Double Switch

by T. T. Monday

  “Izzy.” I look at the clock. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “Dad, jeez, I stay up much later than this.”

  “It’s twelve-thirty your time.”

  “Yeah, so? It’s Saturday night.”

  “Does your mother know you’re on the phone?”

  Ginny, my ex, finally allowed me to buy Isabel a cell phone when she finished ninth grade. I had been lobbying to get her a phone for years, mainly so that Izzy and I could communicate without having to go through her mother. But now that she’s got the thing, I wonder if Ginny was right to resist. I can’t remember what time my parents turned off the phone at night, but I’m pretty sure it was before twelve-thirty.

  “I’m not allowed to call my friends after eight-thirty, but Mom says I can call you anytime.”

  “Does she know you’re on the phone right now?”

  “She’s asleep.” She pauses. “Do you want me to hang up?”

  “You don’t have to hang up, but you need to respect your mother’s rules. As long as you’re living in her house, you need to be respectful.”

  Izzy breezes past this advice. “You’re at Connie’s, right?” She and Connie hit it off last winter, when Izzy visited Colorado during Christmas vacation. We took her to Vail. Izzy knows how to ski, but the highlight of her trip was conspiring with Connie, inventing nicknames for their favorite ski instructors, getting spa treatments, and sitting in the sauna together. I felt left out most of the time, but it was good to see Izzy so happy.

  “Actually, tonight I’m at the hotel by myself.”

  “Poor Daddy…” This is a new stance she’s been testing out lately, treating her father like a pet—I’m sure it’s just another way she’s stretching those adolescent muscles, a necessary step in her psychological development, but I don’t like it. I get patronized enough by her mother. I don’t need it from her protégée.

  “So what’s on your mind, or are you just calling to say hello?”

  “I’m wondering if you’re going to make it to my dance performance. It’s on August—”

  “I know when it is.” My voice is louder and more defensive than I intended. “It’s on my calendar, and I’m going to be sending you happy thoughts. But the team is in Cincinnati that weekend. I told you this months ago.”

  “You said you’d try to make it.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You did, I remember!”

  This is another new habit: asking for favors she knows I can’t grant. This one hurts even more than the patronizing. There isn’t much I can’t give my daughter, but during the season, my time is not my own. My schedule is determined a year in advance and set in stone. Worse than stone: it’s printed on tickets. Izzy knows the deal. I’ve been playing professional baseball her whole life. Except on very rare occasions, her father has never been able to attend midsummer dance recitals, or midsummer anything. I understand it must be hard for her. All of her friends’ fathers, even the corporate lawyers and Hollywood power brokers, have some wiggle room in their schedules, whereas I have none. Which sucks, and I feel guilty as hell about it, but it does no good to beg.

  “I would never have said that, Isabel.”

  “But, Daddy, I thought that maybe this one time…” She stops with a grunt.

  I met my ex-wife in the jock dorm at Cal State Fullerton. I suppose it’s a kind of poetic justice that the only child of two Division I athletes would eschew team sports for a sequined leotard. But I know that grunt. That grunt makes me smile. Underneath that leotard is a beast with my DNA.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this,” she insists. “Mom says you can retire anytime you like.”

  “I don’t know what your mother means by that, but I certainly don’t need her permission to retire. The fact is that I play baseball because I want to, and because a major-league team wants me to play for them. I know my job puts you in a difficult situation. I feel horrible that I can’t be at your recital. But you have to understand that we have it good, better than ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the world. My job may be frustrating to you, but think of everything it provides. Your school, for instance—someone has to pay for that.”

  “I know, Daddy,” she says, suddenly contrite.

  “The good news is that when I do retire I’ll be around more than you can imagine. Probably more than you want.” I feel bad for breaking her down. She’s still so fragile.

  “But when? Mom says you’ve saved enough money already.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “Enough to retire.”

  “Suppose I did. How would you feel about having an unemployed dad?”

  “I’d be fine with it. Kelsey’s dad got laid off two years ago, and he’s still unemployed. He had to sell his car, but it’s fine. He picks her up from school sometimes.”

  “On foot?”

  “Yeah. They stop at Jamba Juice on the way home.”

  I wish it were that simple. Maybe it is for Kelsey’s dad. Maybe he’s fine picking his way through the housewives in the after-school throng. I wish that could be me, but I need more. I don’t feel good if I’m not working, and even baseball isn’t enough sometimes.

  “Sorry, Iz. I’ll be there for your Christmas show.”

  “The Christmas show is for babies. It’s the same routines every year. Summer is when we perform new material. It’s when we grow as dancers!”

  When they grow as dancers? Did she really just say that? It sounds like cult dogma. Parents complain about the scourge of kids’ travel baseball teams—the early-morning drives, the never-ending practices—but what about dance teams? They go year-round, too, and they colonize your daughter’s brain.

  “You’ll just have to grow without me, as you have every summer since you were born. They’re filming the show, right? Order a DVD, and we’ll watch it together.” I pause. “As for retirement, all I can promise is that you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Should I just quit? Kelsey quit dance last year, and she says it was the best decision she ever made. Now she has time to relax.”

  “Izzy, being young isn’t about relaxing. Right now you’re healthy and you enjoy dancing, so you should do it as long as they’ll let you. Or as long as your body holds up.”

  “Um, okay…”

  “Look, I know how you feel. There are a million reasons to quit sports, and people love to recite them, especially as you get older, but this is your decision, understand?”

  “I just wanted to see what you thought.”

  “I think you should keep dancing. That’s my expert opinion.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now get to bed.”

  “Okay.”

  “Talk to you tomorrow. I love you.”

  I turn off the lights and TV. Then I’m on my back for what seems like hours, wondering if I’m doing right by Isabel. Maybe I should retire. In three years she’ll be out of the house, off to college and an independent life. What I really want is some balance, maybe a month off every summer. I’d take a pay cut, or work in February instead, but unfortunately that’s not possible if I want to keep this job. Life is full of irreversible choices. Popular wisdom holds that it’s never too late to change careers, to right your wrongs, to stop drinking or smoking or whatever, but in my opinion that’s bullshit. Some decisions set your course forever. When Izzy was born, I was playing in the minor leagues, struggling with my command, and trying to develop that third pitch everybody said I needed. I made a choice to shut my family out and concentrate on my game, and it worked: I made it to the majors within a year. But I lost my marriage, and I set a course that would cause me to miss my daughter’s childhood. I will never get that back, no matter what steps I take right now. I could retire tomorrow, but it wouldn’t restore what I’ve lost.

  I feel bad about Izzy. And Connie. I even feel bad about Tiff Tate. Is there anyone else whose life I can ruin today? Anything else I can screw up? I survey the hotel room. I could throw the TV out the window. I could
stuff a towel into the bathtub drain and start a flood. I’m only half kidding.

  There’s only one thing to do, and that’s sleep. I brush my teeth halfheartedly, strip, and dig a tunnel into the drum-tight bedclothes. The room is still freezing, but I can live with it. I lie there for a while, tired as hell but restless. No sooner do I finally drift off than I am jolted awake by a knock at the door. I stagger out of bed and look through the peephole. It’s a young African American in a business suit with a name tag bearing the hotel’s logo.

  I wrap a towel around my waist and open the door a crack, leaving the security latch fastened. “What do you want?” I croak.

  “Mr. Adcock, right? Sorry to bother you, sir, but I have a letter. It was delivered by private courier yesterday with instructions to put it in your hand as soon as possible, but you never came in last night, so…”

  “Give it to me.”

  As soon as the envelope passes through the crack, I slam the door shut—a dick move, maybe, but it’s two o’clock in the morning.

  I turn on the light. The envelope is standard size, plain white, bearing the words Johnny Adcock—URGENT in black Sharpie. I hold it up to the light. What am I checking for, exactly? It looks like a piece of paper. A letter. I tear it open and read:

  Dear Johnny,

  I lied. I never got that anonymous call during spring training. I made that up, sorry. I wanted to warn you off, because nobody has time to get involved with some Caribbean asshole trying to beat the system. Am I right? It was a stupid idea. I’m not much older than you, but I guess I was trying to play daddy. Obviously you can handle your own business, and if you want to get involved with Ruiz, that’s your prerogative.

  The letter is signed Warm personal regards, Erik Magnusson, which, given the context, feels both impersonal and strangely intimate. Mags is—was—weird like that. His mother raised him right, you might say.

  I slip the letter back into the envelope. I have never received a letter from beyond the grave before. It’s more frustrating than eerie. I can’t help thinking that Magnusson might still be alive if he’d come clean with me the other night. Then again, maybe I’m being arrogant. What could I have done? Now that I know Magnusson was lying about the call, the case makes even less sense than it did before. The line about the Caribbean asshole trying to beat the system could refer to a Fausto Carmona–style name change, but how much credence should I give to a name scrawled idly on a whiteboard? I haven’t heard back from Don Anibal in Cuba. Pascual Alcalá could be anyone.

  My worry is that this letter still isn’t the whole story. Maybe another letter will show up tomorrow, in which Mags tells me he lied about something else. Then what will I have?

  This job would be so much easier if everyone told the truth. Then again, if everyone told the truth, I wouldn’t have this job.

  19

  Today is the last of the three-game stand with the Rockies. Getaway day, we call it. First pitch today is at 1:00 p.m., and we’ll be on the plane back to San José by six. The guys with families might even see their kids before they go to bed. On getaway day, you pack your bags before you leave for the park and drop them off in the lobby. I have a lot to do this morning, so I leave my bags with a yawning assistant a few minutes after eight. I walk out to the curb to meet Keith. I’ve decided that Uber is great, but nothing beats a full-time driver—especially when someone else is picking up the tab.

  I jump into Keith’s Town Car and give him Connie’s address just as my phone rings. Someone else is up early. This one is a surprise. “Todd?”

  My agent, Todd Ratkiss, is a decent guy as agents go—a sweaty, freckled version of Jerry Maguire. He’s in his early fifties and already on his third family. I don’t understand why he doesn’t just get fixed. I get his desire to have a new woman every once in a while, but the guy has had toddlers in his house for twenty years.

  In the background, I hear the chatter of cable news and the churning of a treadmill.

  “Where the hell are you, Adcock? I’ve been calling all night!” This is one of Todd’s favorite expressions. It doesn’t actually mean he’s been up all night. He certainly hasn’t been calling me. “We got a love note from the commissioner’s office. You’ve been suspended.”

  “For Yonel Ruiz?”

  “What happened out there? I saw the video, and I can’t figure it out. Was it payback for something I don’t know about?”

  “Ball slipped,” I say.

  “That’s how it’s going to be, huh?”

  “That’s how it’s going to be.”

  “Well, you have twenty-four hours to appeal, if that’s what you want to do. My advice is to take the suspension today. With the scheduled off-day on Monday, you’ll have a nice little vacation. Unpaid, of course.”

  Ratkiss works on commission, taking 4 percent of everything I earn. At $9,300 per game ($1.5 million over a 162-game season), Ratkiss stands to lose about $370 if I take the suspension. That’s not much for a man who lives in a house with seven bathrooms, but it’s something. A whole week of dog grooming, even.

  “Fine,” I say, “but I’m not happy about it.”

  Ratkiss laughs. “I don’t know why you would be!”

  “You were trying to make it sound like fun.”

  “You know what you need, Johnny? You need to blow off some steam. You’re running too hot. I see it in your body language on the mound. How about this? The Bay Dogs are in L.A. at the end of the month—how about I take you out? We’ll get some drinks, maybe some maguro. You know what that is, right? The word literally means ‘tuna,’ but in Japan it’s also slang for a woman’s—”

  “I know what it means.”

  “It’ll be fun.” Ratkiss lives in Newport Beach, but he keeps a condo for entertainment in one of the new high-rises downtown. I’ve only heard about it, never been invited. I take a moment to imagine a pied-à-terre decorated for Todd: the walls are covered in mirrors, every piece of furniture is a waterbed. Shakers of salt, pepper, and cocaine on the kitchen table. It sounds exhausting.

  “Maybe, Todd. We’ll see.”

  “Let me know. Call Debbi, she’ll set everything up.”

  Debbi is Todd’s assistant. She’s been with him longer than his last two wives. Nobody knows the trouble she’s seen. I hope he pays her well.

  “I’ll notify the club and the commissioner’s office,” he says. “Remember that while you’re on suspension you’re not allowed to be in the dugout or press box during the game. Also, I’d advise you not to speak with the media.”

  “Got it. Any other advice?”

  He exhales heavily. “Honestly? I just wish you’d keep yourself out of trouble. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Probably, but don’t let that stop you from trying.”

  20

  “Another booty call, huh?” Keith winks in the rearview mirror. I forgot that he dropped me at Connie’s last night.

  “Not exactly. Mending fences.”

  “Oh.” Keith nods and doesn’t pursue this line of questioning any further. A good driver knows when to shut up. Wing nut or not, Keith is a good one. I plan to commend him to Tiff.

  He leaves me at the curb, and I dial Connie on the intercom. The phone rings a full minute before I hang up. I realize it was shitty to cancel on her, but do I really deserve the silent treatment? I wasn’t with another woman last night—and, besides, Connie knows I see other women. Maybe she’s not completely aware of how many women, or which women, or how soon after sleeping with her I might have bagged a certain wolf-eyed Latin hit woman, but my point stands: I’m no angel. I thought she understood.

  The sidewalk tables in front of the bar have been pushed together and secured like a chain gang. I pace the deserted sidewalk, kicking chunks of pine mulch back into the planters around the aspens. Maybe Connie isn’t angry at all. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe she’s just out jogging or doing some early-morning shopping. That doesn’t explain why she won’t answer the phone.

  Ever since I got t
hat anonymous call yesterday, a pebble of fear has been rattling around in my stomach, nagging me to pay attention. Both Ruiz and La Loba saw me with Connie the other night. It wouldn’t have taken too much work on their part to figure out who she was and how to get to her. It’s a possibility, that’s all, but at this point I wouldn’t put it past either of them.

  Another thing: Tiff hired me to protect Ruiz, but I feel like things have gotten switched up. Am I protecting Ruiz, or is he the danger? I’ll say this: he keeps strange company for an innocent man.

  I text Keith and ask him to come back. He can’t have gone too far in ten minutes. Then I lean against the glass door of the bar and slide down until my ass hits the pavement. Secretly, I hope that, in the time it takes Keith to get here, Connie will walk out of her apartment building and we can put this incident behind us. Honestly, I’m not looking for makeup sex: at this point I’d be happy just to know she’s alive.

  A minute later, someone does walk out of the building, but it’s not Connie—it’s a neighbor I recognize from last winter, Barry or Barney or something, a divorced mining engineer in his fifties. He travels a lot for work, but when he’s in town, he’s always hanging around the building. He and Connie have keys to each other’s apartments so they can water plants, feed cats, that sort of thing. He has an obvious crush on her. She finds him sweet and harmless, but I’ve always thought he could be a serial killer, with his shiny thinning hair and glasses with photochromic lenses. Today he’s wearing a sky-blue polo tucked into khaki shorts and a pair of boat shoes so squeaky clean this might be their maiden voyage.

  I spring to my feet and catch the door before it closes. “Hey there!” I greet Barry/Barney.

  “Is that John?” The neighbor squints. “Welcome back, friend! How have you been?”

  “Busy. It’s the middle of the season. I’m in town for a weekend series.”