesn’t like long hair. Of course, there’s that one small detail you’ll have to get past before you have to worry about heading to the barber shop.”

  “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

  “Hitting my man Kenny Palmer,” Buford answered, pointing toward the mound and laughing loudly. “My bet? You won’t even make contact unless you try to bunt. And I doubt bunting’s gonna get you much of a contract.”

  Kenny Palmer was staring sullenly back from the mound, obviously annoyed to have been tagged with what he considered a waste-of-time duty. He was wearing practice gear, and he looked like he couldn’t wait to get back into the clubhouse. He’d pitched a complete-game shutout two nights ago, so there was no chance of him being in tonight’s game.

  Only an average-size man, Palmer was still damn impressive. His fastball popped Buford’s mitt so hard during warm-ups the catcher was using an oversize glove—the one he used when the staff knuckleballer was throwing. And Palmer’s curve really did look like it dropped off the edge of a tall table, looked like it dropped straight down the instant before it reached the plate. The worst thing about Palmer was you couldn’t tell which pitch was coming, the way you could with most Single-A guys. Palmer’s windup was exactly the same every time—no matter what he was bringing.

  The Kid took a few practice swings, then moved into the box, excavating a hole with the toe of his right shoe.

  “Good luck, Mr. Phenom,” Buford said snidely, lifting his mask to spit a brown mess of chaw on the plate. “You’re gonna need it.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Kyle checked the dugout. The small talk had stopped, and everyone was standing on the top step now, elbow on one knee. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your support. Means a lot to me.”

  “You got it, Kid.”

  “The only thing is, Buford, from what I hear, I’ll be taking your spot on the roster. So we won’t have much time to get to know each other. But I’ll e-mail you wherever you end up. Thank God for the Internet, huh?”

  “We’ll see, you son of a bitch.”

  The Kid took one more practice swing and raised his bat to the kill position. He wasn’t using Black Maple today. Today was all about putting the ball over the fence, where no one could catch it. Kyle knew that. Everyone knew that. So he was using the heaviest bat he had. His favorite long-ball bat. The Ash of Power. Of course, there was always that shadow of a doubt with the Ash of Power. Sometimes it didn’t do exactly what it was supposed to do.

  Palmer got the sign from Buford he wanted, nodded, wound up, and fired.

  The pop from Buford’s glove and the Kid’s wild swing were met with a collective groan from the dugout and a glance heavenward from Howard Olsen. The fastball had blown past the Kid like a Lex Line express past a local stop.

  “Nice swing, asshole,” Buford shouted with glee, tossing the ball back to Palmer. “I bet they felt that breeze all the way down on Coney Island.”

  The Kid took one practice swing. “I just wanted your friend to feel good for one pitch,” he said calmly.

  Buford sneered as he put down the sign for the next pitch. “Okay, pal. Then bring it.”

  Palmer wound up and delivered.

  This time, so did the Kid.

  The ball rocketed over the fence in center. As did the next three. The Kid fouled off the sixth and seventh pitches, but the final three soared over the fence, too.

  As the last blast landed in the monument area in left center, Palmer headed for the dugout, not even bothering to acknowledge the Kid. Just hurled his glove ahead of him and let loose a stream of expletives, then disappeared into the tunnel leading from the dugout to the locker room.

  Kyle glanced down, but Buford was gone, too. Kyle chuckled, gazed out over the lush green grass for a few moments, took a deep breath, then headed toward the dugout.

  Several of the suits rushed out onto the field to shake his hand, but Kyle stopped and pointed to a spot above the dugout before they got to him. “See that guy right there,” he said loudly, nodding. “If you want to talk about my contract, you go through him.”

  Jack smiled back at the Kid from where he was standing in the aisle, a few rows up from where Howard Olsen was sitting. He’d ambled down the stairs without anyone noticing as the Kid belted pitch after pitch over the fence.

  “And the only way I’ll sign a contract is if you fire that guy,” Kyle continued, jabbing hard in the air at Olsen, who suddenly looked like he was having a heart attack. “Are we clear on that?”

  One of the suits stepped forward and shook the Kid’s hand. “As glass.”

  47

  CHERYL AND THE Kid had been strolling through a sun-splashed Central Park for the past two hours. The first night in New York City they’d all stayed in a fleabag hotel in Queens because that was all Jack could afford. Now they were staying in the Four Seasons in midtown Manhattan—one of the best in the city—courtesy of the Yankees. On top of the three suites—one for each of them—they all had unlimited expense accounts.

  They’d all met in the hotel restaurant for a delicious breakfast at nine this morning; then Jack had headed back upstairs. Back to his suite to negotiate with the Yankee suits who were coming down from the Bronx to meet with him. After pointing at Jack in the stands yesterday, the Kid had dug in against four more pitchers, delivering the same kind of towering blasts he had against Kenny Palmer. Then he’d fielded fly balls for twenty minutes, making several spectacular catches against the blue outfield fence. After that he’d run wind sprints against the clock, power-lifted, and finally taken a complete physical, which he’d passed with flying colors. After the physical, the Yankees wasted no time. They’d seen enough. Especially Kenny Palmer. Palmer told the men in suits that under no circumstances would he ever pitch against Kyle McLean again in his career. Translation: make him a Yankee, and do it fast.

  After Jack went back upstairs, Cheryl and the Kid had taken in some of the city’s sights, done a little shopping, then headed into Central Park. They’d watched a group of middle-aged, overweight investment bankers and lawyers play softball against each other, then gone to Sheep’s Meadow—an expanse of beautifully maintained grass in the middle of Central Park—and just hung out for a while. Not talking about anything important, just enjoying the day. Now they were walking slowly back toward Fifth Avenue to catch a cab to the hotel, holding hands.

  “You must be feeling pretty good,” Cheryl spoke up. “A big contract in the works and no more worries about the Lucchesi family.”

  Angelo Marconi had called the Kid personally last night to let him know there would be no more trouble between them—as long as he got his hundred grand plus interest. Kyle had promised to pay it out of his signing bonus, and Marconi had agreed to wait two weeks.

  “My mom’s dead,” Kyle murmured sadly. “That guy Johnny Bondano ended up killing her.”

  Cheryl shut her eyes tightly. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I just—”


  He gazed off into the distance for a few moments. “It’s okay. I…I want to talk about it with you at some point, but not now. I’m not ready yet.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks, Princess.”

  Cheryl’s eyes flashed to Kyle’s. “What did you—”

  “Princess,” he cut in, squeezing her hand gently. “I called you Princess.”

  His hand felt so strong, but so soft, too. And she loved the way hers looked in his. Safe and secure.

  “Is that okay?” he asked. “If I call you that?”

  She nodded.

  “You should be feeling good, too.”

  Once again her eyes flashed to his. “What do you mean?”

  The Kid shrugged. “Well, I’m giving Jack ten percent of whatever I get. Seven percent on the side, because the standard commission is three for baseball agents. But he’ll get it.” He laughed easily. “If he does his job, you two shouldn’t have to worry as much about money anymore. Right?”

  She shook her head. “Do you think it was a good idea to have Daddy negotiate your contract? He was pretty nervous about it.”

  The Kid smiled. “I called a guy I know yesterday. A friend of a friend who’s a lawyer here in town. I told Jack about him before he went upstairs this morning. He’ll help your dad. He’ll make sure about the details, and he won’t charge too much.”

  Cheryl’s shoulders sagged with relief. “I’m glad you did that.”

  “Well, I’m not an idiot.” Kyle hailed a taxi as they came out onto Fifth Avenue from the park. “You should feel good about that other thing, too.”

  “What?” she asked quickly, suddenly on pins and needles again. “What do you mean?”

  “About being pregnant.”

  She clutched his hand hard and stopped, eyes flying wide open. “How did you know?”

  “You have that glow, Cheryl. It’s everywhere, all around you. I couldn’t possibly miss it. Nobody could.”

  She stared at him in amazement, distracted by the ring of her cell phone as a cab pulled up in front of them. She wondered if he understood what had happened. “Hello.”

  “Cheryl, it’s me.”

  “Hi, Daddy.” She could tell by his voice he was excited. Very excited. “Get the Kid back here right away. And I mean right away.”

  Jack pointed to the line at the bottom of the page, and the Kid signed his name. Kyle McLean, in large, flowing script letters. The men in suits standing around the table clapped politely, and Jack smiled from ear to ear as Kyle stood up after putting the pen down on the page right below his signature.

  “Five million to sign and six per for the next five years, Mr. Barrett,” the Kid said, shaking Jack’s hand. “Not too bad. You did a damn good job.”

  “With escalators based on performance,” Jack reminded Kyle. “Based on incentives I know you’ll blow away. Thirty home runs? I mean, come on.”

  The Kid looked out the window at the setting sun. It had been a long afternoon of details. “Don’t be so sure I’ll blow them away,” he said, reaching into his pocket, taking out an envelope, and handing it to Jack. “Thanks for all your help, Mr. Barrett. You’re a good man. Don’t ever question yourself about that again.”

  Jack stared at the Kid for a few moments, an eerie feeling creeping up his spine. Then his eyes fell to the envelope, and they narrowed as he stared at the words written there. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  “I want to go for a walk with Cheryl,” the Kid said. “Okay?”

  “Of course.” The romance developing between them was obvious, and he was all for it. “Be back for dinner, all right?”

  The Kid nodded. “She’ll be back in a little while. Promise.” He turned, strode into the next room, took Cheryl gently by the hand, and led her to the suite door. “Come on, Princess.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  A few minutes later they were walking up Fifth Avenue hand in hand, Central Park on their left over a sturdy brownstone wall, the avenue to their right.

  “Where are we going?” she kept asking.

  The Kid wouldn’t answer.

  “Kyle.” She punched him in the arm lightly. “Kyle!”

  Suddenly he pulled her to him, slipped his arms around her, and kissed her deeply.

  “You’re really okay with me being pregnant?” she asked, gazing into his eyes when their lips finally parted. “I mean, you know, don’t you?”

  He smiled and nodded. “I do,” he said, kissing her again. “And I’m fine with it. I love it.”

  She pressed herself as close as she could to him as they kissed again. She loved him so deeply, with everything she had. She couldn’t imagine how she’d ever thought she could have loved anyone else. He was amazing. There was something about his way, about his ability to see into her soul. Whatever it was, she was addicted to it. She wanted more of it than she could get. Maybe that was how she knew she was finally really in love.

  “I love you, Kyle,” she whispered, melting into his embrace.

  “I love you, too.”

  Then, with no warning, he pushed her away. So roughly she stumbled backward toward the brownstone wall separating the park from the sidewalk. She didn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend why he’d do such a thing in the middle of such a romantic moment. She’d felt his passion, his love. It was unmistakable. She couldn’t deny it. Neither could he.

  As she lost her balance and fell backward, she saw a taxi veer off Fifth Avenue from behind a bus. It climbed the curb, completely out of control, and hurtled down the sidewalk. Directly at Kyle. She screamed for him to get out of the way as it closed in, but her warning was cut short when the back of her head hit the wall. She tried to scream again when the cab’s bumper was only a few feet from his body, as the cab hurtled into him, but no sounds would come. Then everything went black.

  Jack had been lying on the king-size bed in his suite, catching a little rest. Not really sleeping, just relaxing, trying to come down off the high of the past twenty-four hours. When the phone on the nightstand rang, he reached for it, then stopped suddenly. He hesitated for several rings, wondering why he didn’t want to pick it up. Within the first few seconds of answering he knew why.

  After several minutes of trying to bring Cheryl down from the ledge, he spoke to a kindhearted policeman who promised to bring her back to the hotel himself.

  When Jack finally hung up, he reached for the envelope the Kid had given him and stared at the words written on it: “To be opened in the event of my death only by Jack Barrett. The Kid.”

  Inside was a last will and testament, giving Jack every cent of the irrevocable signing bonus Kyle had just earned executing the contract.

  Jack sank back onto the bed, his body shaking. Suddenly he and Cheryl had five million dollars. They’d never have to worry about money again. But the damn thing of it was, he would have given up every cent of that money if it would have brought the Kid back.

  MJ. Now the Kid. Hell, he would have given up his own life if those two could have stuck around longer, he thought through his tears. Sometimes life didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. This was one of those times.

  Cheryl crawled on her hands and knees to the spot where the Kid had been standing when the cab hit him. The policeman was beside her, bent over, begging her to let him take her back to the Four Seasons. But she paid no attention.

  She ran her fingers gently over the bricks when she reached the spot, but there was nothing. No body, no blood, nothing to prove that he’d even existed. Her tears fell on her fingers as she caressed the bricks. Impossible, she thought. There was no way he could have avoided the cab, no way he could have avoided his fate. He was dead, but there was no proof.

  She looked slowly to her left and, for a fleeting moment, thought she saw something up the block. Something familiar, something moving away that might explain it all. But a second later it had vanished like an apparition in the fog, and she realized that it had bee
n only her imagination. Must have been only her imagination.

  Then her tears fell for real.

  48

  YOLANDA BILLUPS MOVED slowly down the front steps of her dilapidated home as a blazing orange sun headed through a clear blue sky toward the western horizon, casting long shadows on the few scraggly blades of brown grass in her front yard. She was carrying her youngest little girl, and the next two were trailing behind her, just barely off the dusty hem of her long skirt.

  “Hello, Mr. Barrett,” she called softly.

  “Hello, Mrs. Billups.”

  “I told you to call me Yolanda. I meant it.”

  Jack moved toward her on his bad knees. Cheryl stayed behind, back by the car. “You did,” he agreed when they were close, “but somehow it never seemed right.” He smiled sadly. “How’ve you been?”

  “All right,” she said quietly.

  Not like she meant it, though. “You’d never complain, would you? You’d never tell me how tough it’s been.” Jack rubbed his eyes. “Financially, I mean. I know how tough it’s been without Curtis.”

  Yolanda brushed the little girl’s hair for a moment. “You can call him MJ now, Mr. Barrett. I know you liked that name. I don’t mind.”

  This was so hard. He wanted MJ to come walking out of the house with that wide, confident smile all over his face. He could only imagine how hard it had been for the woman standing in front of him. “I got something for you,” he said, holding out a plain white envelope. He took the little girl from Yolanda so she could open it.