Strike Three, You're Dead

by Josh Berk

  The door creaked as it opened, and I felt my heartbeat speed up. What was in the locked box? Secrets? Lies? Guns? I needed to know.

  I crawled under the bed. It smelled bad, as before. It was a little easier getting around under there when it wasn’t nighttime, but it was still pretty dark. Also: the smell. Did I mention that? Because it smelled really bad. Maybe the locked box under dad’s bed contained his collection of old sweat socks or hair balls coughed up by the neighborhood cats. It seriously stank.

  I held my breath and scooted farther under the bed. I searched for the box, blindly groping until my hand hit metal. I couldn’t exactly pick it up, so I just sort of shoved it. After a few solid shoves, the end of the box was peeking out from under the side of the bed.

  “Land ahoy!” Mike yelled. Maria snickered. From under the bed I could hear them arguing about whether or not that was a dumb thing to say. I sort of had to agree with Maria. But it took me a while to inch myself out from under the bed, so I didn’t get to participate in the conversation.

  By the time I made it out, Mike and Maria were quiet. They were in deep concentration as Mike held his ear to the box. It was a military shade of green and basically looked like a really big metal shoe box. A locked metal shoe box. Mike was examining the lock. He looked like a doctor checking for a heartbeat. Maybe he should be a doctor and I could enter his family snack-food business if the whole baseball announcer thing didn’t work out. We could trade. Seemed like a solid plan.

  Maria leaned in close, watching him work. I decided to do the same. I sat on the other side while he held his ear to the box and slowly spun the dial. At a snail’s pace he moved the dial in one direction, then the other. After a few seconds, he declared, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “What?” I said. “You said you break into the school lockers all the time!”

  “Well, yeah,” he said. “But usually I just grab them and pull them open. Those lockers are made of cheap metal and have been broken into about a thousand times. You just have to know how to pull. This thing has way tougher metal. This is one of those locks you can shoot with a gun and it won’t open. You know those commercials?”

  I said that yes, I was familiar with those commercials.

  “This is totally one of those,” he said.

  “Got it,” I said. “Well, I guess we’re out of luck.” I didn’t really want to be doing this anyway, so it felt like a blessing. But, of course, the girl wonder would not give up so easily.

  “Hey, Len, I think I know the answer to this. You don’t have any brothers or sisters, do you?” Maria said.

  “No,” I said. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Only child, eh? What’s your birthday?” she asked, elbowing Mike out of the way and taking control of the lock.

  “Why are you asking me this?” I asked.

  “Shut up and tell me,” she said. “It’s not like it’s a secret.”

  “His birthday is February second,” Mike said.

  “Groundhog Day?” she said. “Ha-ha. You’re a groundhog.”

  “You’re a groundhog!” I said. I hated when people told me I was a groundhog. It was a stupid birthday.

  “What year?” she asked. Mike told her. She spun the numbers on the lock. Left, right, left. She took a deep breath, tugged on the metal, and smiled.

  The box popped open with a satisfying click.

  “How did you do that?” an amazed Mike asked.

  “I never read the Young Safecracker’s Guide to Cracking Safes or whatever,” she said. “But I know that parents with only one kid are obsessed with them. Single-child syndrome. I’m the middle child of three, so I know these things. Lenny’s dad’s lock combination: Lenny’s birthday. Easy.”

  “Aw, that’s nice of Dad,” I said. What? It was.

  I shoved myself between the two of them to see what exactly was in the box. It seemed to be just papers. Lots of papers. Some in envelopes, some folded, some simply stuffed in there. Lots of papers. That’s it. Nothing secretive and exciting. Just papers.

  “Ugh, more reading,” I said.

  “Just keep looking through them,” Maria said.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “We’ll know it when we see it,” she said. People always say that, but they never actually see anything. Or know it. They neither see it nor know it when they see it. Until now.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mike was the one who found something interesting first. “You guys,” he said. He said it quietly, then louder. “You guys!” Then he said it a bunch of times like it was one long word. “You​guysyou​guysyou​guysyou​guys!”

  “What?” I said, annoyed. Then Mike shoved something in front of my face. It took a minute to process, and then it became very clear. Uniform. Mustache. Hat. Bat. Glove. This was a picture of a baseball player. This was a picture of Keith Hernandez, of the New York Mets. This was a very strange thing for my dad, who lived near Philadelphia and hated baseball, to have in his secret files. Even stranger was the fact that it was signed. My dad had met Major League Baseball player Keith Hernandez at some point?

  Mike read the inscription out loud. “ ‘To Jeff, my biggest fan and fan club president. Always and forever …’ Um, this part is a little hard to read. It’s sort of blurry.”

  “I think it says ‘Late to mass’?” Maria said.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Let me see that. It clearly says ‘That’s so meat.’ ”

  “ ‘That’s so meat’?” Mike said. “Totally. Soooo meat.”

  “Let me look again,” I said.

  “What it says,” proclaimed the voice behind us, “is ‘Let’s Go, Mets.’ ”

  Mike’s and Maria’s heads whipped toward the door. I didn’t bother to look. I knew who was standing there, and I wanted to wait as long as I could before I had to face him. Dad. Stupid Other Mike. Worst lookout ever. The warlocks would have him fired or maybe chop off his head with an ax. Either seemed like a pretty good option to me. He was no doubt snoring it up on the couch, dead to the world.

  “Oh hey, Dad,” I said, still not looking at him.

  “Do you mind telling me what the three of you are doing in here, digging through a locked box that was under my bed? Also, Other Mike, I like what you’ve done with your hair.”

  “Um, what?” Maria said.

  “Just a little joke to cut the tension,” Dad said. “It’s usually Len, Mike, and Other Mike. I don’t recognize you.”

  “I’m Maria Bonzer,” she said, sticking out her hand. “The librarian’s niece.”

  “The librarian’s niece,” he said, like that made any sense. “Sure, sure. What are you and the boys doing?”

  She blushed. It was pretty amazing. Maria had stared down Famosa and Don Guardo. She had bossed us around for days. She always seemed so confident and cocky, and now she was totally busted by my dad. Even though I was totally busted too, it weirdly made me sort of proud.

  “Well, we, it has to do with, you see … we were …? Um, Lenny, a little help here?”

  I had no idea what to say. An unexpected Keith Hernandez situation can throw a guy for a loop.

  “Okay, Dad, I know you’re going to want to kill me for sneaking in here and looking at all your stuff, but I just happened to see this box and—”

  “You just happened to be under my bed?” he said. I wasn’t about to tell him the whole long story about me sneaking out, but thankfully he gave me an answer. “Aren’t you too old for hide-and-seek?” he said. “We really should have sent you to summer school.”

  “We actually are learning lots at the library,” Mike said. “For example, I’ve been reading A Young Person’s Guide to Safecracking.”

  “I see,” Dad said. “That explains a lot.”

  “Yeah, and I just sort of wanted to practice cracking safes. You know, my dad always says it’s good to have a trade.”

  “I think he means more like plumbing, not breaking and entering.”

&nb
sp; “Ha-ha, yeah. Probably.”

  “I guess now it’s my turn to explain a few things,” Dad said. “I am pretty angry that you are going through what is clearly private stuff here, but we’ll deal with your punishment later,” he said.

  Oh no! What if I ended up being grounded and missed my chance to go to the Phillies game to collect evidence with Famosa?

  “Can we get to the more serious thing here?” Mike said. “The Mets?!”

  Now, in case you don’t know, let me tell you about the Phillies-Mets rivalry. Okay, maybe you’re familiar with rivalries. Yankees–Red Sox, Army-Navy, Crips-Bloods (the gangs, I mean), North-South (in the Civil War, I mean). These things aren’t anything like Phillies-Mets. We hate each other. People cheer when a player on the other team gets hurt. (Not me. I am a gentleman.) We have been fighting for years, and we certainly do not live in the same house as each other.

  “Well, Mike, I do have a secret to tell. When I was a younger man, I was, in fact, on the Mets. I played center field.”

  “Really?!”

  “No, you goof, I was just a fan, like you guys. A little obsessed. Okay, a lot obsessed. I tried to hide all that when we moved here.”

  “Why?” I asked. “I don’t get it. Why would you have to hide being a baseball fan?”

  “I’m not a baseball fan, Lenny. I’m a Mets fan.”

  These words were hard to take. It was like each word was punching me in the ear. “I’m” *ouch* “a” *ouch* “Mets” *ouch* “fan.” I had no idea what to say.

  “As you know, I am originally from New York. Queens. I loved the Mets. I grew up loving the Mets, what can I say? But then I went to college and medical school, and I ended up getting a good job here in the Philadelphia area. I made the mistake of mentioning my fondness for the Mets early on, and let’s just say people didn’t take it too well. Like, seriously not well. I learned quickly to hide it. I wouldn’t have any patients! I was afraid I’d get fired! No girls would go out with me! A lot of bad things would happen to me around here if I admitted loving the Mets. You think a Phillies fan is going to let a Mets fan cut him open with a knife and mess with his heart?”

  “Yeah, Mets fans don’t know anything about having heart.”

  “That hurts, Lenny.”

  “Good,” I said.

  Then we heard a yawn. Other Mike was standing at the door. I think he was still half asleep. He was rubbing his eyes. “What did I miss, dudes?”

  “Um, as you can maybe tell by the fact that Dr. Norbeck is in the room,” Mike said, “you really suck as a guard.”

  “Also, Lenny’s dad is a Mets fan,” Maria said.

  “The Mets!” Mike said it like the words tasted terrible.

  “Um, what?” Other Mike said, yawning again. “Man, I am sleepy.”

  Worst guard ever.

  Dad kept talking. I wanted him to stop, but he kept talking. “It’s all just baseball. It all depends on wherever you were born. If you were born in New York, you’d be a Mets fan too. Or a Yankees fan.”

  “Bite your tongue!” I said.

  “I know it feels like a big deal, son,” he said. “I do. But it’s just a team. Players get traded. The great Tug McGraw played for both the Phillies and the Mets. Plenty of players do. If we can cheer for a player who used to be evil, then why do the fans have to hate each other forever? Joe DiMaggio was a Yankee and his brother was a Red Sox.”

  “He was a Red Sox?” Other Mike said. “Wouldn’t he be a Red Sock?”

  “This is a good question,” Dad said.

  No it wasn’t. They were both idiots.

  “I think I need to be alone for a little while,” I said.

  “Um, I need to get back to the library,” Maria said. “You’re my ride.”

  “Wait. Did you also steal a car today, Lenny? Breaking and entering and grand theft auto? I think you’re grounded.”

  “Bike, Dad,” I said. “A ride on my bike.”

  “I can take you back,” Mike said. “But I pedal. I’m not riding on the handlebars.”

  “Deal,” she said. Then she turned to Dad and said, “Nice to meet you, Jeff. Go easy on Len. He’s a good kid.”

  Dad just shook his head. I did the same. What else was there to do?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The next few days were a little strange. Me and the Mikes went to the library. We read some books. We watched some baseball. Okay, I guess those things don’t really seem strange. But they felt strange. I was anxious and sort of nervous. I didn’t really feel like talking to my dad, but I did want to know if he had any more inside information on RJ’s death. The news reports and the Internet were quiet. If they mentioned it at all, it was only to say that there were no new developments. Dad said that his doctor friend hadn’t learned of any new developments but that he still suspected foul play. I had to get to the bottom of it all!

  One hot and humid day I decided to ditch the Mikes and head down to the library on my own. Just to get some new books. Maybe say hi to Maria. When I got there, I asked Bonzer if she was in the back.

  “Go ahead and say howdy, sport,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the back.

  I went into the cramped back office of the library. There was Maria. She looked really angry. She was supposed to be scrubbing dirty library books, but from the looks of the big messy pile in front of her, she hadn’t gotten very far.

  “You look ticked,” I said. “Rough day at the office?”

  “No.”

  “Getting worked up on the message boards again?” I asked. “Bedrosian’s Beard?”

  “No,” she pouted. “I’m banned from there. So I’ve been listening to the radio a lot. I hate that Philly Hillbilly.”

  “What’s he saying?” I asked.

  “Oh, stupid stuff. About how the fans need to be tougher on the team. Doesn’t he remember that someone just killed a guy? Does he want it to happen again? Someone needs to stop him.”

  “Yeah, he’s a jerk,” I said. “But he’s harmless. My dad says it’s just shtick.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Just, like, it’s all an act. He only says outlandish things to get ratings.”

  “I like that. Shtick. I like your dad,” she said. She smiled and halfheartedly wiped at a dirty book. I don’t mean a dirty book. Just that someone spilled soda on it or whatever.

  “He’s a Mets fan!” I said.

  “But he’s funny. Shtick.”

  “Trust me. He really isn’t.”

  Maria hummed a few bars of some song I couldn’t place, then went back to wiping books.

  “Maybe there’s more to him than we think,” she said.

  “My dad? I thought we established his deep, dark secret.”

  “No, Lenny—Billy, the radio guy.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “You think he had something to do with RJ?”

  “Maybe. Wasn’t he there at the game?”

  “I guess so. I didn’t see him. There were fifty thousand people there, though. They can’t all be suspects.”

  “I’d say we have forty-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine suspects, and I’m not resting until we’re down to just one,” she said.

  “Only forty-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine?” I said. “Counting me out? Thanks.”

  “I was counting your dad out. I still haven’t made my mind up about you.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She glared at me over the stack of books. “I still think we need to ask DJ Billy Philly Hillbilly some questions,” she said. “Something tells me he knows more than he’s saying. Let’s talk to him. For questioning.”

  “I tried to get through once before. It was just busy,” I said. “There must be a million people calling.”

  “They’ll always answer if a pretty girl calls,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

  “Well, where are we going to get one of those?” I said, just teasing.

  Oh, my friends, if looks could kill, as they say. It do
esn’t even begin to describe it. This look didn’t just kill, it annihilated and ate the bones.

  “Hand me the phone, jerk.”

  I grabbed the old, yellowed library phone and tossed it to her. The cord made it snap back, knocking over a pile of books. “Um, I forgot it had a cord,” I said. Good one, Len.

  “Uncle Alan, I’m making a personal call that could probably take a while,” she said.

  “Employee of the year!” I heard him say from the other room.

  She dialed the number. It rang for a little while. When the person on the other end answered, she started talking in a voice I could hardly recognize. She made her accent a little heavy and sounded quite a bit like a movie star!

  “Hello there,” she said.

  “Is that him?” I asked excitedly.

  “I would like very much to talk to Billy, please,” she said into the phone. Oh, probably not. “My question?” She sounded annoyed. “Listen, sweetheart, I do not have time for these sorts of games. Just put me through to him.” Did she really just call someone “sweetheart”?

  They must have put her on hold because she started impatiently twirling the phone cord. “Yeah, hello?” she said after a few minutes. She was on the air! She dropped the soft, movie star voice and started barking like her old self. “This is Maria from Schwenkfelder. Shut up! Yes, that’s a real place. Stop asking me questions! I have questions for you.” I could imagine the other half of this conversation. His obnoxious comebacks. His dumb sound effects. (Okay, some of those sound effects are pretty great. Plbbbbbt!) She grilled him right back. She barely let him get a word in! She demanded that he stop riling up the fans and demanded that he tell her what he knew about RJ. Eventually, he must have hung up. “You’re a jerk!” she yelled, over and over again. “You’re a jerk! You’re a jerk!” Then she slammed down the phone.

  “I guess he was being a jerk,” I said.

  She did not smile. “He really is,” she said. “But I’m just wasting time here. Who am I fooling? He had nothing to do with RJ. I’m sure of it. Oh, why are we stuck here?”

  So that was that.

  “Sooo,” I said, not sure what else to say. “Excited about the game on Monday?”