The Man For Me

by Gemma Bruce

  She’d have to look into things more carefully. There was definitely a story here. Human interest galore.

  And if Skinny didn’t want it—once he finished reaming her for missing the story of the year. Well hell, it might get picked up by the Beaver County Times.

  J.T. sat through the morning drills, though it was painful to watch. Tommy’s presence had buoyed the players. Having a major league player in the stands was bound to put everyone on their mettle. There was always the chance he’d put in a word for them.

  It wasn’t that they were trying less. They were probably not even aware of it. But J.T. was. She watched practice with half her concentration. She had things to do. Places to go. People to interrogate.

  When the team broke for lunch, she told Bernie she was taking the afternoon off. At first he looked relieved, then suspicious.

  She patted his arm. “I’m going to the mall.”

  She drove back to the Night n Day. Changed into her black pantsuit. Traded her Nikes for black pumps. Checked the batteries in her tape recorder and put in a new tape. She threw a new notebook in her purse just for good measure. Took her empty briefcase out from under the bed, scooped up the local Yellow Pages, and she was ready to rock ’n’ roll.

  Her first stop was the Gilbeytown Record. The Record office was in a one-story brick building in what had once been a small industrial park, but which had a chain blocking the driveway. Not to be deterred, J.T. locked the Mustang and walked around the chain. She found the offices right away. The windows were boarded over. She went back to the car. Called directory assistance. She should have known. The number was no longer in service.

  That meant a drive to Bridgewater and the Allegheny Times. They at least had a website; she could get to the archives on her laptop, but she couldn’t talk to the reporters who’d covered the story. If there was a story.

  She called directory assistance, then connected to the Allegheny Times. They were open. She would be given access to the archives. They gave her the address, she put it into her GPS, and she was on the news trail.

  She perused the few articles, took copious notes, and asked questions of the people she found in the newspaper offices. Anything to keep her mind off what she was coming to think of as Tommy’s betrayal.

  There wasn’t that much to work with. The mayor, Charlie Wiggins, had been reelected on his promises of bringing new prosperity to Gilbeytown. She knew that already. How he proposed to do this was a little vague, but included a little league field and a new ballpark to replace the old one. Obviously a baseball fan, Charlie Wiggins. His opponent had even less of a platform—a sort of more of the same policy as far as J.T. could tell from the few quotes she found.

  The mayor had managed to build the flashy little league field. But surely there were more important issues than baseball in a town that needed serious rejuvenation.

  The land for the little league fields had been claimed by eminent domain. Blocks of old mill housing had been razed. No information on whether the houses had been occupied at the time, and if they had been, where those residents had been moved.

  And then she found an item that set alarm bells clanging. The plan to build a new ballpark in order to attract a minor league team rested on acquiring the steel mill and surrounding property. The new stadium would be built on the mill property and Gilbey Field would be razed for a parking lot. Wiggins must have gotten his idea from the Yankee Stadium plans.

  And what about the people who lived in those surrounding houses? The newcomers could probably absorb the extra taxation, but people like Grace and her husband, Harriett and Hank, the Aguzzis and the Plaskis could little afford it.

  And for a few minutes, J.T. Green forgot about Tommy Bainbridge, Skinny Martin, and even her dreams for making it in big league sports journalism.

  This was the real story. A story about people struggling to keep their way of life. To keep a team that might not win championships, but who’d been there for them through the years. And the story of someone or several someones intent on destroying their team.

  She began looking for articles on the accidents. Found a buried mention of the fire that had scorched the outside wall of the Beavers offices. Unknown vandals. The mugging. Unknown assailant. No follow-up investigations. Convenient.

  The chronic bad luck of the Beavers took on new dimensions. Tommy was no fool and neither was she, except when it came to Tommy B. She was fairly certain someone was helping to hurry the team’s demise.

  By the time she left the Times offices, it was too late to go back to the ball field. And she still had more research to do before she interviewed the mayor and the sheriff. But she might make visiting hours at the hospital.

  Sanchez was awake, but listless, when she walked into his room carrying a balloon on a stick and a few candy bars from the gift shop in the lobby. There hadn’t been much to choose from, and she was a little embarrassed not to have thought of stopping at the mall on her way back from Bridgewater.

  But the brief smile Sanchez gave her before lapsing back into lethargy was worth it. She put the things down on the bedside table and kissed his cheek.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine, Miss. Gracias.” But he didn’t look fine.

  “The team misses you,” she said. Actually no one had mentioned him since they were all full of Tommy’s retirement. But she knew they would have otherwise. “They said to tell you to hurry back.”

  She hoped the little lie would cheer him up, but it had the opposite response. Sanchez’s eyes grew shiny with unshed tears. “I will be missing the game.”

  J.T. patted his shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry. But there will be other games.”

  Sanchez shook his head once and turned his face away.

  “Sure there will. You just need to get well.”

  She sat quietly for a few seconds then asked, “Enrique, do you remember anything about the night you were hit?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You remember me visiting you that night?”

  He looked vague. Probably not. “When I asked you about the car, you said Magica.”

  “It came from the dark.”

  There were no streetlights on that patch of road, but the lights of the bar and the motel gave adequate light for seeing. Perhaps he was so intent on getting to the Giant Eagle that he hadn’t paid attention.

  “Tell me about it.”

  His eyebrows dipped below the white bandage as if he was having a hard time recalling. “I stopped to look for traffic. And started across the road. It came from the dark.”

  “Toward town or going in the opposite direction?”

  “Away from the town.”

  “Was it speeding?”

  “It speeded toward me. I couldn’t run.” J.T. frowned. She wanted to be careful not to ask leading questions. “Tell me.”

  “From the dark.”

  “Down the road?”

  Sanchez shook his head. “From the trees.”

  Trees? There was a patch of undeveloped land on both sides of the bar.

  “Out of the parking lot?”

  “No. No.” He groped the air. “El brujo.”

  The witch.

  “He send it to kill me.” Sanchez crossed himself and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Who sent it?”

  “No sabe. But he made it and speed it to me. I tried to move, but it come after me. Chases me.”

  He was becoming agitated and J.T. patted his arm. “It’s okay, Enrique. You’re safe now.”

  Sanchez shook his head and fumbled at the bedside table. J.T. found his rosary and handed it to him.

  He gripped it tightly in his fingers. “It will find me.”

  “No,” she said. “You’re safe now.”

  An announcement interrupted her. Visiting hours were over. “You rest. I’ll come back tomorrow. You’re safe here.”

  But Sanchez was either asleep or deep in prayer, for he didn’t answer. She tiptoed away.

  As test
imony, it wasn’t conclusive. Difficult to separate the fact from the superstition. But it sure sounded to her like someone had been waiting in the trees for Sanchez—or someone else—to come out of the bar.

  And if that was so, someone was going to pay.

  Chapter 15

  It was late when Tommy finally got to his hotel room. He was exhausted from smiling, from pretending like his world wasn’t splintering into a thousand pieces.

  The first thing he did was call, not his family or Bernie, but the Night n Day. J.T. didn’t answer, so he left a message with Harriett to have her call his cell. Stupid that he didn’t have her cell number. He hadn’t even thought about it until he was on the plane.

  He used the hotel room phone to call his family—just in case J.T. called him back. His mother answered. Gran and Grace listened from the extensions. They sounded stunned, not more so than Tommy. Of course they supported his decision. Couldn’t wait to see him. Was he coming back to Gilbeytown some time soon?

  He could hear the attempt to not appear overanxious in his mother’s voice. She never pressed him to visit, because she didn’t want him to feel constrained by their needs. But she didn’t fool him.

  They’d be glad to know that he was planning to stay in Gilbeytown. At least a lot of the time. He was going to live in Gran’s house. He’d saved more money than was decent. He could do anything and go anywhere he wanted. And he wanted to go home.

  His shoulder wasn’t the only part of Tommy that was shot. He was lonely. Surrounded by teammates he liked. Thousands of adoring fans. And Tommy B. was lonely.

  He hung up and called J.T. again, which was stupid. She’d hardly had time to call him back. Then he called Bernie. He let him rant for a while. Then show concern. And finally wind down to, “Whatever you want, Tommy. I’m behind you one hundred percent.”

  Then Tommy asked about J.T.

  “Jesus Christ on a crutch,” said Bernie. “She was as shocked as the rest of the guys. Saw it right here in the media room. Then she got pissed. Couldn’t believe you’d give up. Isotori or no Isotori. That girl’s got some kind of fire.”

  Tommy smiled. She sure did and he wanted more.

  “Then she says you told her the team was being sabotaged. Ragged on me all morning.”

  Tommy’s smile stretched into a grin, but his heart squeezed a little tighter.

  “Asked a bunch of stupid questions, left after lunch and didn’t come back.”

  Tommy’s grin faded and his stomach turned over.

  “Looks like you were right. She was following you and she didn’t get the story. I don’t envy her. She was a pain in the butt, but the guys took to her and Skinny’ll have her head.”

  “Shit.” Tommy hadn’t considered how Skinny’s reaction would affect J.T.’s career. He’d been too wrapped up in himself. He’d make it right. Somehow. If he could just talk to her.

  “Listen. I called the Night n Day, but she wasn’t there. And she hasn’t returned my calls.”

  “I expect she’s on her way home.”

  “No,” Tommy said without thinking.

  “What? You wanted me to get rid of her. Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for her.”

  “No. I just…” Tommy didn’t go on. He just what? Wanted to see her again? Wanted to see her a lot of agains. “If you do see her, tell her I really need to talk to her.”

  “Yeah, but don’t hold your breath.” Bernie broke off. “You know, son, you sound like…you’re not…nah. I’m crazy right? You’re not…you know…”

  Tommy was afraid he was. After six long years of playing the field in more ways than one, he’d found love in his own hometown. He stomped down on that revelation. You couldn’t trust your feelings when your life was in upheaval. He’d known her a week—and she was all he thought about.

  His family liked her. Grace had called him the next morning to pump him for info. His mother had called and told him to bring her again. Gran piped in with, “She’s cute as a button and you watch your manners.”

  He’d made love to her on the new media room couch and left without a good-bye.

  He was so fucked.

  “Listen, Bernie, just do me a favor. If she comes in, be sure she calls my cell. I’ve got interviews and photo ops all day tomorrow, but tell her to call me.” He hung up. He wondered if Bernie realized that he’d never answered his question.

  He looked at the clock. It was after eleven. He couldn’t bother Harriett again tonight. He took a shower, downed two extra-strength Bufferin, and took his cell phone to bed.

  He was walking down a highway. Mowed fields stretched out to each side for as far as he could see. Whatever grasses had grown there were lying dry on the ground. He was thirsty, but there was no stream, no irrigation ditch, no rain. Just miles of parched grass.

  He heard his name. Turned around. J.T. stood watching him from the distance. “Come back.”

  “No. Come with me.” He pointed to the horizon. When he turned back, she was gone. He was lying in his grandmother’s house, naked and pumping himself into a naked woman. He couldn’t see her face. But she felt like J.T.

  She scored his back with her nails. It hurt and felt incredibly wonderful all at the same time. He pushed up to see her face but no one was there.

  Then he was running naked down the highway. Only it wasn’t the highway but the main drag of Portland. People were standing along the sidewalk and he realized that he wasn’t alone. It was a parade with floats made of flowers. In front of him, girls dressed in antebellum dresses waved at the crowd.

  Behind him, a tulip smokestack wafting carnation smoke rose over a chrysanthemum factory with the word Industry spelled out in red roses.

  “What have you done?” J.T.’s voice. She was one of the girls on the float, dressed in a light green ruffled dress. She moved her hand in one of those queenly waves people on floats always used. She was smiling. But not at him.

  Tommy bolted upright, panting. He was covered in cold sweat. It was three o’clock.

  He’d just had an anxiety dream. God. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a common occurrence.

  He lay back down, willing himself to get a few more hours of sleep. He refused to look closely at the dream. He knew dreams rarely meant what they seemed to be about. But meant something else entirely. Fine. He didn’t want to know. If he didn’t think about it, it would go away and when he awoke again, he wouldn’t remember a thing.

  He pulled the covers up and stared at the ceiling. He wished he could just go home, but he’d told management that he’d stick around for a few days for more interviews and photo sessions. They didn’t want to be skewered in the press for shoving out their best and most popular pitcher.

  He’d even promised to come back and throw out the first pitch at Isotori’s debut.

  The phone woke him at eight o’clock. He snatched at it. “Hello.”

  A recorded voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Bainbridge. It is eight o’clock.”

  He hung up and rolled off the bed, groping for his cell phone. He punched in the numbers of the Night n Day.

  Harriett answered. “Hank stuck both your messages under her door last night. Yeah, she came back last night. No she hasn’t checked out. I’ll tell her when I see her. Why don’t you just come on back and talk to her yourself?”

  “I will,” said Tommy. “Thanks.” He showered, shaved, and dressed, and went downstairs to wait for the limo to pick him up. He was in makeup at the local station at ten o’clock. At eleven he gave a lengthy interview to the local CBS affiliate to be aired nationally that night along with one by Daituri Isotori and the team manager.

  When he and the team entourage arrived at a local steak house, a sea of cameras filmed him giving the Japanese ballplayer tips on the salad bar and how to order a steak. Isotori smiled and nodded. Tommy doubted if he understood half the things being said to him even though his interpreter never left his side.

  Back in the limo again, he called Bernie. “No, she hasn’t showed up. You
’re beginning to worry me. It’s not that big of a deal. She knows the business, I’ll hand her that. She understands how these deals are played. Now, relax. Yeah, I’ll tell her.”

  But even though Tommy checked his cell every time he had a chance, he never found her name in his voice mail. No message, but J.T.’s silence was speaking loud and clear. And he began to fear that more than his career had ended with his announcement the day before.

  J.T. tore another message to call Tommy into little pieces and tossed them into the wastepaper basket with the first two. She was still smarting from the reaming she’d gotten from Skinny.

  “You were sitting on this story for a week and didn’t break it? If he shows up again, you damn better get an exclusive. If not, I don’t care who your father is. You’re fired.

  “Got it? Nothing sweet. We don’t do sweet. We do sports. And get it before it’s old news.”

  Before Tommy was no news, she thought.

  “I’m sorry, kid. But maybe you just aren’t cut out for this business.” He hung up.

  J.T. closed her phone. She’d almost lost her job, had definitely lost her self-esteem—again. And she was afraid, maybe lost her heart. She pushed that thought aside. Tommy Bainbridge was a conniving, lying, evasive egotist. She was better off without him. Not that you ever had him, you dope. Just another baseball Annie in a line of hundreds, thousands. It didn’t matter.

  The tear that oozed out of her eye was from anger—not anything else.

  Instead of going to the ballpark that morning, she drove to the police station. Not that she thought a conspiracy against the Gilbeytown Beavers would set the presses on fire. But it was all she had. And if she was going to save her career, she’d make it work.

  The Gilbeytown police station was a square stone building. A double set of stone steps led up to an arched foyer that was painted in bureaucratic beige.

  She showed her press card, asked to see the police reports for the mugging, the hit-and-run, and the arson. And learned nothing she didn’t already know. Pisano hadn’t seen who hit him. No suspects in the torching of the Beavers office. Nothing at all on the hit-and-run. Probably hadn’t gotten around to filing it yet. There wasn’t even a report on the burst pipe. She wasn’t surprised.