The Jack Hammer

by Derek Ciccone

  When the tears began to stream down her face, Tim broke the rule, and gave her an awkward hug. She pulled away, as if it signaled weakness, and the tears iced over.

  After a few moments to gather herself, which included doing a shot of vodka, Tim said, “I’m interested in how your father’s suicide affected your relationships with others in your life.”

  “You mean like my mother?”

  “That’s a good place to start.”

  “She turned into a total bitch after he was gone, if that’s what you mean.”

  Natasha reached into her purse and pulled out a wallet-size picture album. Tim thought it was an odd item to carry with her. He wondered if it was in anticipation of their interview, or if it was a constant companion. “Look at her when I was a little girl. She was so happy and pretty.”

  She pointed to a more recent photo where the Kushka women looked more like coach and player than mother and daughter. Both of them were sporting angry scowls. “Now look at her.”

  Tim examined the photos and had to agree—there had been a major change.

  “So do you think it affected your relationship with men?” he asked

  “Do you mean why I am dating a complete asshole like Brett Modino?”

  The tabloids said the big rock on her finger was an engagement ring given to her by the A-list actor. But Tim was pretty sure it was another of her cat-and-mouse games. “You tell me.”

  Natasha shrugged. “I won’t lie to you, I like the attention we get when we’re together. People are so obsessed with us—they call us Bretasha and follow us everywhere.”

  No BS. No apologies. He respected that. “Does he remind you of your father?”

  She thought for a second. “A little … strong, good looking …”

  “Temper?”

  “Yes, my father had a temper. But Brett’s temper is because he doesn’t get any from me,” she said and laughed. Her moods continued to ping-pong.

  The statement surprised him—it sure didn’t match their reputation. “By not getting any, you mean?”

  “Oh, Tim O’Connell, you know exactly what I mean. You’re not as dense as you look. In Russia we have a saying …”

  “No Siberian Husky for the boys,” he replied with a smile.

  She laughed. “Something like that. I guess I’m just waiting for a nice boy. Maybe you’ll be my first, Tim O’Connell,” she said, and Tim was pretty certain he went into full cardiac arrest.

  She rested her head on his shoulder and her eyes fluttered like the batteries were running out of juice. “Do you have any more questions, because I’m feeling really tired.” The effects of the alcohol were starting to take their course. Tim knew he was running out of time. She was seven, just a month before turning eight, when her father left, so she was the one sibling who had enough remembrance of her father to provide him a clue. That’s what made her so important to his case.

  “Just a couple more … stick with me, Nat. I was reading an article on you in the Arizona Republic this morning. You were quoted as saying Arizona is your favorite place to go in America. But according to the records, you have never played in Arizona before this week.”

  “Are you some kind of private detective?” she asked in a sleepy voice. But instead of nodding off, her eyes opened wide, and she suddenly decided she wanted to dance. Tim wasn’t complaining, but they would never make it to the dance floor in her current state, so they stood next to the table.

  Natasha wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself close. Talk about Dancing with the Stars, he thought. Although, this was more about holding Natasha up, than dancing.

  She whispered in his ear, “My father brought me to the US on vacation when I was five years old. We went to Scottsdale, the Grand Canyon, but my favorite was the Red Planet. I thought it was the coolest place ever—it’s why Arizona is my favorite.”

  It appeared that he’d gotten all he could out of her. Maybe they also went to Saturn or Pluto. Or perhaps she was setting him up for a Uranus joke.

  But he still took the bait—he had nothing to lose at this point. “The Red Planet?”

  “It’s made up of these really cool red rocks. It looks like Mars.”

  “And this place was in Arizona … on earth?”

  She laughed. “Of course, silly—I’m talking about Sedona. It was my father’s favorite, too—said he wanted to retire there when he got old.”

  Suddenly she was starting to make sense. But what didn’t make sense was that Alexander Kushka took his daughter to the other side of the world for a vacation … to a place he thought about retiring. Come to think of it, he was coming up on the retirement age.

  “But he would never live long enough to retire,” she continued, her voice tinged with melancholy.

  Tim wasn’t so sure. And now it was time to find out. He’d seen the advertisements for Sedona in the Phoenix airport when he arrived this morning—it wasn’t far from here, maybe an hour or two. He could be there by morning. “It sounds like a great place this Red Planet. I think I should check it out while I’m here.”

  The statement reawakened her. “I’ve got an idea, Tim O’Connell. You should go visit Sedona for a few days and recharge your batteries. Then meet up with me and Tatiana next weekend in Vegas—that’s where my next tournament is.”

  If he spent any more time with Natasha Kushka, he was going to need brand new batteries, not just a charge. But he smiled as wide as he could ever remember. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  Chapter 13

  Cam spent the night at Mark Salvino’s house in Silver Spring. He awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon.

  It was Monday morning and the race for the school bus had turned the Salvino household into Grand Central Station.

  The door cracked slightly and two young girls wearing footed pajamas peeked in. Cam tried to act like he didn’t see Grace and Liza, but his smile gave him away. The girls ran in and jumped on the bed. “Uncle Cam!”

  He grabbed Grace, the first to reach him, and gave her a big hug. Liza was now eight and playing it cool—no hug. They made small talk about school and soccer, before Megan Salvino popped her head through the door to break up the party. Despite wearing no makeup and a ratty bathrobe, she somehow was able to pull off attractive.

  “Liza! Grace! What did I tell you about letting Cam sleep?” she scolded the children, before turning to him. “I’m so sorry about this, Cam—I tried to keep them out.”

  He waved off her apology, and sat up in bed. Grace grabbed onto his bicep like it was a jungle gym. “You have a big muscle, Uncle Cam—my daddy doesn’t have a muscle.”

  “Yeah, but he has a big stomach,” Liza snickered.

  “Liza!” came the stern warning from her mother.

  But she didn’t acknowledge the warning—she was in a trance, fascinated by Cam’s left elbow. “What is that?”

  She pointed at his four-inch scar that was the result of elbow surgery. After a couple of seconds, she became brave enough to lightly touch it.

  “Really, it’s fine,” Cam assured Megan. She nodded, as if to say, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, buddy—now you’re on your own,” and left the room.

  Cam twisted the elbow so both girls could see. They looked at it intently, making him feel a bit like a circus freak. Then the questions came.

  “How did it happen?”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Why can’t you just wash it off?”

  Cam had been taken as the first pick in the amateur baseball draft by the New York Mets, after leading Yale to a stunning upset in the College World Series. Scouts like Salvino’s father called him the best pitching prospect in twenty years, but all people seemed to care about was that he was Jack Myles’ son. Even back when he led his hometown of Fairfield, Connecticut, to the Little League world championship at twelve years old, he was on the cover of Sports Illustrated with a photo of his dead father looking like he was peering down on him from above. It was his first t
aste of what was to come, and the taste was bitter.

  Six years ago, on a chilly April evening, he was pitching for a Mets minor league affiliate against a team in Columbus, Ohio. Cam had a two-hit shutout going in the top of the seventh with thirteen strikeouts for good measure. He was one pitch from sending strikeout victim number fourteen back to the bench. It was as close to the Majors as he would ever get.

  The article in the local paper said you could hear the pop in the elbow all the way into the press box, “as if a tire blew.” The injury was severe, and his pitching career was effectively over. He tried to make it back, but when it was clear that the arm wouldn’t respond, he returned to Yale and got a law degree, and then jumped right into working for Senator Harblen. He was too busy to feel sorry for himself. But to many, it was as if his father had died all over again.

  The story he told the Salvino girls left out some of the dirty details. Specifically the part about how his agent, his own brother, unceremoniously dropped him, and later had the nerve to sue him for breach of contract, for choosing to walk away instead of changing positions to hitter. Geoff of all people should have understood that he didn’t want to walk in Jack Myles’ shoes.

  Two-year-old Blair waddled into the room, followed closely by her mother, who announced that breakfast was ready. Liza and Grace got up and ran toward the smell of sizzling bacon. Megan turned to him and said, “Why don’t you come down and join us for breakfast, Cam?”

  He agreed, knowing he would need all the energy he could get today.

  Salvino was standing in front of a mirror, combing the part into his jet-black hair. His tie was undone and draped around his neck. His pinstriped suit was tailored and expensive—a polar opposite from the grease-stained Steelers windbreaker.

  Liza went over and tugged her dad by the arm to the breakfast table. Megan poured orange juice from a large glass container.

  Cam took in the chaotic scene in the sunlit breakfast nook, as the Salvinos ate at breakneck speed, with six different conversations going on at the same time. He listened to the laughter and swelled with envy—this was substantial.

  An hour later, Salvino dropped Cam at Dulles, where he would take the shuttle to New York. First would be the undercard at his brother’s apartment, and then the main event with his mother.

  Chapter 14

  Parking was near impossible on Central Park West. The best Cam could do was squeeze into a space twelve blocks away, between a moving truck and a BMW. The good news was that he wasn’t worried about the car getting dinged. It was a weather-beaten Saab 900S that he bought off his college roommate during his undergrad days at Yale. Between the sand from the beach house in Fairfield, and lugging around his baseball equipment for years, it was a survivor. Senator Harblen leased him a car when he was in Washington, just so no one saw him in the Saab.

  The day was gray and cold, and the wind whipped violently. Cam could feel it knifing right through the heavy fleece he wore with jeans. He pulled the bill of his baseball cap as low as it could go to avoid being recognized, but unlike in DC, he was rarely stopped in New York, even when spotted.

  The doorman buzzed him up to Geoff’s fifth floor apartment. He was prepared for whatever angle Geoff would be playing, even if Salvino thought he was a sap for coming here. This was an important time in Geoff’s recovery, which meant it was equally important for them to stay on top of him. Last time they gave him too much rope, and he almost hung himself.

  “Come on in, Cam,” Geoff greeted him with a smile. “No coat? It’s freezing out there.”

  “I’m sorry, I thought I was visiting my brother, not my mother,” he said as he stepped into the spacious living room. “It’s packed away in my luggage.”

  “Speaking of Mom, I made some hot chocolate just like she used to do on those really cold days. You look like you could really use a cup.”

  “That would be great,” Cam said politely, shielding his skepticism. Hot chocolate? Even for Geoff, this was laying it on thick.

  He followed his brother into an ultra-modern kitchen that Cam doubted got much use. After handing him a cup of hot chocolate, Geoff received a call on his cell. Cam couldn’t remember the last time he saw Geoff without his phone in hand—as hard as the cocaine was to give up for him, he figured his cell habit would be harder to kick.

  The call was from someone named Rafael, and it quickly got heated. Geoff angrily ended the call, and appeared unnerved.

  “What was that all about?” Cam asked.

  “Just business,” Geoff responded in a huff. “What do you say I give you a tour of the place?”

  It was an impressive apartment with a great view of the park, filled with glass fixtures and techy-looking toys. And since it was Geoff’s place, it was antiseptic, spotless, and not a magazine out of place. Cam’s first thought was how could his brother afford this place, since the re-start of his business was in its infancy, and having snorted most of his past earnings up his nose. Plus, he was way too stubborn to ever take a dime from their mother. But he knew how Geoff would take such an inquiry, so he kept it to himself … for now.

  Geoff showed off some of the paintings on the wall, bragging about their worth and rarity. It was typical Geoff. The expensive objects were his fortress in the war the world had waged against him since he was a child, and the expensive Italian suit he wore served as his body armor.

  Cam found himself most interested in the few family photos displayed around the apartment—a new touch from past residences. He didn’t think it was a coincidence that they were all taken when they were young, before he lost his leg. And while there were many shots of their mother, there were none of their father. Cam understood completely.

  The tour ended in the bedroom. Cam wasn’t sure why Geoff needed a bed, since he rarely slept more than an hour or two a night, but hopefully it was a sign that he was taking better care of himself.

  All in all, the place was typical Geoff, and Cam wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. They returned to the living room and took a seat on a leather couch. Geoff clicked a button, and a video appeared on the large flat-screen that was hung on a wall like one of his paintings.

  “I got this from a contact of mine in Cuba. It’s been confirmed by three separate sources as being Teo Stepania. I couldn’t use his name when we spoke yesterday, due to the sensitive nature of the situation.”

  Cam had figured as such, and believed that ‘sensitive nature’ was another way to say he was involved in a plot to try to smuggle Stepania out of Cuba. A dangerous endeavor that worried him.

  Once Cam’s eyes adjusted to the grainy video, it didn’t take long for him to determine that Stepania was the real deal.

  “Does he remind you of anyone?” Geoff said with a salesy smile.

  Cam couldn’t deny the resemblance. The Cuban lefty had a slightly thinner build than the ghost of Cam Myles, but the motion, the high leg kick, was like he was imitating him. He also had a similar ability to make opposing batters look silly as they flailed at his wicked slider, which fell off the table just as the batter began to swing at it.

  The fifth batter in a row struck out, the third straight on just the minimal three pitches, and Cam said simply, “Wow.” He wasn’t sure if that was the type of analysis Geoff had in mind, but it was the only word that came to mind.

  A devilish grin spread across Geoff’s face. “This is my favorite part coming up.”

  This time when Stepania threw the pitch, the camera angle switched to the batter, who belted the ball far into the night.

  It took a moment for Cam to figure out who the batter was. But when he did, his face turned red with anger.

  Chapter 15

  The tape was spliced.

  It integrated the video of Stepania pitching in Cuba, with film of Cam hitting … last night.

  He angrily rose to his feet. “You were taping us?”

  “I’m just doing what’s best for you. I learned that from you.”

  “You had no right.”
>
  “First of all, if you wanted privacy, you wouldn’t have been in a public place. And it’s really no different than you and Mom breaking into my house for that intervention … which I admitted to you last night, saved my life.”

  “That’s not even close to the same thing. You obviously had an agenda for bringing me here today … so what do you want?”

  “Nobody understands a comeback like me. That’s why I’m the perfect person to represent you. I’m a different person now, Cam. It won’t be like last time.”

  “What makes you think just because Sal and I took some batting practice, that I’m planning a comeback?”

  “Give me some credit, Cam. This was hardly the first time … you’ve been training for over a month. Nobody puts in that much work if they’re not serious about it.”

  Cam was unable to find the words. His brother never failed to amaze him. How long had he been spying on him?

  “When I realized what you were planning, I took the liberty to call some of your old sponsors, the ones that dropped you after the injury, and they were very interested in representing you again if you reinvent yourself as a hitter this time.”

  “You did what?”

  “There was no time to wait, Cam. Every minute is precious. You’re almost thirty, which is middle age in baseball. You need to get back to the majors ASAP, and you’ll need a top agent to get you there. This amateur idea of yours to start in the Mexican League or that indie team in Newark, and work your way up from the bottom, just won’t work. Time isn’t on your side anymore.”

  Cam hadn’t told anyone about that. “I made a big mistake coming here.”

  “You don’t have to sign anything today, Cam. But please come to my camp in Florida—I’ve set it up so my clients get the best instructors, nutritionists, and so on. That way you’ll get the proper guidance, and give us time to see if we can work together again. No strings attached.”