Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
18 Months Later
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Acknowledgments
The Jack Hammer
By Derek Ciccone
Copyright © 2013 by Derek Ciccone at Derek Ciccone Books
Feedback and support appreciated at:
Derek Ciccone Book Club on Facebook.
Twitter: @DCicconeBooks
Email: [email protected]
Other books by Derek Ciccone:
Painless
The Heritage Paper
Officer Jones
The Truant Officer
The Trials of Max Q
Kristmas Collins
This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental
Chapter One
Whack … whack … whack; “Out!” shouted the umpire from his raised chair.
Tim O’Connell followed the other spectators and booed the ruling. But he couldn’t say for sure if it was the correct call, or even what the rules were—tennis wasn’t really his thing.
He wiped the sweat from his brow—the sun-drenched Arizona climate was as foreign to him as tennis, and it was doing a number on his pale Irish skin. But he’d do whatever it took to get close to Natasha Kushka. He knew this might be his only chance.
He unzipped the weathered backpack, which had been his traveling partner from New York to Russia, and the many other stops along this surreal journey. Travels that eventually landed him here at the Scottsdale Women’s Open.
He removed his notes, and re-checked them like a student cramming for an exam. But it was just an outlet for his nervous energy—he already knew more about Natasha than she likely knew about herself. He could recite details about her in his sleep, which frankly, he hadn’t got much of lately. The pursuit of Natasha Kushka was not for the meek … or those who preferred to go to bed before sunset.
They read the same as always: she was eighteen years old, born and raised in the small Russian town of Staritsa, about two hundred kilometers northwest of Moscow. Of note, she was currently the fourth ranked women’s tennis player in the world. But her reach went far beyond tennis—she was a global entity earning millions in product endorsements, and the top magazines fought to feature her model-good-looks on their covers.
From the folder he pulled out a photograph of Alexander Kushka, taken just before he committed suicide. He was proudly draping his arm around then seven-year-old Natasha, who held a tennis racket bigger than she was. Tim had acquired the photo on a recent trip to Russia. The trip blew most of O’Connell Investigators yearly budget, but it would be worth every penny when he found him. He was convinced that Alexander Kushka was very much alive.
He compared the Kushka photo to one of Victor Stepania. It had seemed so innocent when Anna handed it to him in his dingy Queens office last year. He actually laughed when she claimed her father, Victor Stepania, was the same person as Jack Myles.
Tim was too young to remember Myles’ accident, which sent the nation into mourning twenty-seven years ago, but it always felt like he knew him on some level. Maybe because his father might have been the biggest Jack Myles fan on the planet, and carried his death with him like he’d been a member of their family. His sister, Sam, was indoctrinated into their father’s hero worship, but Tim rebelled, mainly because he fought against his father on all subjects. But with years gone by, a part of Tim was glad that his father was no longer around to see that his hero was anything but heroic.
He pulled out an ancient Sports Illustrated with Jack Myles on the cover. His father had sent it to Myles, requesting that he autograph it, and a few weeks later it returned to their mailbox, freshly signed. It was his father’s prized possession, which he’d handed down to Sam. Tim had “borrowed” it for research purposes, knowing his sister would kill him if she ever found out. The job of a PI was steeped in danger.
He studied the cover, which displayed a young, fresh-faced Myles. He compared it to the other photos—age and probable plastic surgery changed the look of the man, but it was him … he was sure of it.
Once his nerves stabilized, he placed the contents back in the backpack, along with his press pass, which declared him to be Peter Foye of Second Serve magazine. He then returned his attention to the action on the court. Natasha was gliding over the emerald concrete, effortlessly defeating her opponent. It was a beautiful sight to watch. It didn’t seem to matter if it were a tennis court or the hottest club—the world was her stage, and she always stole the show.
After winning the first set six games to two, she strolled toward a chair beside the umpire stand. As if in slow motion, she took a seat and picked up a bottle of the sports drink High Octane, and drank aggressively. Then to the delight of her adoring fans, mainly the males, she splashed her tight white tank top with the remainder of the liquid. It was like the spring break Tim never had.
The enthusiastic crowd began chanting, Natasha! Natasha! She smiled up at them, and they fell in love with her all over again.
When play resumed, Tim witnessed the other side of her, what the press had termed Bad Natasha—the fierce competitor beneath the pretty package, that sought to destroy all that was in her way without apology. She fired her racket in ange
r when a call didn’t go her way, and then directed a curse-filled tirade at the umpire. Whether it was Good Natasha or Bad Natasha, one thing was certain, all eyes were glued to her.
Tim pulled out his notebook, making like the other reporters, who were furiously writing their stories about the match. But the story he planned to tell was much different. It was a tale about a man who called himself Jack Myles, Alexander Kushka and Victor Stepania, and conceived children who grew up in different worlds, on different parts of the globe, yet many of them inherited their father’s world-class athletic skill. Tim wasn’t sure how it would end, but he got the feeling that the story was heading quickly to its conclusion.
Chapter 2
Crack!
The sound of wood and rawhide coming together was sweet music to Cam Myles’ ears. He followed the flight of the ball as it rose over what was once dubbed The Great Wall of Washington.
Cam didn’t admire it for long—if anyone understood that success was fleeting, it was him—and re-focused on his friend Mark Salvino, who was ready to fire again. The next pitch was right in Cam’s sweet spot. With a fierce left-handed swing, the ball received a similar punishment, disappearing into the chilly DC night.
This time Cam allowed a satisfied smile to escape his lips. He looked out to Salvino. “What do you say we call it a night, Sal?”
He didn’t have to ask Salvino twice. He wasn’t exactly in “game shape” these days, and playing the role of sacrificial pitcher had taxed him to his limits. The sweat stains were visible through his Pittsburgh Steelers windbreaker, as he made his way to where Cam was now stretching in the cold, damp grass.
Two regular guys wouldn’t normally get access to a Major League ballpark, albeit a decaying one well past its prime, to use for batting practice. But there were advantages to being the sons of Jack Myles, still the most famous player to ever suit up for the Washington Monuments, and Thomas “Grapes” Salvino, the scout who discovered Myles in an obscure semi-pro league.
The Monuments were a fledgling team whose ineptitude over the years inspired the slogan: Washington DC: first in war, first in peace … last place in the American League East. But they were anything but a joke the season-and-a-half that Jack Myles took the baseball world by storm. Cam was too young to remember his father’s exploits, yet the memories had been ingrained in him daily, whether he liked it or not. But after years of trying to shake the burden, he realized that the only route to peace was to face them head on. That was part of what tonight was about.
Salvino plopped down next to Cam, and smiled through his huffs and puffs. “I’m starting to get the idea that these batting practice sessions aren’t just about you prepping for the Senate softball game this year.”
“I handed in my resignation to Harblen today.”
Salvino didn’t look surprised. “So how’d the senator take it?”
“As expected.”
“Let me guess—he declared that he was happy for you, but sad for the country you so served so well. All while displaying a contrived smile, and maintaining uncomfortable eye contact with you.”
Cam grinned—Salvino was one of the few who could break down the barrier he’d built around himself. “I’m sure he’ll get over it. And let’s be honest, the only reason he hired me in the first place was because of my grandfather.”
“Please tell me you’re not still hung up on that shit.”
“And which excrement are you referring to?”
“The one where you think everything you accomplish is because of your family name.”
“So you really think that Senator Harblen would have hired me fresh out of law school, over many more experienced candidates, if I wasn’t the grandson of his mentor?”
Salvino shook his head. They’d had this conversation before. “I never said it didn’t play a role in your hiring. But you didn’t work your way up to Assistant Deputy to the Chief of Staff on nepotism. And besides, your grandfather has been dead for almost thirty years, so the statute of limitations on kissing his ass has long since run out. The only thing Harblen is loyal to is winning elections, and you helped him do that.”
Cam nodded, even if he remained unconvinced. He then answered the question he knew was on the tip of Salvino’s tongue, “And no, I won’t be running for that seat in the Fourth Congressional District that everyone is trying to pencil me in for.”
“That’s too bad, you would have been a natural. You have that innate ability all great politicians have—to charm both old men and young women,” he said with another smile. “But my follow-up question was actually about your mother’s reaction to your joining the ranks of the unemployed. I’m not that into politics, but I do love a good drama.”
After a short uncomfortable silence, Salvino said, “I’ll take that as confirmation that you haven’t told her yet.”
“She’s been out of the country, so I haven’t been able to speak with her.”
“We can only hope that one day they’ll invent a hand-held device in which each party can trade messages, no matter their location, perhaps in the form of a phone. Hopefully Ben Franklin will get on that.”
“It’s not a conversation you have over the phone … and I didn’t know I was going to resign until I walked into Harblen’s office this morning. I’m also twenty-nine years old, so I don’t need to get my mother’s approval to make life decisions.”
Salvino rolled his eyes. They had known each other since before Cam could talk—Salvino was six years older, and often served the role of older brother—so Cam could never fool him. The truth was, Cam Myles rarely made off-the-cuff decisions, and it mattered very much what his mother thought.
Katie Barrett was currently an international correspondent at the cable news network GNZ. She had met Jack Myles back when she was a young reporter for the Washington Post, where she’d gained notoriety for taking her father, the longtime senator from Connecticut, to task for some of his positions. Nobody went after Arthur Barrett in this town—a man so powerful he became known as King Arthur—family or not.
“Let me re-phrase the question to please the court,” Salvino continued. He loved to interrogate a witness. “Are you planning to tell her that you’ve decided to make some sort of Roy Hobbs-ish baseball comeback?”
“I’m not saying anything else until I talk to my lawyer … I know my rights.”
“I am your lawyer.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“Will you be hiring Geoff as your agent again?” Salvino continued pushing.
Cam sent a dirty look back at him, effectively ending the conversation. Geoff was a sore subject.
Salvino threw up his hands in surrender. “I withdraw the question, and strike it from the record. I now move to discuss these rumors that you gave the old dumperoo to that hottie Heather Hayden.”
“You have to stop reading the tabloids, Sal.”
“So you’re not denying this …”
“It just didn’t work out, okay?”
“I see what you’re doing.”
“And that is?”
“Law school-101. You’re creating a mitigating factor to soften the blow with your mother—sure I sabotaged my up-and-coming political career, but the good news is Heather Hayden won’t be your daughter-in-law.”
“How do you know my mother didn’t like her?”
“Heather Hayden was not the type of girl a mother would like. And even if she was, your mother wouldn’t have liked her. Nobody is good enough for her little Camelot.”
The stadium lights began to dim, signaling that it was time to leave. Cam stood, and pulled Salvino to his feet.
Cam took one last look at the surroundings. He focused on the thirty-foot high wall in right field that sloped dramatically in the middle—legend had it that the original owner of the Monuments also owned an apartment building behind the wall, and created the odd design so he could charge larger rents for apartments that had a view of the game. Very few players could consistently scale The Gr
eat Wall of Washington, but Jack Myles could—his power was so prodigious that he was nicknamed the Jack Hammer for the way he mechanically pounded the ball over the wall.
Cam then looked out to center field, where a statue of his father stood. His presence was everywhere, especially here in the stadium that bore his name. He could never escape him.
Salvino put his arm around him and they headed for the exit. But Cam knew that wherever he went next, the Jack Hammer would be coming with him. It was the story of his life.
Chapter 3
They drove to Bethesda, Maryland, to the Red Steak/Blue Steak House. It wasn’t one of the many fancy eateries in the affluent suburbs, where it was more about rubbing shoulders with Washington’s movers and shakers. When it came to food, Salvino didn’t want to risk any possible distractions.
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