Strike Three, You're Dead

by Josh Berk

  Picture this: a thousand jaws dropping. A thousand heads being scratched. Three foreheads being slapped. But wait: it gets worse.

  Famosa likely didn’t understand a word of what Other Mike just said. I spoke English fluently, and this was not the first time I’d heard some blather about Warlock Wallop and even I hardly had any idea what Other Mike was talking about. I was beginning to think that we were totally wrong about our whole theory. Maybe Ramon Famosa was just a good hitter who sort of stunk at being a catcher. Maybe R. J. Weathers just happened to die and there wasn’t any sense in trying to think it was anything bigger than that, much less that I could be the one to uncover the mystery.

  Now Other Mike was reaching out like he was going to shake Famosa’s hand. But he wasn’t trying to shake his hand. He was trying to rip off his mustache. That’s right.

  Not being a mustachioed fellow myself, I cannot say precisely what it feels like when someone tugs on your lip hairs. Judging from Famosa’s grimace, and the scream that followed, it’s safe to assume that it hurts really bad. Among the painful things I have experienced are: brain freeze, paper cuts, getting my hand slammed in a car door, getting my hair pulled by Mike’s sister, shots every time I go to the doctor, and the old soccer ball to the groin. I do think I have a fairly high tolerance for pain, but you would think that a major-league catcher would pretty much be top-of-the-charts in the category of ability to withstand pain. They basically make their living getting hit in the nads with baseballs. But, no, I never made such a caterwaul of pain as Ramon Famosa did when Other Mike tried to forcibly remove his mustache.

  And, yes, sports fans, you have guessed correctly. The mustache was most certainly not a fake. After Famosa’s strange howl of pain, it was Don Guardo’s turn to yell. It was a deep, angry yell. Maybe a bellow. I’m not even going to try to guess what he said, but it was Spanish, and it was angry, and it was probably not PG-13. Probably not even PG-17. Probably nothing in the PG family. He hopped up and lunged at Maria. I thought he might punch her or choke her. Did he have a gun? A knife? But, no, Don was not assaulting Maria. He was stealing from her! He roughly grabbed my video camera out of her hands.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “Give me that back.” He did not listen. He put the camera under his arm like a football player taking a handoff. Then he started to run. He sprinted across the stage, then jumped off. He jostled past the crowd of confused onlookers and headed toward the food court.

  “Get him!” I said. We jumped off the stage too, following him. I looked back to see what Famosa was doing, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. Was he chasing too? Was he hiding? Maria sprinted after us—the five-person footrace was on. I just hoped Courtney remained occupied with the bikinis long enough that she wouldn’t stick her head out of Bathing Suits ’R’ Us or whatever and see us sprinting through the mall, trying to avoid mall security.

  And, yes, mall security was chasing us. Two large men in bright yellow jackets were after us while we were chasing after Don. He was almost out of the mall. The long walkway reached the big department store at the end. What was he going to do, jump in the fountain? Sprint up the escalator? Either of those options would have been preferable. What he did instead was turn, bare his teeth—I swear he growled—and lunge right for us. We didn’t know what to do, so we turned and ran! Now Don Guardo was chasing us!

  “What is going on, Lenny?” Other Mike asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said, panting. “Nice work with the Warlocks of Vor speech, though,” I said between heaving breaths, the food court whizzing past us.

  “It was … the … ‘for … the … honor … of … Mizlon’ speech,” he wheezed.

  “Got it.”

  “Hey, guys,” Mike said. “Why are we running from him?”

  “I don’t know!” I said. And really I didn’t. We looked back to see if Don Guardo was still chasing us, and sure enough he was. We were almost right back where we started, just a few yards in front of the stage, where we had just been waiting for an autograph. We were out of room. There were security guards to one side, Famosa to the other, the stage in front of us, and Don Guardo charging right for us like an angry bull.

  Then he started to fly.

  Technically it was more like a slow-motion fall, but it was sort of flight. He definitely was no longer on the ground but rather soaring through the air. Our old friend from the line had stuck out one of those old-man church shoes right into Don’s path. (He definitely did this on purpose. It was awesome.) It tripped Don, and he lost control of the video camera. My precious little camera floated out of Don’s hands as if in slow motion, like a baby bird taking flight for the first time. It was flying right toward Mike!

  Mike looked at the camera, then at Don Guardo. The camera, then Don. Don was back on his feet and looking like he was about to tackle Mike. But in an amazing move, Mike reached up, caught the camera, and braced for impact with Don. The little man smashed into Mike with the force of a freight train, but Mike held on to the camera. Don bounced off and lay scowling on the floor. Other Mike, Maria, and I high-fived, actually pulling off the three-way five.

  “You’re out!” I yelled. Somebody had to say it. It really was amazing. Exactly like a play at home plate where the catcher takes a throw, holds on to the ball, and blocks the charging runner from scoring. A great cheer went up from the crowd. Everyone was watching. I don’t think anyone knew what on earth was going on, but it had to have been a pretty amusing sight. People were cheering, clapping, and hooting. Okay, not everyone: the two yellow-jacketed security guards were not among the fans of this amazing play. They scowled and cracked their knuckles. They didn’t know what was happening, either, of course, but they no doubt assumed we were in the wrong. We were kids. Kids running in the mall. Kids making grownups angry. Kids trying to rip off mustaches and annoying the celebrity guest. Were they going to take us to jail? Mall jail? Is that a thing? I suddenly looked around for Courtney, hoping now that she was watching. I was hoping that she could come save us, drive us home, and end this mess. I decided I needed to be nicer to her. She was just doing her job, just looking out for me.

  But she was nowhere to be seen. Amazingly, the person who came to our rescue was Ramon Famosa. He stepped his giant frame between us and the menacing security guards and put up his hands.

  “These kids,” he said. “They are with me.”

  We were? The security guards looked confused—upset, even. They were probably really looking forward to roughing us up and kicking us out. Their fun was ruined.

  Famosa, on the other hand, looked kind. I pretty much wanted to hug him. Especially after he said something to Don Guardo in Spanish that wiped the scowl off his face. Maybe he wasn’t going to kill us after all.

  “Is there a place we can talk?” he said to me. “Somewhere a little more private, perhaps?”

  “More private than here? How is that even possible?” I said in a squeak, pointing to the huge crowd of people staring at us. It was a dumb joke, I guess.

  Famosa laughed, then said, “Yes, perhaps somewhere a bit more private, such as possibly on the steps of city hall at rush hour or home plate in the middle of a game.”

  It was pretty amazing hearing Famosa speak English. He had a cool Spanish accent but was totally comfortable with English. He was completely fluent, like he’d been speaking it his whole life. Actually, he spoke English much better than lots of people I knew who did speak it their whole lives.

  Just then Courtney pushed through the crowd, carrying an enormous shopping bag.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked.

  “Man,” I said. “How many bikinis does one person need?” Oops, I was supposed to be working on being nicer to her.

  “Shut up, Lenny,” she said. “I also bought a dress.”

  “Ha-ha,” I said, even though it really wasn’t funny.

  “Miss, are you the one who is with these four?” Famosa asked.

  “Yeah,” Courtney said. “Unless they did something stupid, in
which case I have no idea who they are.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Maria said.

  “Can someone tell me what did happen here?” Courtney asked.

  “Perhaps we can go somewhere to talk,” Famosa said. “Have you eaten?”

  Maria elbowed me. Wait. Was Ramon Famosa (or whatever his name was) asking my house sitter out on a date? Things were getting really weird.

  “Nope,” she said. “You want cheesesteaks? I’ve been in the mood for Connelly’s ever since I heard that stupid commercial. There’s one right down the road.”

  “That is perfect,” he said. “I shall meet you there.”

  “Did he really just say ‘shall’?” Mike whispered to me, laughing.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, he did.”

  “Do murderers say ‘shall’?” he asked.

  “We’ll find out,” I said. “Yes, we shall.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  We headed to Connelly’s Steaks in Courtney’s cramped Mazda. But I was in no mood for eating. I had questions. Lots of them.

  My first question was for Maria. “What was it that you said to Don that got him so angry back at the mall?” I asked.

  “¡Tengo el justificante!” she said. “It means ‘I have the proof!’ ”

  “Makes a lot more sense than ‘Tango elf Konstanty,’ ” I said. “But I don’t get it. Proof of what? That he murdered RJ?”

  “No, you idiot. Proof that Don Guardo is Ramon’s brother, not his father. Proof that Ramon speaks English.”

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  “Well, we’re going to find out, aren’t we?” she said.

  But what were we doing going to meet a guy who is possibly a murderer? I mean, sure I like cheesesteaks, but …

  And would he even show up? We had just caused a scene in Franklin Mall and, by making him speak English, exposed him as … something. Even if he wasn’t a murderer, which I hadn’t ruled out, something was up. He definitely had secrets to hide. Why would he risk exposing them by being seen with us? He was a professional baseball player, which made him a celebrity in this town, even if he wasn’t the best player on the team. He had to be furious at us. He had to want nothing more than to get back home or whatever and figure out how to smooth the whole weird scene over. The last thing he would want was to share a cheesesteak with the kids who’d unmasked his lie.

  But, to my surprise, there he was. He had pulled his car—a totally sweet vintage black Mercedes—into the lot of Connelly’s and was waiting for us. He leaned against the hood, smiling broadly in the bright sun under a large hat. Don Guardo stood next to him, a little disheveled and quite grumpy. Famosa’s mustache was looking perfect again, already smoothed and waxed to its ideal state. It made me laugh, imagining that he carried a tube of mustache wax in his pocket or maybe a whole box of emergency mustache repair supplies under the seat of his car.

  Courtney somehow took up four parking spaces with her tiny car. We hopped quickly out—well, as quickly as possible with five people fighting to exit a tiny car at once. We crossed the parking lot and approached the Mercedes.

  “Hello, my friends,” Famosa said to us. Maria looked stunned, like she still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. I couldn’t believe it, either. He opened the door to Connelly’s and held it for us as we walked in. “Whatever you want to order,” he said. “Please. It is on me.”

  We ordered cheesesteaks the only way anyone really should be allowed to get cheesesteaks. That’s “wiz wit.” It means “Cheese Whiz” and “with” (or “wit’ ”) onions. Anyone who orders them any other way is laughed out of town. My dad, needless to say, orders his with provolone cheese and tomato sauce. Blech. We also got large sodas, large fries, and, like, forty Tastykakes. Each. Hey, Famosa said whatever we wanted.

  Connelly’s Steaks was crowded, like always, and Famosa wanted to sit in the back, presumably so we could have some privacy. We picked the most secluded spot we could find and pushed two tables together so all seven of us could sit in a group.

  Everyone began to eat. But even though I was starting to feel hungry and the food smelled really good, I had too many questions coming out of my mouth to fit any food in. (Even the greatest food on earth.)

  “So is your name even Ramon Famosa, or was that a lie?” I said.

  “Lenny!” Courtney said, scolding me.

  “I’m just asking,” I said. “You know, because of the whole … you know … thing?”

  Famosa sighed, laughed, and rubbed his lip. “My mustache, it hurts.” He scowled at Other Mike. “I wish I could get rid of it.”

  “It’s a cool mustache, though!” Mike shouted, his mouth full of fries.

  Famosa made the mustache do a little funny dance. He smiled. Even Don Guardo smiled slightly. We laughed. It was so weird sitting around eating cheesesteaks and joking with these guys!

  “Ah, it is such a thrill to finally to be able to speak English! I have been pretending to not speak any English for many months now, which is harder than you may think!” It did seem hard, to have to constantly pretend that you didn’t know what people were saying. And to have to pretend you needed an interpreter to do all your speaking for you.

  “I was sure I was going to slip up sometime,” he said. “But I kept it a secret for very long. Until someone let himself be videotaped explaining that even though he was here as an interpreter, he was not actually needed as an interpreter.” He scowled at Don Guardo, who returned the favor. Famosa did not seem angry, though—just relieved. “And, no,” he said, finally answering my question. “My real name is not Ramon Famosa. My real name is Jesús Marte.”

  “I knew it!” Maria said.

  “You did?” he asked. He smiled.

  “Well,” she said, “I knew Famosa was a fake name.”

  “Very smart,” he said. “Impressive that a young lady who is so pretty is also so smart. I can see why all the boys love you.”

  Cue massive blushing. Her, me, the Mikes, all of us. I think even the cheesesteak blushed.

  After this long burst of blushing, there were more questions. “Was it true that you came to America under a fake name because you wanted to escape Cuba?” Other Mike asked. “Just like Mizlon was leaving Vor?”

  “I am not sure what exactly you mean,” he said. “But, no, I am not from Cuba. I did not lie for any reason but for baseball.”

  It sounded so cool how he said it. For baseball. We sat in silence for a moment, chewing, drinking, wiping our mouths with, like, a million napkins. (Connelly’s food is good, but very messy.)

  “Tell them the rest of the story,” Don Guardo said. “Go ahead.”

  “I will,” he said. “You will have to forgive my brother.”

  “We knew it!” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Don Guardo here is my brother, not my father. It was a trick. So I would seem much younger than I am.”

  We thought about that for a moment. “So this has nothing to do with Cuba or any secret escape?” Maria said.

  “No, nothing at all. I am just a baseball player. All my life I dreamed of playing in the ligas grandes, the major leagues. But I got passed over by scouts again and again. I had the skills, but I was too nervous. Baseball is one of the only ways to make it out of the Dominican Republic if you are a poor kid. I wanted to support my family, to help my father. The pressure, it was too great. At practice, I would hit home run after home run. But at every tryout, I would strike out. Eventually, the scouts gave up on me. Then I gave up too. Until last year.”

  “What happened last year?” Courtney asked excitedly.

  “My father,” Famosa said. “He died.” He made the sign of the cross and looked toward heaven. “And his dying wish was for me to make it to the ligas grandes. So I trained myself to become a catcher. I grew this ridiculous mustache. And I lied about my age. The scouts in the Dominican Republic, they are only interested in players who are basically boys. Once you get to my age, you are beyond old. But if I was young again, still a prospec
t—maybe they would give me a shot? All I wanted was one shot, to fulfill my father’s dreams. To play one game in the ligas grandes. I was able to fake some documents, pull some strings. My brother here, he is very good at these types of things. He has always excelled in areas that are, how shall we say, not strictly legal. This is another reason why I wanted him with me. He is very useful to have around.”

  This made us a little nervous. Famosa or, um, what’s-his-face continued.

  “So now I have a question for you,” he asked. “Why were you so determined to reveal my secret?”

  I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t just blurt out that we thought he killed R. J. Weathers.

  “We, um, we … well, I, you see …” I couldn’t get the words out.

  “We thought you killed R. J. Weathers,” Maria said.

  Thanks, Maria. Never one to dance around the point. What was he going to say to this? If it was true, we just ate cheesesteaks with a murderer. If it wasn’t true, we just accused a guy who bought us cheesesteaks of murder.

  Don Guardo laughed. Then he spoke. His English was also clear and perfect, though also tinged with a cool Spanish accent.

  “I am sorry for my laughter,” he said. “But the idea that Jesús killed that boy is laughable. My brother is the nicest man in the world. All that happened was that he fell in love with a mermaid, and that mermaid was baseball.” He winked at Other Mike. Other Mike smiled a self-satisfied smile. “I was the one who told him to assume a fake identity. I was the one who helped arrange all this. And I feel so terrible that I was the one who blew his cover. Please forgive me, brother.”

  Then Famosa—I know Don called him by his real name, but I’m still going to call him Famosa, if that’s okay, even though we have established that it is most assuredly not his real name—said, “It is fine, old friend. It is fine.” There was a pause. “How about another soda?”

  “Sure!” the Mikes said. I did not want another soda. I wanted answers.