“He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to keep a diary,” I said.
Lily gave a disconsolate chuckle. Then she frowned and glanced at me.
“How do you know he gave such accurate details about that night? Does Ricky remember it that well?”
“I don’t think Ricky knows anything about this situation right now. He has people who take care of this sort of thing.”
“Like you?”
“I guess so. Fact is, I was hired to look into this by one of Ricky’s people, not just because I’m a private investigator but because I used to be a baseball player.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. For a short time I played with Ricky Spence. And as it happens, I was there at the club that night.”
Lily frowned. “Really? I don’t remember you.”
“And I don’t remember you,” I said. “I wasn’t partying with Ricky or anything like that. I got a call later about him being in some kind of trouble, and I got asked by one of his helpers to go to the club and get him out. So that’s what I did. I don’t remember a lot about that night, even though I hadn’t been drinking at all, but I remember a little. Just not you.”
“I don’t remember much, either. It was our high school graduation, you know. We were cutting loose, doing what kids do. I’m not proud of it, but what’s done is done.”
“So you went there alone?”
“No. I was with some school friends. We were dancing with everyone, drinking with everyone. I remember drinking at the bar with Ricky. He was charming and cute and all. Not too bright, as I recall. But that’s jocks, right?”
I said nothing to that. I gave her the benefit of the doubt that she had forgotten that I had told her I was a baseball player, rather than assuming she didn’t care or put me in the same basket.
“We had a few drinks, and I guess a few more. And then I remember kissing him on some kind of sofa near the dance floor. But honestly, after that, it’s all a bit of a blank. All I know is I had way too much to drink and went way too far with Ricky, because I woke up at home the next day with my clothes still on and one hell of a headache.”
“If you woke up at home with your clothes on, what makes you think you even slept with Ricky Spence?”
Lily shook her head. Like she had earlier, she dropped her gaze down, this time to the aluminum bleacher rather than the ground. It seemed to be a signature move when she was going to say something that she really didn’t want to say.
“I woke up with no underwear. They were gone.” She shook her head again.
“Oh,” was all I could think of to say. “And you were underage?”
“I was eighteen. Oddly, old enough to have sex but not old enough to drink. But that’s high school, right? That’s why we all went to that club. It was pretty much an open secret that you could get served there if you were underage, and I never really knew how they got away with it. I heard stories that they were run by some Mafia guys who had the local police in their pocket. I really don’t know if that was true.”
“I heard the same stories,” I said.
“So it was one of those stupid things you do as you grow up. I guess the best you can hope for is that you live long enough to gain some wisdom. Don’t you think?”
“I do,” I said.
“And there you have it. I had this memory, and I just threw Ricky’s name out at Zed because I don’t want him ripping off Travis’s money.” She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and looked up at me. “Will you tell him?”
“I don’t owe any explanations to Zed, and I don’t want to cause you or your son any problems. I’ve seen money like this tear families apart, trust me. But I will have to tell him that the story has no basis and that he’s not going to see a bean. He might ask you for proof.”
“He doesn’t care enough to do that,” she said. “And if he does, I’ll just tell him to go to hell.”
“And you’re the sole trustee on Travis’s trust?”
“I am.”
“And who was the executor on your uncle’s will?”
“His lawyer.”
“So it really doesn’t matter what Zed says.”
“Except if he convinces Travis that he can have the cash now. I mean, let’s face it, what teenager wouldn’t want to get their hands on some serious money? At best, I’m the mean mom who won’t let him have his fun, and at worst, a court overturns the will, or even appoints Zed co-trustee, or Zed works his way back into Travis’s life and waits for the trust to kick in—anything like that, I can’t protect Travis anymore.”
“So you’re not letting Travis access the money?”
“No, my uncle’s will was explicit. The money is to stay in the trust until Travis turns twenty-one, unless he needs it for extraordinary circumstances. But he doesn’t have any extraordinary circumstances. I pay for everything right now from my share. I’m his mother, that’s my job. He wants for nothing, but he doesn’t get everything. I’m trying to teach him about the value of money before he gets any. Hopefully he’ll be mature enough to handle it by the time he’s twenty-one.”
Let’s hope he’s mature enough when he’s fifty-one, I thought. “Well, I’ll try to put it in such a way that Zed doesn’t just loop straight back around to you and Travis.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
The game was nearing its end, and the parents in the crowd were getting restless. There were Saturday afternoon chores to be done, shopping to finish, laundry to fold. One could only sit in the bleachers at a baseball game in the glorious Las Vegas sunshine for so long. I told Lily that I was sorry if I had caused her any distress and that I was thankful for her time. She nodded and smiled. When it wasn’t fraught with angst, it was a pretty smile.
“Can I ask you something?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
“Your story about your parents dying? Was there any truth to that, or was that just a line to get me to open up?”
“Unfortunately,” I said, “it was all true.”
“Can I ask you something else?”
I nodded.
“How did you do without a father?”
I could see from the sternness in her eyes that it was no throwaway line. It was a serious inquiry, one that I supposed lots of single parents battled with. I could tell she was trying to do the best job possible, and without knowing the real particulars of it, she seemed to be doing pretty well. But despite that, I could see the problem eating at her, the idea that somehow Travis was missing out on something.
“In all honesty, it was a raw deal. But if my experience was anything to go by, I’d say what Travis needs more than a father is a good role model. Good mentors. That’s what I was lucky enough to find, and it’s not making too much of it to say that that’s what saved me.”
“Where do I find them, these mentors?”
I shrugged. “That’s the rub. You don’t. He does. All you can do is steer him in the right direction, try to help him make as few mistakes as possible. It’s the same job as every other parent of a young man. It’s your job to keep him alive long enough for him to become smart enough to keep himself alive.”
Lily nodded and smiled again. “Thank you.”
“But don’t worry so much,” I said. “I have a keen eye for people, and I’m pretty certain whatever happens, you’ll be able to deal with it.”
“Of course I will. I’m a single mom. That’s what single moms do.”
Chapter Seventeen
A gentle round of applause rippled across the bleachers on both sides of the diamond as the game came to a close. The little scoreboard was hidden from our vantage point high up on the end of the bleachers, so I had no idea who won, but I got the sense that it wasn’t really the point. The aluminum bleachers gave off sounds similar to yacht rigging blowing in the wind as people moved out of their seats and down toward the ground. Players met up with their parents and friends and drifted away toward home or a celebratory milkshake.
I had finished talking w
ith Lily Barkin, but I felt no compulsion to leave. Quite the opposite was true. I felt the compulsion to stay. Not because we had more to discuss. Perhaps it was the baseball gods telling me that my business wasn’t done there yet, or perhaps it was the realization that I had never gotten my bleacher alone time when I had found Hohokam Stadium full of spring training fans.
The bleachers were mostly vacated within minutes. I sat and watched the empty diamond and thought briefly about all the clay stains that my mother had washed out, and then Mrs. Dunbar, the wife of my high school coach, and then whoever it was that did the team laundry when I was at college and then in the pros. I realized that baseball players got dirty pretty often but seemed to do very little laundry for themselves. I wasn’t sure what to read into that thought, other than to thank the people who had done the work, but unfortunately I didn’t know who they were, except for my mother, who wasn’t around to thank, and Mrs. Dunbar, and I had already had the chance to thank her.
Lily Barkin wasn’t looking at the diamond. She was watching her son collect his gear and mess around with his friends in the dugout cage. One of the coaches hefted a large equipment bag on his shoulder and walked out along the base of the bleachers until he got behind home plate, where he cut toward the back, in the direction of the batting cages. Some of the kids followed him. Travis Barkin was one of them, until he got directly below where his mother and I sat. He strode up the bleachers by walking on the seats, a personal bugbear of mine, but I said nothing. Travis stopped two seats below us, so he was at my eye level while I was still sitting.
He was giving me the evil eye. I had been given the evil eye a lot during my life, so I knew it well. Lots of batters had given me the evil eye when they had come to the plate, and a few had ratcheted it up a notch when I had almost hit them with one of my fastballs. Even in the private investigator game, I got the evil eye more often than was necessary. I got it from crooks, and witnesses, and even cops. I never got it at Longboard Kelly’s, and maybe that was part of the attraction. But I was getting it now. Teenagers have their own unique way of giving adults the evil eye. It’s an intense focus of simmering anger overlaid with an air of complete and utter disinterest. Showing the world that you didn’t care when you clearly did was a tough act to pull off.
Travis Barkin might have convinced himself, and he might have convinced his friends, but he wasn’t convincing me. He cared plenty, and the borderline snarl on his lips suggested contempt bordering on hatred, emotions that I hadn’t felt I had earned at this point.
Once his evil eye had done its work, Travis turned to his mother. He dropped the snarl but not the disaffected attitude.
“Some of the guys are gonna do some practice,” he said. “Can I stay?”
“You need me to pick you up?”
“No, Dean’s dad will drop me home.”
Lily nodded. “Okay, sure. You need some money for lunch?”
“No, I’ll eat when I get home.”
“Okay, sweetie. I’ll see you later.”
I thought the end of the conversation would be Travis’s cue to leave, but I was wrong. He simply reverted his attention back to me. The simmering hatred thing was gone—it was a tough act to keep up for long—but he looked at me as if I were clay stuck in his cleats, an annoyance that could be fixed with some balance and a stick.
Lily Barkin stood and looked down at me. “It’s been interesting,” she said.
“That it has,” I replied. “Thank you for your time. I wish you all the best.”
I thought she was about to say something more. Her mouth opened, then stopped, then closed. She looked at me for a moment or two, then she nodded and moved out onto the bleacher steps. She touched her son on his shoulder as she walked by and then continued on her way without looking back.
I watched her go, all the way to the ground and then around the bleachers and out of my view, back toward her Audi. Only then did I glance back at Travis. He was still looking at me, and it took a fair effort on my part not to smirk.
“You looked good out there,” I said.
“Yeah.”
We held each other’s gaze for a while before Travis spoke again. “My mom doesn’t need some loser boyfriend,” he said. “And I don’t need some faker dad.”
“Good. But I’m not either of those things.”
“Then why are you here? Sitting with my mom?”
“I just needed some information from her. That’s all.”
“What information?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“I’ll decide what concerns me.”
I could see the independent streak of a fatherless boy. I knew the attitude well. The clipped speech, the slack but ready stance.
“I misspoke,” I said. “What I meant was, it’s none of your damn business, so I’m not telling you squat.”
The kid didn’t recoil at my words, but I could see he was shocked to be spoken to so directly.
“You won’t get in with my mom talking to me like that.”
“Well, fortunately, I’m not trying to get in with your mom.”
Travis kept on trying to stare me down, and he was okay at it, but I was a master. Not because I had any more inherent talent; I just had decades of practice. I heard the sound of bat hitting ball in the distance and figured Travis’s friends were getting in their training over at the batting cages. The kid picked up on it, too, and I saw his head cock like a spaniel on the hunt. I noted that his uniform was fairly clean. Pitchers generally tried to avoid diving around in the clay. That’s what infielders were for. He played a good, hard game, but he didn’t look done in. I remembered similar fields in my own youth, playing as many games as I could, sometimes two a day, and then spending any and all spare time I had in the cages, throwing and throwing and throwing.
“You’re practicing after the game?”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“Don’t overdo it. Your arm needs to work out, but it needs to rest, too.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my arm.”
“Not yet.”
The kid puffed out his chest like a superhero in training. “What does that mean?”
“It means right now, your tendons stretch like Twizzlers and your muscles are like putty. But soon you’ll grow and get stronger, and if you’re not careful they’ll stiffen, and then it’ll be too late. Stretching is key, and rest is just as important as practice.”
“Getting my change-up right is more important than rest.”
I wasn’t sure he’d meant to say it. It was an admission of a fault, a weakness. I saw him gulp as if he regretted letting me see through the cracks in his armor. But it was a good sign. A kid who didn’t think his game needed any work ended up nowhere. Those who papered over their weaknesses and worked like hell on their strengths were the ones who went all the way.
“You’re right about that,” I said.
The attitude returned. “You a smart guy?”
“Not at all. But you’re holding it wrong, is all.”
“What do you know?”
I thought about shrugging it off, telling him I knew nothing and he should go find his buddies and his coach and do whatever is that he was going to do. But the baseball gods had dragged me to the edge of mankind’s domain, and I wondered if this was the reason why. So I did what I preferred not to do and pulled out my resume.
“I used to play,” I said, nodding toward the baseball diamond. “Six years in the pros.”
I saw the kid frown. “You were in the majors?”
“For a while. And I can show you how to hold it, if you want.”
“You a pitcher?”
I nodded.
“With who?”
“Oakland. I was in the squad with Zito, Mulder, Duchscherer.”
I didn’t feel like it was going to help my cause too much to expand on my story, to talk about the minor-league days and the fact that I never got out of the bullpen during my time with the A’s.
The kid
jutted his chin as though willing to grant me an audience. “All right, then, let’s see if you’re all talk.”
Chapter Eighteen
I stood and moved out to the steps, and Travis bounced down across the seats to the ground. I ambled down, in no hurry whatsoever, and then followed him over to the batting cages.
It was a decent setup, for a school. There were two cages where kids were pitching at other kids. There were two more cages with pitching machines, and a coach was directing a couple of kids to do what came very unnaturally—not trying to hit the ball. There were two more cages with small mounds at one end and what looked like gymnasium mats tied up at the other. The mats had a batter painted on them. I assumed these were for practicing the pitching variations without risking the life of a child at the other end. It was a smart play. Learning a new pitch meant tossing a lot of bad throws.
I figured a strange guy wandering over with one of the kids would draw the eye of the responsible adults in the area, so I went over to one of the coaches and mentioned that I was a friend of Lily Barkin’s, and I was just gonna show Travis how to hold a pitch or two. The guy gave me a welcoming smile while also looking me up and down, checking me out, then he gave me a definitive nod and returned to helping a kid learn not to choke the bat.
We walked over to one of the vacant pitching cages, and Travis grabbed a ball from a ball bag.
“What’s your favorite pitch?” I asked.
Travis tossed the ball to himself. “Fastball.”
“Two seam or four seam?”
“I don’t care. I just like to throw hard.”
“Then you might want to get some tickets for your family to sit in the outfield bleachers, because that’s where a lot of your balls are gonna go.”
Travis’s disdain reappeared on his face. “What are you talking about, man? You going to show me something or what?”
The Ninth Inning Page 12