Don't Blink

by James Patterson; Howard Roughan

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath,” I said. “He’s well into his thirties by now. Hasn’t pitched in years.”

  “Still, that would explain his wanting to do the interview, right? He comes clean, sets the story straight … It would be his first step toward a comeback,” she said. “Maybe not on the mound, but at least in the public eye, his legacy.”

  “Yeah, so far it’s worked wonders for Pete Rose,” I joked. “Still, if that’s the case, wouldn’t he do a television interview?”

  The words were barely out of my mouth when I had the answer. Dwayne Robinson, the “Great Black Hope from Harlem” and onetime ace southpaw of the Yankees pitching staff, suffered from, among many things, acute social anxiety disorder. Although he could take the mound and pitch brilliantly before fifty-five thousand screaming fans, he could barely carry on a conversation one-on-one. Especially in front of a camera.

  “I forgot one thing,” I said. “The guy was like a walking advertisement for Paxil.”

  “Bingo,” said Courtney. “In fact, Robinson’s agent told me that he’s afraid his client might change his mind. That’s why he’s already set up a lunch for you two, Nick. You and Dwayne, Dwayne and you. Cozy, huh?”

  “When?” I asked, beginning to get more than a little excited about this.

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “Lombardo’s, twelve thirty.”

  “Courtney, I’m in Dubai.”

  “Hopefully not for long, Nick. You have an important lunch tomorrow. In New York.”

  As if on cue the gate attendant approached me. He looked just like Niles Crane from the show Frasier. Weird. “Excuse me, sir, will you be joining us to Paris?” he asked with a slight smirk. “The gate is closing right now.”

  I looked around. Everyone was on the plane already. Everyone but me, that is.

  “Nick, are you there?” asked Courtney. “I need to know if you can do this. Tell me you’re in.”

  Now it was my turn to milk it for a few seconds.

  “Nick? Nick? Are you there? Nick? Damn you — stop playing silly games.”

  “Oh, I’m in,” I said finally. “I’m in.”

  Way over my head, as I’d find out.

  “I never had a doubt,” said Courtney. “You bleed Yankee pinstripes, isn’t that right, Nick?”

  Chapter 6

  TWO FLIGHTS, eight time zones, and twenty exceedingly long hours later, I was finally wheels down at JFK at a little before eleven the next morning. Walking off the plane I felt like a zombie. I probably looked and smelled like one, too.

  There was only one message waiting for me as I ditched the satellite phone for my iPhone. It was Courtney, of course.

  “Lombardo’s. Twelve thirty,” she reminded me. “And don’t be late! This is the big one, Nick. You’ll probably get a book deal out of it. And a film. So don’t blow it, guy.”

  Thanks, boss …

  There are a couple of things I think you need to know about Courtney Sheppard at this point. First, at the relatively young age of thirty-four, she’s the editor in chief of Citizen magazine — the same magazine that in only two short years of existence has defied the odds and done what so many other upstarts will never do. Turn a profit.

  On the heels of editor stints at both Vanity Fair and The Atlantic, Courtney made a formula for success at Citizen by taking those two magazines’ seemingly divergent sensibilities and combining them into one. Smart move. But then again, she’s a smart woman.

  A very pretty one, too. And not particularly impressed with her looks, either.

  Which brings me to another thing you need to know about Courtney Sheppard. On second thought, we’ll get to that information a little later.

  From Kennedy Airport I caught a cab to my apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I live mostly out of my suitcase, and that’s a good thing because my apartment isn’t all that much bigger than one.

  Clearly I’m not in journalism for the money. Who — besides maybe Thomas Friedman of the Times — is? I don’t mean that Friedman doesn’t love what he does, merely that he makes a lot of change doing it.

  Anyway, when I was eleven years old I saw the movie All the President’s Men with my parents. My father loved it because he despised Richard Nixon. Like Pavlov’s dog, he would always blurt out “That crook!” at the mere mention of Nixon’s name.

  My mother was gung ho on the movie as well, but I’m pretty sure her motivation was a crush on Robert Redford. And maybe the young Dustin Hoffman, too?

  My parents had no real intention of having me tag along. I was supposed to stay home under the evil eye of my older sister, Kate. Instead, I smooth-talked them into taking me. “Who knows, maybe I’ll grow up and be a famous news reporter one day,” I said, pleading my case. “I could be another Woodward, another Bernstein.”

  Of course, that was a ripe load of bull. I was only in it for the bucket of popcorn, a Mountain Dew, and maybe some Raisinets if my dad was in a chipper mood.

  But as I sat there in the theater munching and slurping away, something amazing happened. Magical, almost. Up on the screen were two young guys who were on the biggest treasure hunt of their lives, only they were searching for something more valuable than gold or diamonds, or even the Ark of the Covenant. I was only eleven but I got it — and till this day I’ve never wanted to let go.

  They were searching for the truth.

  So even after two flights, eight time zones, and twenty exceedingly long hours, I couldn’t wait to travel a few miles more. I quickly grabbed a hot, then cold, shower and changed into some clean clothes.

  Then it was out the door and back into a cab heading down to 67th Street and Third Avenue.

  At twelve thirty on the dot, I walked into Lombardo’s Steakhouse ready to meet one of the best pitchers and most confounding puzzles ever to play the game of baseball.

  And if I handled everything just right, I’d have the story that a hundred other writers around New York would kill for. Dwayne Robinson, what really happened that night you were supposed to pitch the seventh game of the World Series? Why didn’t you show up at the ballpark?

  How could you break so many hearts, including my own?

  Chapter 7

  “JUST ONE SECOND, SIR,” I was told after giving the hostess at Lombardo’s my name. “I’ll be right back to help you. One second.”

  As she disappeared into the dining room, I leaned forward over her podium to catch a glimpse of the reservation book. When you eat out as much as I do, you get pretty good at reading your name upside down.

  Sure enough, there was “Robinson/Daniels” on a line for twelve thirty. After it was a star.

  The star treatment, perhaps? Not for me, of course. Maybe for Citizen magazine?

  Seconds later, the hostess returned. “We have a nice quiet table reserved for you, Mr. Daniels. Follow me.”

  If you insist.

  She happened to be a very pretty blonde, and as my father’s father, Charles Daniels, used to say right up until his dying day, “If there’s one thing I have a weakness for, it’s pretty blondes. That’s followed very closely by pretty brunettes and pretty redheads.”

  We arrived at a table along the back wall. “What’s your name?” I asked, sitting down.

  “Tiffany,” she answered.

  “Like the pretty blue box?”

  She smiled, her eyes shining like gems. “Exactly.”

  That was for you, Grandpa Charles. Hope you were watching and getting a laugh.

  Tiffany turned, leaving me on my own — and that’s how I remained for the next ten minutes. Then twenty. Then half an hour. What was this all about?

  Thankfully, of all the restaurants in which to be stuck waiting for someone, Lombardo’s Steakhouse ranked near the top, thanks to its truly sublime people watching. It was easy to pass the time counting the Botoxed foreheads or, for the truly cynical, playing Hollywood Hamlet with the tabloid celebrities sprinkled in the mix.

  Rehab or not rehab? That is the question.

&nbs
p; I guess that’s why I had been a little surprised that Dwayne Robinson would agree to meet me here, let alone be the one to actually choose the place.

  Sure, he was as famous as they come in the world of sports. Or maybe infamous was a better word these days. But even way back when he was the toast of New York — make that America — he never would’ve eaten at Lombardo’s. That’s how bad his anxiety disorder was.

  So maybe he’s cured now. Maybe that’s one of the hooks of this interview, that he’s “going public” in more ways than one.

  Or maybe not.

  As I glanced at my watch again, I wondered if perhaps nothing had changed about him and my flying halfway around the planet with barely a minute to spare was all for naught. Dwayne Robinson was now an hour late.

  What’s the deal? Where the hell is he? What an asshole this guy is.

  I rang Courtney, who called me right back after getting in touch with his agent. The agent was equally as baffled, especially since he had confirmed the interview with Dwayne earlier in the morning. Now he couldn’t reach him.

  “I’m so sorry, Nick,” said Courtney.

  “You and me both. Well, at least Robinson hasn’t lost anything over the years. He’s still a no-show. What a chump.”

  After another fifteen minutes, I finally gave up waiting. Dwayne Robinson was officially MIA — just like when he was scheduled to pitch that seventh and deciding game of the World Series and flat-out disappeared.

  All of a sudden I felt like the kid who confronted Shoeless Joe Jackson on the steps of the Chicago courthouse during the Black Sox scandal of 1919.

  Say it ain’t so, Dwayne.

  Say it ain’t so …

  But … it was so.

  And Robinson wasn’t the chump — that would be me.

  Chapter 8

  CALL ME LAZY AND SHIFTLESS, but on the heels of being chased by a gang of bloodthirsty, trigger-happy militiamen, leaping from a speeding Jeep, and flying a gazillion miles for a career-making interview that didn’t happen, I decided to play hooky the next day. I didn’t trek into my office at Citizen magazine nor did I plan to work out of my apartment, something I do from time to time with decent results.

  Instead I spent the morning in bed relaxing with some coffee (cream, no sugar), the New York Times (Sports section first, then Arts, then News in Review), and one of my favorite Elvis Costello albums (My Aim Is True).

  And by records I mean, literally, the record. Nothing against CDs and MP3s, but I’ve yet to hear anything that quite captures the pure sound of a needle against vinyl. So yeah, I’m afraid I’m one of those people, a purist who still swears by his LP collection.

  Anyway, at a little past noon I finally ventured out to my go-to neighborhood eatery, the Sunrise Diner, a few blocks south of my apartment. I was just being served my lunch (cheese omelet, sausage, black coffee) when Courtney called.

  “Where are you?” she asked in a near panic.

  “About to bite into a delish-looking omelet at the Sunrise.”

  “Don’t!” she said. “Step away from those eggs!”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re already late.”

  For what?

  I had no idea what she was talking about. Then it suddenly clicked without her saying another word. “You’re kidding me,” I said.

  “No, I’m not. I just got a call from his agent. Dwayne Robinson is sitting inside Lombardo’s at this very moment waiting for you.”

  “He thought our lunch was today?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t exactly hang around for the excuse,” said Courtney. At least I thought that’s what she said. I was already clicking off the phone.

  “Check, please!”

  “Is anything wrong with the omelet, Nick? I’ll get you another one, honey.”

  “No, no, it looks great, Rosa. I just have to run. Sorry.”

  Luckily I had my shoulder bag with me — the same beat-up brown leather bag I’ve had since I graduated from Northwestern. Tucked inside as always was the one thing I absolutely needed to conduct the interview: my tape recorder. It’s actually a “digital voice recorder,” but thanks to that purist streak in me I’ve yet to get comfortable calling it that. Probably never will.

  Bolting out of the Sunrise, I snagged a cab heading south and offered the driver five dollars for every red light he ignored. Eight minutes and twenty-five dollars later, we were screeching to a halt in front of Lombardo’s.

  For the second day in a row, I was walking into the same bustling steakhouse for lunch. As my favorite Yankee catcher, Yogi Berra, said, “It’s déjà vu all over again.”

  Fittingly, the same hostess — “Tiffany, right?” — was there to greet me. She took the leather jacket I was wearing and led me to the same quiet table in the back.

  And there he was, in the flesh. Dwayne Robinson. The legend. The fallen legend. And definitely the greatest sports mystery ever.

  “I’d just about given up on you,” he said.

  Right back atcha, buddy.

  Chapter 9

  I HONESTLY DIDN’T know what to expect next as I sat down across from him. I knew my job was to be objective, but sometimes it’s pretty hard, if not impossible, to completely shut off your feelings. There had been a time I had revered Dwayne Robinson, but that was ages ago. Now he was just some guy who had squandered an amazing Hall of Fame talent, and if anything, I resented him for it.

  Maybe that’s why I was so stunned at my reaction to the man now.

  After just one look into his eyes, the same eyes that used to stare down opposing batters without an ounce of fear, I could feel only one thing for him: sorry as hell. Because all I could see in those eyes now was fear.

  Cue Paul McCartney and the Beatles: I’m not half the man I used to be.

  “What are you drinking?” I asked, eyeing the three knuckles’ worth of what appeared to be whiskey in front of him.

  “Johnnie Walker,” he answered. “Black.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Rumors of Dwayne Robinson’s drug use had begun by his third year of twenty-win seasons in the majors. Mind you, this was back when the worry wasn’t all about performance-enhancing drugs. Supposedly, he was doing cocaine and sometimes heroin. Ironically, when you shoot those two together it’s called a “speedball.”

  But if the persistent rumors were true, the two-time Cy Young Award winner wasn’t letting it affect his performance on the field. And whatever erratic behavior he displayed else-where was explained away by his social anxiety disorder.

  Then came the famous “Break-In.”

  With the World Series between the Yankees and the Los Angeles Dodgers tied at three games apiece, Dwayne was scheduled to take the mound in the Bronx for the decisive game seven. He had already won two games in the series, allowing only a single run. In other words, he seemed unhittable and therefore unbeatable.

  Only this time, he never showed up for the game.

  He disappeared for something over seventy-two hours. Hell, it would’ve been longer had the super in his Manhattan luxury high-rise — a die-hard Yankees fan, no less — not used his master key to enter the star’s penthouse apartment. Inside he found Dwayne Robinson lying naked on the floor, barely conscious. According to insider stories the irate super actually kicked the star a couple of times.

  From a hospital bed at Mt. Sinai, Dwayne told the police that two men had forced their way into his apartment and drugged him, probably to increase their odds on a huge bet they’d made on the game. So that’s why his blood tested positive for a nearlethal dose of heroin. Because of the “Break-In.”

  Naturally, it became one of the biggest stories in sports — no, make that one of the biggest news stories, period. After Watergate, it was the second most famous break-in in history, I quipped at the time, writing for Esquire.

  Of course, the difference was that Watergate had actually happened.

  While Dwayne Robinson had his supporters, the prevailing sent
iment was that he was lying — that no matter how vehemently he denied it, the ugly truth was that he had overdosed on his own.

  The fact that the two thugs — whose descriptions he provided to the police — were never found didn’t exactly bolster his case.

  Within a year, Robinson was banned for life from the game of baseball. His wife left him, taking their two young children and eventually winning full custody of them. If you thought about it, and I did, it was the worst bad dream imaginable. Everything he lived for was gone. It had all disappeared. Just like him.

  Until now. This very moment. The first interview in a decade.

  I reached down and slid my tape recorder out of the brown leather bag on the floor. Placing it in the center of the table, I hit record. My hand was actually shaking a little.

  “So how’s this work?” asked Dwayne cautiously as he leaned forward in his white button-down shirt, his enormous elbows settling gently on our table. “Where do you want me to begin?”

  That part was easy.

  What really happened that night, Dwayne? After all these years, are you finally ready to tell a different story? The real story? Solve the mystery for us. Solve it for me.

  But before I could ask my first question, I heard a horrific scream, one of the most wretched, guttural, god-awful sounds I’d ever heard.

  And it was coming from the next table over. We couldn’t have been any closer.

  Chapter 10

  MY HEAD SNAPPED sharply to the left, my eyes tracing the horrible sound to its source. As soon as I saw what was happening, I wished that I hadn’t. But it was too late and I couldn’t turn away. I couldn’t do anything, actually. It was over so fast, I couldn’t even get out of my chair to help.

  Two men.

  One knife.

  Both eyes!

  A chorus of shouts and screams flooded the restaurant as the man wielding the knife let go of the other man’s head, the blood spouting from his eye sockets as he collapsed onto the table. A little spark was triggered in the back of my brain. I know him. I recognize him.