by Paul Levine
The gate was a hundred yards away. From water level, it looked impossibly high. Maybe ten feet above the waterline, with another two feet of razor wire on top. Nasty.
Could the dolphins jump it? Bobby didn’t know. They’d never tried. If they jumped, would they be chopped to pieces on the razor wire, along with him?
The dolphins slowed. They weren’t going to jump. They were going to stop at the gate. Through her blowhole, Misty bleated one word. “Go!”
It took him a second to figure it out. Misty would stop at the gate and let Bobby stand on her back. The gate was a series of vertical metal bars attached top and bottom to two horizontal bars. Skinny as he was, he could work himself through the vertical bars to get into the Bay. Swim from there to the causeway, and safety. Spunky and Misty would stay behind. They would sacrifice themselves to save him.
Bobby clicked a “No, no, no” to Misty. Then, “Faster!”
Behind them, the roar of the Jet Ski grew louder.
Bobby smacked Misty’s flank and whistled a command. “We jump!”
Misty picked up speed. Powerboat fast, churning up a foamy wake.
The gate was fifty yards away.
The Jet Ski bounced in the dolphins’ wake. Grisby slung the shotgun into firing position.
Steve ran full bore along the channel.
He watched Bobby clinging to the dolphin, nearing the locked gate.
And there was Grisby, closing the distance on the Jet Ski, swinging the shotgun off his shoulder.
Bobby rubbed Misty near her blowhole as they neared the gate. Shouting now. “Jump! Jump, Misty! Jump!”
The dolphin launched herself out of the water, Bobby hanging on to her dorsal fin, like a cowboy on a bucking bronco.
Grisby lifted the shotgun. He aimed it squarely in the middle of Bobby’s back.
Steve reached the embankment, and launched himself toward Grisby.
Grisby sensed the movement and swung the shotgun from the hip, as if intending to drop a grouse from the sky. Before he could pull the trigger, Spunky blasted from beneath the water, and smacked Grisby flush across the face with his powerful fluke. Grisby’s neck shot back with an audible crack, and he tumbled off the Jet Ski. Steve belly-flopped into the water. Next to him, Grisby floated on his back, his eyes open, but his face expressionless.
Misty cleared the gate, sailing over the razor wire with room to spare. Bobby tumbled over Misty’s dorsal fin, landing face-first in the water. Spunky leapt the gate a moment later and joined them in the open Bay.
“Come back here, kid!”
It was Cowboy Boots, on the embankment, pointing a handgun into the darkness of the Bay. The larger man was alongside. They’d ridden a golf cart along the path to the gate.
“Keep going, Bobby!” Steve shouted, treading water in the channel.
“Shoot the lawyer!” the larger man ordered.
Cowboy Boots fired two rounds into the water in Steve’s direction. “Get those animals to come back, kid. If you don’t, I’ll kill your uncle.”
“Drop that gun,” a woman’s voice ordered, “or I’ll put a hole in the back of your stupid head.”
Cowboy Boots didn’t move. He didn’t drop the gun, either.
“She’ll do it,” Steve said, treading water. “She’s shot lots of stupid men.”
Cowboy Boots seemed to think it over.
Victoria pulled back the hammer on her state-issued.38. An ominous click.
Cowboy Boots dropped his handgun.
“Turn around slowly, both of you,” Victoria ordered.
The men did as they were told. Suddenly, the bigger man reached behind his back and pulled something out of his waistband.
A second gun.
Victoria fired.
The round zinged by the big man’s head, and he dropped the gun, along with what smelled suspiciously like a load in his pants.
Above them, the chockety-chock of engines. A helicopter descended; a powerful searchlight swept the channel and the embankment. A sharpshooter with a scoped rifle leaned out the open door. Next to him, FBI Agent Constance Parsons yelled into a bullhorn: “Everyone freeze!”
Forty-two
Crime Scene
It took hours. There were stories to tell and retell to dozens of cops, investigators, and agents.
City of Miami. Miami-Dade Sheriff’s Office. FBI. U.S. Marshal. Village of Key Biscayne, highly useful for directing traffic on the causeway.
Cop cars, flashing lights, crackling radios. Photographers, Forensics guys and gals, and a camera crew from Channel 4. No one from the Miami Herald was there, the newspaper having cut its staff so severely, it now took a triple homicide or Fidel Castro’s gallbladder to make it into the paper.
Three paramedics vehicles came to the park, but they only needed one. Wade Grisby was loaded onto a backboard, his neck packed in ice. The ambulance whisked him off to Jackson Memorial, Steve hearing whispers of “broken neck” and “paralysis.”
Bobby refused to come out of the water until a cop paddled over in an inflatable and used a tire iron to break the lock on the channel gate. The cop swung the gate open, Bobby click-clacked some message to Spunky and Misty, who headed back up the channel, the cop closing the gate behind them.
Ray Pincher relieved Victoria of her gun, telling her that in the half century Assistant State Attorneys had been issued handguns, none had ever been fired at a suspect. Victoria asked if she’d done anything wrong. No, Pincher told her. But he was still taking the gun. The case against Nash would be dismissed and her duties would officially end at five P.M. Monday.
The two guys turned out to be Larry Vollman, who now needed a change of underwear, and Richard Zinn, Mr. Cowboy Boots. They ran Wellfleet Investigations, which, though buried under two or three layers of corporate paperwork, was a distant cousin of Hardcastle Energy Services. After three cups of coffee and a flashlight beam in the face, they yapped for an hour.
“We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Sanders told us we had a deal to buy the dolphins from Grisby.”
“It had to look like an animal rights raid, but that was none of our business.”
“We just do what Hardcastle tells us.”
“Sure, we’ll give you our boss’s name, and anything else you need.”
Paramedics wrapped Steve and Bobby in blankets, checked their vital signs, and pronounced them healthy. Bobby talked up a storm to Agent Parsons, asking what would happen to Spunky and Misty. She promised to look into it.
“Not good enough,” Steve said.
“I beg your pardon.” Agent Parsons’ tone was not begging in the least.
“You’re too busy. You’ll never get around to it.”
“Maybe not today, but-”
“The dolphins have to be fed. They have to be cared for. We know a place in Key Largo with great facilities. They bring in kids from hospitals to swim with the dolphins. I can have the owners up here in twelve hours.”
“Then what do you need from me?”
“I just don’t want some U.S. Marshal blocking our way, claiming those dolphins are evidence or government property or whatever bullshit red tape they come up with.”
“I’ll get the clearance you need in the morning. Fair enough?”
“Deal.”
Around dawn, a lunch truck pulled up. One of the chrome-paneled wagons that service construction sites. Sandwiches, chips, and sodas were passed around.
Steve’s cell phone was water-logged, so he borrowed Victoria’s phone, and with Ray Pincher’s help, he got through to the jail.
“Your lawyer wants to talk to you, but first I gotta apologize,” Pincher said when Gerald Nash was on the line. “I’m sorry I charged you with murder. But you’re still a horse’s ass, and so’s your old man.”
The apology apparently having been accepted, Pincher cracked his knuckles and handed Steve the phone.
“Good news, Gerald,” Steve told him. “They’re gonna let you out in a couple hours, so I
want to wish you good luck.”
“Thanks, man. You’ve been great.”
“Ordinarily, I’d come over there, help you with the paperwork, but I’ve got a prior commitment. So if it’s okay with you…”
“That’s cool, Solomon.”
“You have any plans, Gerald?”
“Heading to Denmark, as soon as I can.”
“Denmark?”
“Most of the world’s mink farms are there. There’s work to be done.”
“You take care, Gerald.”
“Say, is Passion with you?”
“Agent Parsons? Yeah, but she’s kind of busy right now.”
“Tell her I don’t hold grudges. If she wants to go to Denmark…”
Steve said good-bye and checked on Bobby, who was still yakking with any cop who was interested. Victoria came by, wrapped her arms around Steve, and whispered, “You were right this time, lover.”
“Wild guess about Grisby. His story never felt right. I’m just happy we saved Bobby’s pals.”
“What about going up against me in court? You seem to enjoy pulling my chain.”
“Well, it does rev my engine. Speaking of which, do you realize how long it’s been since we…?”
“After Bobby’s game today. Okay?”
“The game! Jeez, what time is it?”
Before Victoria could answer, Steve spotted Constance Parsons standing inside a minyan of federales. “Agent Parsons! We’ve got an emergency here.”
“What now?” she asked.
“Your helicopter. We need it.”
Forty-three
Play Ball
There are many ways to get to a Sunday school league baseball game at Sunniland Park in Kendall. Easiest is to drive down Dixie Highway. Metrorail works, too, if you bring a bicycle along for the last leg of the trip.
But today, Bobby, Steve, and Victoria took an FBI helicopter. The chopper ferried them from Key Biscayne, across the Bay, to Coconut Grove, Bobby silently watching the still, turquoise water in the morning sun. His eyes were distant, baseball surely not on his mind.
“They’re gonna be okay, kiddo,” Steve said.
“I know.”
“We’ll go down to Key Largo a lot. When the kids from the hospital come by, you’ll introduce them to Spunky and Misty.”
“Can I teach the kids to talk dolphinese?”
“You bet.”
The water below them was shallow and clear, brown sea grasses waving below the surface.
“I’m sorry about all that stuff that happened before, Uncle Steve.”
“What stuff?”
Bobby shrugged, and the helicopter passed over the shoreline of Coconut Grove, following the path of banyan trees along Main Highway.
“You know. All the mean things I said about you not caring about Spunky and Misty.”
“Not a problem, kiddo. You were upset.”
“Yeah. But that’s not an excuse. It was extremely…” He paused to dig up a word. “…immature of me.”
“You’re a Solomon. Immaturity is expected from time to time. Now, are you ready to take the mound?”
“Coach Kreindler won’t let me pitch in a real game.”
“We’ll see.”
The helicopter landed at the neighborhood park on Morningside Drive, where a police car met them and drove Bobby the few blocks to the house on Kumquat. He changed into his Beth Am Bobcats uniform, grabbed his glove and spikes, and the cops brought him back to the helicopter. They took off again, and seven minutes later, the chopper with the FBI logo was settling into the outfield, where the Bobcats and the Bashers were finishing warm-ups.
Now, that’s what I call making an entrance, Steve thought.
Bobby, Steve, and Victoria hopped out.
“Go warm up that throwing arm,” Steve told Bobby, who raced off to join his teammates.
Coach Ira Kreindler waddled out of dugout, waving his arms.
“What’s the meaning of this!” Kreindler huffed to a stop near second base.
“We’re delivering your starting pitcher.” Steve gave the pilot the thumbs-up, and the FBI chopper lifted off.
Kreindler hung onto his yarmulke in the wind from the rotors. “Forget it, Solomon. I’ve got enough problems today.”
He thrust a lineup card into Steve’s hand. Penciled in as the leadoff hitter for the First Baptist Bashers was “R. Schactman.”
“Richie on the Bashers?” Steve said. “I don’t get it.”
“That spoiled momzer switched teams. He said the scouts from Gulliver and Ransom would see him play more on a better team.”
“What a bastard,” Steve agreed.
“So forget about Robert pitching. The ball Shactman hit off him in practice hasn’t come down yet. Besides, Robert missed warm-ups, and you know my rules. If you’re late, you don’t play.”
Victoria intervened in her customary, polite way. “Mr. Kreindler, couldn’t you make an exception? Bobby’s had an incredibly hard night.”
“Yeah, Kreindler,” Steve said. “While you were making chopped liver, he caught a murderer and two thugs and rescued two endangered dolphins.”
Kreindler gave them a dubious look that made Steve want to punch him in the throat. “I’m sure he did, but rules are rules.”
“Like the kosher rules?” Victoria asked. “What are they called?”
“The kashruth, Ms. Lord. That happens to be my business. Kreindler’s Kosher Meats.”
“My business is enforcing the law, at least until I turn in my badge tomorrow. Are you aware it’s consumer fraud to sell nonkosher food as kosher?”
“How dare you!”
“One word from me, and the State Attorney’s Office will launch an investigation.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve never sold a milligram of trayf in my life.”
“Then an investigation will clear you. In two or three months.”
Steve laughed. “That’s a lot of rotting brisket.”
“Ms. Lord, I never expected this from you.”
“Me, either,” Steve said. “Vic, you’re terrific. You’re outstanding. You’re-”
“An extortionist!” Kreindler fumed.
“Just let Bobby pitch two innings,” she suggested.
“That’s all anyone can pitch! League rules.”
“Good. It’s settled, then. And, of course, I’ll be so busy tomorrow, I won’t have time to open any new investigations.”
Kreindler’s face turned the color of borscht. “You’ve got some chutzpah, lady.” He sighed so heavily, his throat wattles waffled.
Bobby took his warm-up pitches while Rich Shactman, the traitor, glared at him from the on-deck circle.
Concentrate, Bobby told himself. Keep the ball under control. Remember everything Uncle Steve taught you.
“Imagine a circle where you want to put the pitch, and paint everything else black. You won’t see the batter. You won’t see anything but that circle.”
Rich Shactman stepped into the batter’s box and crowded the plate, daring Bobby to pitch inside. He pointed his bat at the pitcher’s mound and squeezed one eye shut as if sighting a rifle. “Right back at you, Word Boy.”
Bobby turned toward the bleachers where Uncle Steve and Victoria were nestled together, their shoulders touching. Bobby nodded to indicate he was okay. He wasn’t going to pee his pants just because Rich the Shit Shactman was twirling a Louisville Slugger at him.
Behind the plate, catcher Miguel Juarez signaled for a fast ball inside. Bobby focused his mind, painting the circle right under Shactman’s hands, trying to move the prick off the plate.
Bobby wound up, kicked high, and whipped his arm forward. A blazing fastball six inches inside hit Miguel’s mitt with a thud that echoed across the field. Shactman staggered backward, stunned at the speed of the pitch.
“Ball one,” the umpire called.
“You hit me, I’ll kill you!” Shactman snarled.
Bobby shrugged like it was no big deal.
&n
bsp; In his catcher’s crouch, Miguel showed two fingers-curveball. Coach Kreindler didn’t want the boys throwing curves, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.
Bobby held the ball with his index and middle fingers and snapped his wrist at the moment of release. The pitch seemed to sail inside, and again Shactman stepped back, his knees buckling. But this time, the ball broke over the plate.
“Strike one!” the umpire yelled.
Shactman looked embarrassed. He’d bailed out like a sissy.
Bobby worked quickly now. Another fastball. Right over the plate. The ball had already popped into Miguel’s glove by the time Shactman started his swing.
“Strike two!”
Shactman seemed bewildered. He moved deeper into the batter’s box, dug his back foot into the dirt. Miguel signaled for a curve, on the outside corner. Bobby shook his head. He wanted strength against strength. Fastball against power hitter. Mano a mano. He wasn’t afraid.
“Right back at you, Shactman,” Bobby called out.
“Huh?” Shactman stared at him.
“Fastball down the pipe.”
Calling his pitch, letting the prick know, challenging his manhood.
Bobby worked two fingers across the seams, resting his thumb under the ball. He wound up, lifting both elbows shoulder high. He took the drop step and rotated his hips, his arm whipping forward.
A bullet, waist high, over the dead center of the plate.
Shactman’s swing was hard, but late, and it threw him off balance. Legs tangled, he collapsed in a heap.
Miguel yelled “Ouch” when the ball pounded into his mitt.
“Strike three!” The umpire punched his fist. “You’re outta here.”
Shactman got to his feet, dusted off his pants, and stalked toward the dugout, never returning Bobby’s stare.
Bobby picked up the resin bag, squeezed it, tossed it back to the ground. He hitched up his pants, pulled at his crotch, spat on the ground. He wished he had some chewing tobacco, or at least a wad of bubble gum.
I’m a pitcher. A real pitcher.
He turned toward Uncle Steve and Victoria and winked at them. Both smiled back without doing anything embarrassing like leaping up and screaming. Bobby’s mind drifted for just a moment, wondering if they’d all go to Whip ’N Dip for mint chocolate chip after the game. Then the second batter nervously approached the plate, and Bobby turned to Miguel to get the sign.
