Double Play

by Nikki Duvall

  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 e
xtra 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.

  ~THIRTY-TWO~

  J.D. made it back to the dugout just in time to join the tail end of players lining up on the field for the national anthem. He searched the stands, hoping to catch a glimpse of Halee and coming up short. Gus, Bobby and Rita had landed seats right behind home plate, thanks to a friend of Coach Smothers. Cameron and Stephen, decked out in the finest Federals swag money could buy, sat in the row behind them along with a couple of big brutes J.D. assumed were New York off duty cops. Just like Bobby to call in his bros. Maybe the rest of the family was ready to relax with the adoption nearly final and Keeting in jail, but Bobby remained his vigilant self. It was good to have him as his wing man.

  J.D. heard his jersey number called and stepped forward to wave to the audience. Deafening cheers erupted, sending his spirits soaring. Above the mayhem, Don Petrone’s silver tongue assured the fans that J.D. would start at centerfield despite his recent injuries. The crowd got to its feet. Everywhere he looked fans held up signs in yellow and black letters that read Unbreakable Shaw, Shaw MVP, and J.D. for Governor. J.D. couldn’t tell if the mist clouding his vision was irritation in his injured eye or the emotional reaction to a lifelong dream coming true, but he was sure of one thing. The Federals fans still had his back.

  “You the man!” said Simone, giving him a high five. “You can see out of that eye?”

  “Barely. I guess I’ll just have to catch everything from my right side. Hittin’s gonna be a bitch.”

  Simone nodded. “I got your back, man.”

  Coach Morrison approached looking like a doctor in a cancer ward. He stopped a few feet in front of J.D. and placed his hands on both hips. “Word is the Hawks intend to hit everything your way tonight. How’s the shoulder?”

  “I’m more worried about my eye.”

  “You bat left before?”

  “Nope. And I don’t aim to try. Think I’ll do better on instinct.”

  Morrison spit and slid a wad of tobacco to the other side of his cheek. “We’ll try it your way first round but if it don’t work, you’re gonna have to listen to the batting coaches for once. There comes a time you can’t rely on talent alone. Go back to the fundamentals, know what I mean?”

  J.D. nodded.

  “Jasper’s starting on the mound. Hopefully he’ll shut down the Hawks batting so their plan doesn’t work.” Morrison adjusted his hat. “What’s this shit about Pryor severing your contract?”

  “You’re one contract behind, Coach. Just signed a new one.”

  Morrison grunted and shook his head. “Let me tell you something. I’ve been in this business twenty years. Owners come and go. You’re smart to ignore their bullshit and just play ball. If you’re good enough, you’ll make a living and have fun doing it.”

  Simone handed J.D. his glove and a pair of goggles. “Smothers said wear these,” he said. “Protect your eye.”

  Morrison nodded to both players. “You boys go out there and play like champions.”

  J.D. headed for centerfield and tipped his hat to the noisy sea of b
lack and gold jerseys, well aware that the trust of his fan base could be broken in a matter of a few fielding errors. World Series tickets didn’t come cheap, and J.D. knew many of the people in the crowd tonight had sacrificed quite a bit to be here. They were counting on him to make their dreams come true just as they had made his dreams come true by believing in him. He couldn’t let them down.

  The first Hawks batter approached the plate and pointed his bat toward centerfield. So Morrison had heard right. This really was all out war and the Hawks recognized J.D. as the weakest link. It would be up to J.D. to prove them wrong. The batter swung like a drunken sailor and missed the first two balls, then connected on a tap to first. Easy out.

  J.D. huffed and puffed like an expectant father and watched as the second batter approached the plate. Jim Sturges was an old acquaintance from the minor leagues and J.D. knew from experience that, unlike the first batter, Sturges liked to take his time and wait for just the right pitch, then nail it over the fence. When he lifted his bat and pointed to centerfield, J.D. knew the possibilities were large that Sturges could deliver. As expected, Sturges remained patient while two balls slid past. Then on the third pitch, he connected and sent the ball soaring high, almost hanging in the breeze until it finally landed clean and tight into J.D.’s glove. Two down. J.D. flipped the ball to Simone to the delight of his adoring fans and prepared himself for the third batter.

  Tres Falmore was new to the big leagues, fresh from the Arizona minors, and unlike J.D. had yet to make a name for himself. But J.D. knew that the guys who arrived without fanfare were still there for a reason and shouldn’t be underestimated. Like the batters before him, Tres pointed his bat toward centerfield and hunched over home plate in the pitcher’s direct line of fire. J.D. braced himself for a walk, and on the first pitch, that’s exactly what happened. Tres took a ball to the ribs and went down in the dirt. Within minutes he was off the field and a pinch runner who looked like he had a successful history in track and field was on first, teasing Jasper with the threat of a stolen base.

  Jasper remained calm and sent three strikes in a row across home plate. The fourth batter never swung.

  J.D. and Simone ran into the dugout, fired up and ready for action. Morrison met J.D. at the steps. “I moved you up in the batting order,” he said. “They’re starting Carter. He’s a southpaw. That’ll complicate things. Just take it easy and see what happens. No pressure this time up.”