“Let me in.”
He stepped away, shooting another glance around outside for danger. Cara was still shivering, her long hair pulled up in a ponytail. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“I’m fine. Excited actually.”
He raised his hands, but resisted the urge to pull her into his arms to keep her warm. He might hurt her again. “Cara?”
She shifted from foot to foot, rubbing her arms with her hands. “I have a…tattoo.”
Did he hear right? “What?”
“Tattoo.” She pointed at her right shoulder. “Here.”
All he could see, of course, was the T-shirt, but her meaning was clear. “What were you thinking?”
Her brows rose, and she folded her arms. “What do you mean?”
He folded his arms. “Aren’t you, you know, going all corporate soon?”
“Yes. But no one will be able to see it.”
“Show me.” He reached for her but stopped before his hands connected with her arms.
She took a step further into the house. “Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
She bit her lip and then said, “It’s still covered by a bandage.”
“Take off your shirt.”
“What? No! Where’s your mom?”
“Sleeping. I’ll take off mine if you take off yours.”
She giggled. “Jase…”
“I’m good at first aid.”
“Anything else you want to try? Maybe you want me to pose so you can paint me?”
“It might feel better if I hold you right here.” He took hold of her trim waist. “You still playing soccer, hard bod?”
“No…gym rat.” She leaned into him, turned her face up to him.
He brushed her hair back and kissed her. She was sweet and spicy, her tongue a darting tease. She pulled away and slipped out of his hands. “Okay, I’ll show you.”
He was going to get his way? He needed his own place. This wouldn’t work here.
She pulled her T-shirt over her head and stood before him in a black lace bra.
“Where’s the tattoo?”
“It’s on my shoulder!”
“Oh. Well, I’ll get to that eventually.”
“Behave yourself.” She turned sideways, a flush in her smooth cheeks.
“Okay, all I’m seeing here is a bandage,” he said.
“That’s what I told you would be there!”
“It’s not very exciting.”
She turned toward him, hands on hips, and said, “It’s not very exciting? Okay, viewing time is up.” She presented him with her back.
He traced the edge of her spine with his fingers. The skin on her back was so smooth…
“Jason!”
“Yes?” He stepped closer, but she moved away and put her shirt back on.
“How are you going to sleep with that thing?”
Cara made a move for the door. “I guess I’ll sleep on my stomach.”
“Let me walk you home.”
She shot him a quick grin before opening the door. “I’m parked outside.”
“Oh, right. To the car then.” He followed her outside and opened the car door.
She slid inside and didn’t pull away when he bent to kiss her again.
“Good night, Cara.”
The taillights pulled out of the driveway. How could he get her to commit by the end of the summer?
Chapter Four
Jason flew to Atlantic City the next day, Sunday. When Garrett picked him up, Jason was shocked. The twenty-four-year-old looked like a fifty-year-old homeless man. Was the aging effect some kind of illusion? In effect, yes. An illusion painted by dirt. Like stage makeup, the dirt could make a young man look old.
“Hey.” Jason tried to act like he’d recognized his friend immediately.
Garrett hunched his shoulders even more, as if surrendering to the humiliation of Jason seeing him like this. His sneakers had holes in the toes. His clothes, shorts and a T-shirt, were dirty. Seeing him like this was a full-body blow. Well…maybe without debt, he could get back on his feet.
“Hey, thanks for coming.” He took Jason’s bag and tossed it in the trunk while Jason climbed into the passenger seat.
At least he still had a car. Which meant he couldn’t be homeless, right? A bulging laundry bag lay across the back seat. Ah, that explained the dirty clothes. “Is the meeting set?”
“Yes.”
Garrett drove carefully, unlike Dad. Dad had picked Jason up from the train station that day so long ago, when Jason was twelve and ran away to see him. His father arrived in his car, dressed in a suit with a tie that was loose and crooked. He smelled like alcohol.
“Are we going straight there as we discussed?”
“Yes. I don’t blame you for not wanting to spend a little vacation time here with me.” Garrett’s frown descended into his beard as he gazed through the windshield.
With the windows closed, the car reeked of dirty laundry. “I would come down for a vacation in a heartbeat, but like I told you, I have too much stuff going on at home, with Mom’s health and all.”
“I feel really badly I dragged you down here when your mom needs you so much.”
“You didn’t drag me. I insisted.” Glimpses of the Atlantic flashed between buildings. They turned and headed into a seedy part of town where people loitered on the street, paint cracked on the walls, and windows were dressed with bars. “I guess paying off a bookie doesn’t happen in the best part of town, eh?”
“Not this bookie,” Garrett said, flatly.
That was when Jason noticed the bend in Garrett’s left pinkie. Right at the top, at the knuckle, the little finger veered outward. What had these brutes done to his buddy? Nausea hit Jason’s gut.
At nightfall, they pulled into the parking lot behind a diner. Inside, the place was a typical vinyl booth and Formica tabletop kind of place. A few people occupied the counter stools and some of the booths. Clearly the dinner rush had ended, if there ever was one. The chalkboard advertised prime rib with mashed potatoes and surf & turf for the daily specials.
It was pretty easy to tell who they were supposed to meet. Two large guys wearing T-shirts that revealed bulging arm muscles and tattoos, hunched at one of the booths. Their ink wasn’t exactly cute like Cara’s either. Garrett slid into the empty side of the booth and Jason followed. The minute he sat, an urge to bolt tensed Jason’s muscles.
“You have the money?”
“Yes.” Garrett’s gaze shifted between his broken finger and the guy with a goatee. Was that guy responsible for the finger?
Fighting another wave of nausea, Jason pulled out the envelope of money and slid it across the table. The other guy counted the money then slipped the packet inside his jacket with a nod and a scowl. Both men stood and left without looking back.
Garrett’s shoulders dropped, and his face relaxed. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Those are scary guys. Do you owe anybody else?” Pity and responsibility mixed in Jason’s heart. He couldn’t just let him fall apart without trying to help. Garrett had alienated most of his “friends.” When the money ran out, so did the love. Jason had the same experience but was lucky to have his mom and Lobster Cove.
“No. I don’t owe anyone else.”
“You’ve really got to get help.”
“Yes, yes, I will.”
“I’ll pay for a program.” Jason had saved up some money from working two years at the food truck and living at home. He could probably afford a program.
“Okay, thanks, Jason,” he said, with less enthusiasm.
Time to back off a little. Leave the man his pride.
“Let’s go get something to eat.”
Garrett sat back in his chair and grinned. For a flash, Jason saw his old friend inside the ruined man. “We’re already in a diner.”
“I forgot.”
Garrett laughed. “It’s on me.”
“No. Let me buy you something. It’s ju
st a greasy spoon. Not like it’s expensive.”
“Okay,” Jason relented. It looked like his friend needed every penny, but the meal was a small price to pay for some pride. “Are you able to find any work? What are you doing for income?”
“I have Disability.”
“Listen, I think you should move to Lobster Cove and live with us. Just until you can get on your feet.”
“That’s really nice of you,” he said, like he had no intention of doing it.
“I’m serious. Garrett, there are strings attached to the money I just gave you.”
His ex-teammate’s face collapsed, and he looked old again, the dirt sinking more deeply into the lines on his face, the fatigue and defeat returning to his watery blue eyes.
Jason hesitated. Had he gone too far? Then he remembered Dad, who would be alive now if Jason had made him come home. Jason explained that he wanted Garrett to come home with him tonight. He’d already bought a plane ticket. His friend seemed to accept this.
They had their meal and talked about the old team, the current team, not too much new stuff, but it was nice. Nothing like talking baseball with a former teammate. After they had dinner, they headed into the parking lot. One of the streetlights was out, making for a huge dark area. The hair on the back of Jason’s neck rose, and he picked up the pace. Garrett did too, but then something sharp poked into Jason’s back.
“Walk real quiet to the next alley,” said a guttural male voice.
Adrenaline flared in Jason’s veins and blood rushed in his ears.
“Do what he says.” Garrett’s voice was strained.
Was this happening because of the gambling debt? They’d paid that off. Or was there something his friend hadn’t told him? Jason trudged to the alley. Why couldn’t Garrett have told him five grand wasn’t enough? By not telling Jason the full extent of the debt, he’d put them both in danger. If Jason were killed tonight, what would Mom do without him? Jason had put his responsibilities on the line to save his friend almost like when he’d come down to Atlantic City on his own when he was a boy, scaring his mom half to death. What would Mom have done if something happened to him back then? It was grossly irresponsible but somewhat understandable in a twelve-year-old kid. He was a grown man now; he had come down here to do a good deed, and he was going to get himself killed. There was no excuse.
They reached the alley, a dark and gloomy corridor decorated with dumpsters. The smell of ripe garbage clung to dull gray air. A dark shadow darted away from one of the trashcans. A rat. Nausea was bitter in Jason’s throat. He fought the twin urges to lash out or run and stood rigidly. The gun pressed harder into his back. “My wallet is in my right back pocket. Take it.”
The guy’s laugh was a saw over phlegm-coated wood. Must be a heavy smoker. “Thank you for the invitation.”
Air hit the skin on Jason’s back. The pressure in his hip pocket eased. This was a straight-up robbery. So far, the man wasn’t doing anything to Garrett. That would argue for robbery as motive. The way his friend was dressed he obviously didn’t have any money, so the thief focused on Jason. Jason shouldn’t blame Garrett, but he still blamed himself for getting into this situation. Nobody even knew where he was. And the chances of the cops identifying him when he didn’t have a wallet were slim. Maybe Garrett would survive and could tell them. If this was just a robbery, maybe nobody had to die. So why wasn’t the thug leaving?
“Give me your watch.”
Jason took off the watch and handed it over, catching a glimpse of the guy’s bulldog mug. He was stocky, shorter than Jason, probably twenty pounds heavier. He wasn’t pointing the gun at Jason at the moment because he was examining the watch. Jason threw a left uppercut followed by a right punch. Pain exploded in his hands, but he threw another left.
The guy grabbed his hand. A cannon ball smashed into Jason’s face. He crashed against the wall and slid to the ground. Garrett lunged at the man.
“No!” Jason shouted.
The robber wheeled and raised his gun. A gunshot echoed in the alley, and Garrett dropped like a stone.
“No!” Jason yelled again.
The man took off. Jason struggled to his feet and ran to Garrett who was lying on his back, clutching his shoulder. “Buddy, just hang on.” His heart racing, Jason fumbled for his phone. He punched in 911 then crouched by Garrett’s side, talking to him.
“I’m sorry, man,” his friend’s voice strained through clenched teeth. “This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t tried to help me.”
“No regrets, Gare. Just hang on.” A distant siren was a beautiful sound. “Here they come. You took it in the shoulder?”
“Yeah.”
Not a vital organ. Relief rushed through Jason, leaving him shaky. “Good, good.”
“Shit, easy for you to say!”
Jason laughed, surprised he could do so at a time like this. But with medical care, Garrett should be okay.
A police car arrived, its headlights blinding them. Jason shielded his eyes with his hand. Garrett closed his eyes, the paleness of his face sending a knife of worry through Jason. Was he going into shock? Two cops approached, guns drawn.
One cop said, “There was a report of shots fired. Where is the gunman?”
“My friend’s been shot! We need an ambulance.”
The two cops maneuvered toward the dumpsters. “I said, where is the gunman?”
“He ran out of the alley five minutes ago. He’s gone. We need an ambulance now!”
One cop radioed for paramedics while the other approached. “Oh, he’s really bleeding. Let’s get some pressure on the wound.”
Jason kneeled and pressed his palm on his friend’s shoulder.
The cop shined a flashlight in his face. “Hey, didn’t you used to be Jason Ward? Pitcher for the Sox?”
“Still am. I just don’t pitch anymore.”
“Well what are you doin’ in this neighborhood?
“Me and my buddy, Garrett, were just grabbin’ a bite to eat,” Jason explained, annoyance mixing with anxiety.
“In this neck of the woods?”
The sound of sirens cut off the interrogation and slowed his adrenaline slightly. The ambulance pulled into the alley followed by another police car. Three paramedics rushed to them and took care of Garrett. Jason stepped aside to make room and speak with the cops. He described the gunman, mentioning his theory that he was a smoker. One of the officers went back to the dumpster and gathered some debris, presumably cigarette butts.
Soon Garrett was neatly bandaged and being carried to the ambulance. Jason trotted to catch up and asked one of the paramedics if he’d be okay.
“Yes,” said the fit and competent looking male paramedic. “The bullet went through his shoulder. It’ll need surgery, but it’s not a critical wound.”
The cop said, “Wait a minute. Garrett. This must be Garrett Winston. He used to play with you in the bigs. What happened to him?”
“He just got shot!”
As though he didn’t hear Jason, the cop continued, “He had a great arm, could peg one to the catcher from deep center field. Is that his throwing arm?”
“Yeah.” A shredded shoulder probably meant the end of any hope for getting his career back once he recovered from the addictions. Why couldn’t he catch a break?
Jason rode in the ambulance. At the hospital, Garrett was taken into surgery. While Jason waited, he called his mom and explained what happened. She was distraught, naturally, but accepted his reassurances. He called the airline, explained the situation, and booked new tickets for a few days later, using Mom’s credit card. He’d pay her back. The police would give him a statement proving his identity if he went to the station. Mom would fax copies of his ID.
The doctor who performed the surgery said his friend would be okay. He was in the recovery room. Only family could visit.
Jason made himself as comfortable as possible and waited for morning, reliving the crime and thanking his lucky stars. Maybe now he coul
d convince his friend to come back to Lobster Cove.
****
On Sunday, Cara drove Francie to visit her friend Sherry, who lived in an assisted living facility in Bar Harbor. The wheels on Francie’s chair made a gentle pop as they rolled over gravel in the facility’s driveway.
Jason was out of town. Francie wouldn’t tell her where, which was weird, but since Cara couldn’t, or more accurately didn’t want to discuss her relationship with Jason’s mother, she didn’t press. One of the most difficult things about this relationship—if you could call whatever she and Jason were doing a relationship—was getting confused about which role she was playing with Francie—friend and confidant or son’s ex-girlfriend?
After the automated door opened, Cara pushed Francie into the lobby of the assisted living facility. The place was modern and sterile. A dining room on the left and living quarters on the right meant no windows on the sides, which made the center of the large space dark. The back wall of the lobby had light though, and residents were gathered there waiting for lunch. Greetings came from them in a chorus.
Francie had made friends of the other residents while visiting Sherry, but unfortunately, Sherry wasn’t among those in the lobby. Sherry lived behind a locked door. “The Circle,” as it was called, housed patients who suffered from Alzheimer’s disease or other forms of memory loss. Cara loathed the lock-down feeling of these quarters, even though it was for the residents’ own protection. Surely there must be another way.
“Hi, Abner,” Cara said to one of the men, a white-bearded retired lobster fisherman who kept a lobster pot in his room as a memento of his working days. “How are you?”
“Ahm all set.” Abner gave a slow nod. He went back to chewing imaginary tobacco.
“You’re always all set,” Francie said. “Set at what?”
Abner’s weathered brow crinkled. “Ah doan know.”
Cara jumped in. “Oh, Francie, leave him alone. Hi, Nora.” Nora Worth perched in one of the easy chairs, a pearl necklace adorning her powder-blue shell and jacket. Nora was “old money.”
“Hello,” Nora said. “Nice to see you.”
Francie replied, “Like your pearls, Nora. They look very real.”
Third Strike's the Charm Page 4