Three Strikes and You're Dead

by Donald Bain

  “Sorry, sir, but I won’t be able to do that,” Cole said. “I have another engagement this evening.”

  Bennett cleared his throat. “All right,” he said. “We’ll meet for breakfast.”

  “No, sir, afraid I can’t do that either,” said Cole, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I’m leaving for Phoenix later tonight. Gotta catch a flight to L.A. first thing in the morning. Sorry.”

  “Seems you are one helluva busy guy,” H.B. said sarcastically. “Let me just say this, then: You’re making a mistake, Sylvester. It’ll come back to eat you.” He forcefully patted Cole twice on the shoulder, walked away from the table, and disappeared into the lobby.

  Cole sat down. “He wants me to sign his kid,” he said to me in the conspiratorial voice to which I’d become accustomed. From the way he had brushed off Bennett, I assumed he’d already made up his mind not to sign Junior, but I might have been wrong.

  “I’ll let him dangle a while,” Cole said.

  I was thinking a breath of fresh air might be nice, and glanced toward the ballroom doors just as a voice boomed over the microphone: “I hope you are all enjoying your dinner. I just wanted to get in a couple of words, if that’s all right with you.”

  It was Buddy Washington at the podium, and the crowd quieted immediately. Washington had earned the respect not only of his players and their families but of the fans and, from what I could see, the media as well. Sadly, the same could not be said of his team’s owner.

  “The boys at those tables are probably thinking I’m going to remind them to come in tomorrow and clean out their lockers—and they’re right. I am,” he began. “You wouldn’t believe the kinds of things they leave in there at the end of the season—half-eaten sandwiches, barbells, comic books, love letters, water pistols, not to mention dirty socks. A guy’s whole life is in his locker. Once, I even found a live turtle in a bowl of water.”

  There were smiles all around the room. “But we’ll get back to that,” he continued. “I have something else to say.” He held up one hand. “I know it sounds like some sorta cliché, so you gotta forgive me, but I’ve coached a hell of a lot of teams, from Little League to high school, and right on to here coachin’ the Mesa Rattlers Double-A team, and I can honestly say from my heart that I have never—let me repeat that—never met a finer group of young men. I love them like family. They are the sons I never had.”

  It was apparent that Washington had downed a drink too many. He didn’t slur his speech, but his emotions had bubbled up to the surface and were beginning to spill over. He wiped tears from his face with a napkin, pumped his fist in the air, and said, “To the team. Thanks for the sweat, the tears, and for saving me from the nervous breakdown I was on the brink of havin’ when we were on that losing streak.”

  A wave of laughter swept through the room. Washington threw back his head and gave out a contagious guffaw that kept the crowd laughing, too.

  “Bud-dy, Bud-dy, Bud-dy,” a couple of players started to chant, and others joined in.

  Embarrassed, Washington waved his hands to try to quiet them down. When the chants faded, he continued: “I would like to thank so many people. But most of all I’d like to thank my wife, Teddy.”

  The audience responded with another burst of applause.

  “As some of you know, Teddy couldn’t be here tonight because she’s not feeling well.”

  Cole whispered to me, “Cancer, but most of the guys don’t know that’s what it is.”

  Washington paused, took a deep breath, looked to the ceiling, and continued. “Teddy has put up with me and with all of my boys, who became her boys when it was time for a hot meal, a couple of dollars, or a shoulder to lean on. In fact—and I won’t single anyone out, but he knows who he is—Teddy was even called on by one of the players to deal with a scorpion that had invaded his room.”

  The two tables where the team members sat erupted with laughter, the first time that evening I’d seen all the Rattlers smiling.

  “We won’t mention names, now, will we, men?” Washington said.

  “Scorpions aren’t the only poisonous things around here,” yelled Junior.

  Another player punched him in the arm and the two of them laughed. Smiles faded on the faces of others at the table. I saw Ty’s brows fly up and he looked to the ceiling, shaking his head. His buddy, Carter, slapped his arm around him and whispered something into his ear that made Ty chuckle.

  Washington continued, ignoring the horseplay between the friends of Junior and Ty. “Teddy is a surrogate mother to many of these kids, and I want her to know that the Rattlers could not have clinched this title without her. Thanks, Teddy. We love you.” He blew a kiss to the room, as though his wife were there. “And that’s all I have to say, except this: Clean out your lockers.”

  Washington sat to a standing ovation from his players, and most of the other people in the room. Junior remained defiantly seated, even though his teammates urged him to join them.

  Yes, a breath of fresh air was definitely in order. I excused myself and walked to the door to exit the room. It flew open as H.B. pushed through it.

  “Mr. Bennett,” I said, thrusting out my hand. “We haven’t been officially introduced. I’m Jessica Fletcher, a friend of the Duffys. In fact, I’m staying with them.”

  “I know who you are, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, accepting my hand and giving it a brief shake. “Enjoying yourself this evening?”

  “Very much. This is a lovely affair, wonderful food. And of course the game was such a delight. It’s always fun to be on the winning side. You must be especially enjoying this victory, Mr. Bennett.”

  “Yeah, well, there are pluses and minuses in everything. We had a good season despite some rough patches. However, our star player”—he said “star” as if there were a bad taste in his mouth—“may just get brought up on charges one of these days. Nothing you should mention, by the way.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Charges? Against whom? For what?”

  “I’m not naming names. No, you didn’t hear that from me. I can’t talk about it yet, but suffice it to say some of the boys have brought their suspicions to me.”

  I had a feeling “some of the boys” meant Junior.

  “Suspicions aren’t proof, Mr. Bennett. I hope you’re not drawing conclusions based on rumors.”

  “I’m not concluding anything, Mrs. Fletcher. But I do have the league looking into his activities.”

  Rather than seem upset by the possibility of trouble for one of his players, he seemed pleased, even excited.

  “I can’t get into it right now,” he said, “but I would like to make a suggestion for your next book.”

  “Which is?”

  “How about a sports agent gets murdered? I’d really enjoy that plot.” With that he brushed past me.

  I left the room and walked through the lobby, a soaring atrium studded with towering cacti and statues of coyotes. The walls were draped in murals depicting desert scenes. The space was at least twelve stories high, and I spotted the Atrium Bar that H.B. had mentioned earlier. Nice spot for a quiet drink, I thought.

  Outside, in the still Arizona night, the temperature must have been in the hundreds, but it actually felt good. The ballroom inside was excessively air-conditioned. I walked over to the side of the entrance so that I would be out of the way of the hustle-bustle of people coming in and out of the hotel.

  I took a couple of deep breaths and admired a pot that held an unusual and especially colorful bush, something I assumed was indigenous to this neck of the woods since I’d never seen it before. I made a mental note to ask Meg if she knew what it was.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a shadow and heard the muffled voice of someone speaking into a cell phone. How our lives have changed, I thought, with the advent of that little device. I had declined to carry one when they first came out, thinking it wasn’t necessary to be reachable at all times of the night and day. But eventually, good friends—Seth Hazlitt, in parti
cular—had persuaded me that it was prudent to own one. Seth is an old-fashioned country doctor and one of my best friends. He’s usually the last to accept modern conveniences, unless they have to do with medicine. Then he’s off to a medical conference to learn all he can about them.

  I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on a private conversation, but I couldn’t help hearing the man on the phone.

  “Yeah, I lost a bundle on that game. Wasn’t supposed to happen. Stupid kid. The boys upstairs are not gonna be happy.” There was a long pause. “I’ll let him know. You ever get ahold of that woman? Ramos said he’d get me the money later. Don’t sweat it. Tell her she’ll get it. Tomorrow. Peace out.”

  I turned. The voice belonged to a slight man nervously pacing back and forth. He was wearing a tan plaid jacket over a brown shirt and tie, and flourished a white handkerchief with which he continuously mopped his brow. He disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. I don’t know if he saw me, but if he did, it seemed of little relevance to him.

  Dessert will be served soon and I should get back inside, I thought. But it was nice to bask, even momentarily, in the peaceful evening. Peaceful, that is, until I heard the tinny notes of a snippet of one of my favorite songs, “Stompin’ at the Savoy.” It was my own cell phone ringing. I dug the jingling instrument out of my purse and checked the screen for the name of the caller. It was Mort Metzger, our sheriff in Cabot Cove.

  “Mrs. F! How’re you enjoying Arizona?”

  “Just fine, Mort. Is everything all right? It’s late back home. We’re three hours earlier out here.”

  “I know. I know. That’s why I figured it was okay to call. Not too late for you. There’s nothing wrong. We’re great. So how’s everything going out there?”

  “Everything is fine. In fact, I’m enjoying a dinner with your friend, Sheriff Hualga. What a delightful gentleman. He speaks so highly of you.”

  “He’s a great guy. Please send my best.”

  “I already have.”

  “By the way, Maureen and I would like to ask you a favor. I hope it won’t be a problem. We don’t want to make anything more difficult for you. If you don’t want to do it, please tell me. We won’t be offended. We understand that it’s your vacation. It’s just that—”

  “For heaven sakes, Mort, what is it?”

  “Maureen was wondering if you could bring her back a jar of that sauce—what’s it called, Maureen?”

  I heard Maureen talking in the background.

  “She’s writing it down for me. Okay, here it is. Chipotle sauce? It’s some kind of Southwestern sauce she needs, and Graham Feather down at the market doesn’t stock it.”

  “I’ll be happy to look for it,” I said.

  “Maureen has been watching Bobby Flay again—you know, the chef who has the cooking show?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard of him.”

  “She’s into grilling now. Doesn’t want me eating anything fried. Anyhow, we’ve got good weather for it, so she wants to try one of his recipes.”

  Maureen, Mort’s second wife, was an enthusiastic, if not exactly gourmet, cook, always trying out new dishes on him, some successful, some less so. She was also vigilant about watching Mort’s weight and keeping him on a healthy diet, although she hadn’t been able to break his love of sweets. There was always an open box of Charlene Sassi’s doughnuts sitting on the counter down at the sheriff’s office. Charlene’s bakery had managed to survive the competition from both Dunkin’ Donuts and Krispy Kreme. Her doughnuts were still Mort’s favorites.

  “I’ll ask Meg,” I said. “She’ll know about it, I’m sure. How many jars does Maureen want?”

  “One is fine. We don’t want you to have to carry back anything heavy. Besides, we don’t even know if we’ll like it.”

  “Mort, as long as you’ve called, I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I know that betting goes on in horse racing. In jai alai, too. But is there a lot of betting involved in baseball games?”

  “Not legally anywhere other than Nevada, but I’m sure it still takes place, even though the Pete Rose scandal sent it underground for a long time.”

  “I’d forgotten about him. Point well taken. Thanks.”

  “I’ll give you a tip, Mrs. F.”

  “A betting tip? From a law enforcement officer?”

  “You wouldn’t turn me in, would you?”

  “What’s your tip?”

  “The Red Sox are looking good this year. Now, why did you ask me about betting and baseball?”

  “Oh, idle curiosity.”

  “Uh-oh. I’d better warn John Hualga to watch out. I know what happens with your idle curiosity.” He laughed and I joined him.

  I saw H.B. leave the hotel with a woman whose face I couldn’t see, and realized I’d been gone from the dinner too long. I didn’t want Meg and Jack to think there was anything wrong.

  “I have to run, Mort,” I said. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Not so fast. Who won the big game that your friends’ kid was playing in?”

  “My friends’ team won, and their ‘kid’ hit the winning home run in the ninth inning.”

  “Wow! Will we see him playing for the Red Sox next year?”

  “I’m working on it,” I said. “Good night. Best to everyone.”

  Chapter Four

  “Whenever I go to the supply store in town, Jess, and tell them what I need for my swimming pool, they always insist on calling it a shpool. That’s the term they use for a small pool. This may not be Olympic size, but it’s a swimming pool nonetheless. My swimming pool!” He chuckled and paddled away.

  I laid my head back on the baseball glove- shaped raft in the backyard shpool of Jack and Meg’s Mesa home and looked up into the starry Arizona night. When it’s 110 degrees in the day and not a lot cooler at night, a pool is a pool, no matter what its size.

  Meg came from the house with a pitcher of decaffeinated iced tea, which she poured into two plastic glasses for Jack and me. She makes hers the same way I make my tea in the summer. Her secret recipe: She brews the tea bags in water heated by the hot Arizona sun, leaving it out for several hours before chilling it. She handed us our glasses and descended the steps into the pool to join us. The raft had a handy cup holder, in which I placed my glass.

  “Ty sure has come a long way, hasn’t he?” I said.

  “I think he always had a good heart,” said Meg. “We just needed to help him remember that.”

  “It’s the old nature-versus-nurture argument, Jessica,” Jack said. “Sure, nature has something to do with it. But at the end of the day, I believe, it’s nurturing that’ll make the difference. That boy wasn’t getting the nurturing he needed. He could have all the God-given talent from his genes, but it was being tossed out the window because that youngster was on a destructive path to nowhere.”

  “How old was he when you took him in?” I asked.

  “I plucked him out of the Jersey City Detention Center when he was twelve going on thirteen,” Jack said. “He’d already come before my bench several times, and I figured if we didn’t get him out of that poisonous environment pronto, he’d be a lost cause. This was a kid who had so much potential, but he could never benefit from it. He was involved in a gang. He would probably have ended up dead, or wasting his life on drugs, and in and out of jail.”

  “Jack used to talk about him all the time, used to say that Ty reminded him of himself at that age.”