Green Monster

by Rick Shefchik

  “This is a fantastic house,” Sam said, looking to get the conversation started.

  “Everyone loves it.” Katherine’s words and breaths were measured. “We looked for two years…before finding this place. I wish I never had to leave.”

  Sam didn’t know what to say to that. Katherine’s condition seemed worse than it had the previous night. She wore a shawl over her shoulders and a blanket across her lap, despite the moderate morning temperature. While Sam was wondering how to sound consoling without conveying pity, Katherine reached under the blanket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  Paul returned with coffee and the pistol. He placed the silver coffee tray and the gun—a Beretta Bobcat—on the end table between Sam and Katherine, and pulled a light out of his pocket and lit Katherine’s cigarette. Then he walked back into the house.

  “Want one?” she asked as she inhaled.

  “No, thanks. Does Lou know you’re still smoking?”

  “Of course. He has Paul buy them for me.”

  “You didn’t smoke last night.”

  “Fenway is smoke-free, my dear.”

  “Even for the owner’s wife?”

  “We must set a good example.”

  “Does your doctor know?”

  “Don’t judge…until you’re sitting where I’m sitting,” Katherine said. She took another draw and then slowly exhaled. “I haven’t got much left…besides these. What about you? What are your bad habits?”

  “I like a stiff drink, but I don’t like being drunk. I haven’t touched drugs since college. It’s a control thing, I guess.”

  “Not much, as far as failings go.”

  “I’ve got a temper. I got rough with some of the worst assholes when I was a cop—just because it made me feel better. I let the job get to me sometimes.”

  “Ever marry?”

  “No,” Sam said. “Close once. Probably would have been a bad idea.”

  “That’s been a while.”

  “Yeah. It has.”

  “Are you the workaholic type, Mr. Skarda?”

  “Not exactly. I could let it go when I wasn’t on duty. I played a lot of golf.”

  He smiled at that, and so did Katherine.

  “So I’ve heard,” she said. “You played varsity at Dartmouth.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Lou had you checked out.”

  “By Heather?”

  “Isn’t she a dear?”

  Sam was on dangerous ground now. It would only be natural for Katherine to harbor some resentment toward her husband’s pretty young assistant—after all, that’s where Katherine came in. But she might not be pleased to suspect that Sam was having sex with her, either. Lou, Katherine, Heather, and Sam were supposedly the only four who knew what was going on, and the loyalties seemed to be divided on all sides.

  “She has her good qualities,” Sam said.

  Katherine laughed and changed the subject.

  “So, how on earth did a Dartmouth man become a police officer?”

  “My dad was a Minneapolis cop.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She was a junior high music teacher.”

  “Interesting combination. I assume you’re musical.”

  “Guitar, a little piano.”

  “Could you play something on our piano? It never gets used anymore.”

  “If there’s time. What about you? What’s your background?”

  Katherine told him that she was born and raised in Boston, an Irish-Catholic girl—Katy Kelly, in those days—whose father was a lawyer and whose mother stayed at home and raised seven kids. All of them lived and died with the Red Sox. She’d gone to Wellesley, did some modeling after college, and eventually got into retail. She took a job as a buyer with Kenwood Companies, and moved into the corporate office when Lou was still acquiring his fortune. Her family disapproved when Lou divorced his wife to marry Katherine, and they didn’t really come around until Lou bought the Red Sox. Then all was forgiven.

  “What’s your take on the extortion plot?” Sam asked.

  He studied Katherine’s face while she thought of a way to answer. Lou was almost too emotional about his team to analyze the situation clearly. He doubted that Katherine’s mind was similarly clouded.

  “I take it at face value…until I find out otherwise,” Katherine said. Her breathing was becoming shorter. “We weren’t supposed to even get to the Series. Nobody ever thought we’d sweep. It was exciting, but I remember thinking…that it was almost too good to be true. I guess this doesn’t really surprise me.”

  “Why not? Nobody’s tried to fix a World Series for ninety years.”

  “As far as you know, Sam. And if it’s really been that long…another one was overdue, don’t you think?”

  “But the Black Sox fix was about a cheap owner and underpaid players. That’s not what’s happening here.”

  She took a drag on her cigarette, snuffed it out in the ashtray that Paul had brought out with the coffee, and wheeled her chair toward the open side of the porch.

  “Let’s go out here in the sunlight,” she said. “I’ve spent 70 years protecting my skin. I don’t think I need…to worry about that anymore.”

  Sam followed her to the sunlit deck overlooking the sloping emerald lawn and the ocean. Katherine lit another cigarette and turned to look at Sam.

  “My father told me the whole story…about the 1919 World Series,” she said. “Comiskey was a short-sighted miser. He low-balled his players every year at contract time…even though they were the best team in the league. There was no free agency. He didn’t pay them because he didn’t have to. It wasn’t hard for the gamblers to find eight fools…willing to risk their careers for some extra cash. Ballplayers always grab for the easy money. I haven’t met one yet who thinks more about his legacy…than the size of his house.”

  “Money keeps a lot of people from seeing the big picture.”

  “They were all suspended for life. Don’t you think every one of them would have given the money back…if they could have stayed in baseball?”

  “Sure, but they knew Comiskey was screwing them.”

  “They also knew throwing games was wrong, but they got greedy,” Katherine said. She paused to inhale from her cigarette, then coughed. “Just because we’re paying the Ivan Hurtados of the world $15,000,000 a year to play baseball…doesn’t mean we’ve wiped out greed.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “It’s in man’s nature to want more. And it’s especially in a pro athlete’s nature. That’s how they judge themselves…by how much more money they’re making than the other players. It will never change.”

  “I haven’t noticed many owners worrying about their legacy, either,” Sam said. “Most of them just want to squeeze every dime out of the franchise.”

  “I know,” Katherine said. “I don’t want that to be our legacy. When we’re gone, I want people to remember the Kenwoods as the best owners Boston ever had.”

  “You’re on your way. Two World Championships…”

  “That’s not what I mean. What good does all our money do…if we simply become the new Yankees…buying the next Japanese star…or the next Cuban defector? I’ve been talking to Lou…about establishing a foundation…or charitable trust.”

  “Like the Yawkeys?”

  “Something like that. Something that will help people…after we’re gone. That’s how I want to be remembered.”

  Katherine’s watery blue eyes did not waver from Sam’s.

  “The opposite of Charles Comiskey,” he said.

  “Comiskey was hated by his players, and he hated them. Lou loves his players…and he’s sure they love him. This would kill him if it turns out to be true.”

  Sam believed her. Kenwood struck him as the kind of guy who could technically own other human beings and still convince himself that the bond between them was about love, loyalty, and mutual respect, rather
than money.

  “What about you?” Sam asked. “Do you love the players?”

  “I love the Red Sox.”

  Sam gazed beyond the sun-splashed deck to the glittering ocean. If it weren’t for Katherine’s oxygen hose, the Kenwoods would have seemed the most fortunate people on the face of the earth.

  “Why do you want me to show you how to shoot a gun?” Sam asked. “You seem pretty safe here.”

  “I didn’t want to say this in front of Lou…when we were in the suite,” Katherine said. She leaned closer to Sam. “Odd things have been happening. I’m afraid someone wants to kill me.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I’ve had strange phone calls. Hang-ups, when Lou isn’t home.”

  “Probably telemarketers.”

  “No, it’s more than that. Paul can tell you. Someone ran a red light, almost hit us on our way into town last weekend. If Paul hadn’t seen him coming…and slammed on the brakes…”

  “What happened to the other car?”

  “It sped away.”

  “Anything else?”

  “There was a gas leak…in the basement a few days ago.”

  “Who noticed it?”

  “One of the boys from the lawn service.”

  “Maybe he caused it.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But with this extortion note…I just don’t feel safe. Somebody is coming after us. I want to be able to protect myself. Now, how about that shooting lesson?”

  “We can’t do it here.”

  “Of course not. We’ll do it out there.”

  She pointed to the ocean.

  “Paul, would you bring the car around?” Katherine called. “We’re ready to go to the yacht club.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It took Paul five minutes to get Katherine out of the house and into the car, and three minutes to drive to the yacht club, on the bay side of The Neck. They parked among the Jaguars, Cadillacs, and Chrysler 300s, passed through the weathered old clubhouse, built in 1895, and boarded The Katy K, a 55-foot mahogany and teak Chris Craft Constellation built in 1961 and renamed by Kenwood when he bought it in 1980. A special hydraulic ramp lifted Katherine in her wheelchair from the dock to the deck of the yacht.

  “We used to have…lots of parties on this boat,” Katherine said. “The last one was right after last year’s World Series.”

  She looked off to the horizon as Paul skippered the boat out of the bay, past dozens of anchored sailboats and cruisers, and into open water. In less than a half hour, the coastline was barely visible, several miles in the distance.

  “I’m sure this is far enough, Paul,” Sam said.

  He stood up and turned Katherine’s wheelchair around to face over the stern. There were no other boats in sight—just a few seagulls. He picked up the Beretta that she had brought with her. It was a small semi-automatic with an eight-round magazine for .25 caliber cartridges, a favorite among women for personal protection. It fit Katherine’s hand well, and it was probably the biggest gun she was capable of handling.

  “It’s a nice gun,” Sam said. “I don’t think it’s got much of a kick. You might be able to get a few shots off with it.”

  “Well, let’s see,” she said.

  Sam pointed to a darkened spot on the water about 30 feet from the stern of the gently rocking boat and told her to aim for that. He had her place the fingers of her left hand in front of her right hand for a two-fisted grip, and told her to extend her arms and squeeze the trigger slowly. When the gun discharged, Katherine’s hands recoiled upward and her chair rolled backward several inches. He looked at her to see if she was hurt or frightened, but the look on her face was one of determination mixed with satisfaction.

  “I did it,” she said. “I put that bullet right where you told me to.”

  “Not bad,” Sam said.

  “I want to do it again.”

  “We’d better set the brake on your chair. I don’t want to have to fish you out of the ocean.”

  Katherine fired ten more shots, each of them fairly close to the target Sam had picked out for her, before her hands and arms began to tire. The big cruiser was riding smoothly on the gently rolling waves, but Sam was nevertheless impressed with her marksmanship. He showed her how to remove and insert the magazine, and made sure she knew where the safety was.

  “Did you bring your gun?” Katherine asked him.

  “Yes.”

  Sam took out his Glock 23 from the holster under his jacket and handed it to Katherine.

  “It’s heavier than mine,” she said.

  “More stopping power.”

  She handed the gun back to him, and he fired three quick rounds into the ocean, the splashes kicking up in a tight pattern. He hadn’t fired the gun since that spring, in Georgia. As he lowered the Glock and continued to gaze at the spot in the water where his bullets had disappeared, Katherine noticed the look in his eyes.

  “You’ve killed someone with that gun…haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Katherine was quiet for a moment, then said, “Is my gun powerful enough?”

  “For what?”

  “To kill a person…with one shot?”

  “If you put the bullet in the right place, it is. Besides, I don’t think you could handle anything bigger. Better to hit someone two or three times with a small gun than miss with a big one.”

  Paul had begun to turn the big Chris Craft around when Sam noticed a boat coming at them from behind, kicking up a wake. It looked like one of the high-performance ski boats he often saw on White Bear Lake, maybe a 25-footer, with a V-hull and a big MerCruiser engine, possibly 350-horse. There was one person visible in the boat—and he appeared to be heading directly for the Katy K.

  “Do you recognize that boat?” Sam asked Katherine. She turned to look where Sam was pointing.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said.

  Sam continued to watch as the boat closed the gap, then changed course slightly to pass the Katy K on the starboard side. If the guy at the wheel was just out for a jaunt in the open water, he was coming way too close to their space. Sam put his hand on the butt of his Glock and pushed Katherine’s wheelchair away from the stern rail and toward the steering column, which was protected by the boat’s gunwales. As he turned back to look at the speeding inboard, the man in the boat picked up a submachine gun from the seat next to him and pointed it at the Katy K. Bullets riddled the side of the big cabin cruiser, chipping away at the wood and fiberglass.

  Sam dived for Katherine’s wheelchair and pulled it over on its side as she screamed and fell onto the deck. He pushed her over to the stairs that led below, and Paul lowered her down to the lower level by her arms. When the gunfire ceased, Sam crawled to the stern and peered over the railing. The inboard was doing a fast, tight circle around the Katy K and coming around again from the port side. Once again the machine gun spat fire and bullets thudded into the boat’s gunwales. Sam could see the man at the controls of the inboard—a dark-haired white guy wearing a black nylon jacket and blue jeans. He was a good 40 feet from the Katy K, but Sam was sure he’d never seen the man before.

  “Sam…what’s happening?” Katherine gasped from below deck.

  “Somebody’s trying to kill us,” Sam said. “Stay down there!”

  Paul scrambled to the steering wheel and crouched behind it.

  “What should I do?” he asked Sam. “Make a run for it?”

  “We’d be sitting ducks. Hold it steady. If he gets close enough, I might be able to take him out.”

  The inboard was circling behind the yacht, and the man at the controls fired off more rounds over and into the yacht as he tried to steer his boat. He put the gun down to turn his boat to the left and come closer to the Katy K. The gunman pushed the throttle open again, and as the outboard gained speed he raised the submachine gun. Sam braced his gun on the railing and fired at the man. The shot missed, and the gunman veer
ed the boat sharply to the right when he heard the sound of Sam’s shot. He opened the throttle and sped out to sea, but when he was well out of range, he turned the boat and began to circle back toward the Katy K.

  “He’s coming back,” Sam said. “Paul, go below and check on Katherine. Then get her gun and take the port side. I’ll go to starboard.”

  “This is starboard.”

  “So I’m not nautical. Get the goddamn gun.”

  Sam crawled on his stomach to the other side of the boat and waited. Then he heard Paul’s voice calling to him from below deck.

  “Sam! Katherine’s been hit!”

  “I’m all right,” Katherine called, in a weak voice. “Never mind…about me.”

  Sam had no choice. The inboard was approaching the Katy K again from the starboard side, and Paul wasn’t there to hold off the gunman. Sam heard several more rounds rip into the starboard side of the boat as the inboard engine seemed to go into idle. Then he heard the engine engage again, and it sounded like the gunman was coming around the bow to get a look at the port side. Sam was ready for him. He braced his gun on the yacht’s railing, and when the inboard appeared around the bow, Sam fired a shot that shattered the smaller boat’s Plexiglas windshield. The gunman realized he was too close and turned the bow of the inboard toward open water, letting the throttle full out, but as he turned away, Sam fired three more shots. The second and third shots hit the man in the head and back. The inboard shot forward into open water, while the gunman toppled backward into the ocean. He flopped his arms weakly, opened his mouth, and took in crimson saltwater. He eventually stopped moving, and his body disappeared beneath the surface.

  Sam ran to the steps that led to the lower compartment.

  “Katherine, are you all right?”

  He heard her heaving breaths. Paul was already helping her up the stairs, readjusting her oxygen tube.

  “I’m…all…right,” she said between gasping breaths. “The…bastard…just…nicked me.”