Played!

by Michael A. Kahn

  He reaches the bottom and steps onto the culvert in front of the tunnels. No movement. No sound above the trickle of the water coming out of the middle tunnel, the thin stream passing through the legs of the folding chair.

  He checks his watch.

  7:03.

  He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales.

  Okay, man. It’s show time.

  Bledsoe walks over to the chair and looks around again. Nothing visible inside the tunnel. He takes a seat, his back to the tunnel, and sets the briefcase down on the left side.

  And waits.

  A minute.

  Two minutes.

  And then, “Good evening, Billy.”

  He flinches.

  Same voice from those phone calls. Somewhere from behind him—inside the tunnel, but not far away.

  “Before we discuss this transaction, Billy, you will need to remove your jacket.”

  Shit.

  Bledsoe turns his head to the right but he can’t see the speaker.

  “I said remove your jacket.”

  “But it’s chilly.”

  “I am holding a Taser gun aimed at you, sir. I’d prefer not to use it, but I will do so if you don’t remove your coat. And do so slowly.”

  Bledsoe thinks it over, weighs his options, and unzips his jacket.

  “Take it off and drop it on the ground to your right.

  Bledsoe follows directions.

  “My, my, my. Raise your arms.”

  Bledsoe raises his arms.

  The speaker reaches around and removes the gun from the shoulder holster.

  “You came here armed? I’m disappointed in you, Billy.”

  “I always carry that, man. No offense. It’s dark out there. Shit, I brought you the fucking money. The gun’s no big deal.”

  “That’s for me to decide. Now stand up and turn around. Slowly.”

  Bledsoe follows directions.

  He stares, eyes wide, trying to make sense of what he sees. The speaker is shorter than him. He’s wearing a bulky windbreaker and what looks like a goddamn Halloween mask—black with eye holes and a steel mesh mouth opening. In his right hand the man is pointing at him what looks like a fucking flashlight on steroids. He’s holding Bledsoe’s handgun in his left hand.

  “One last thing,” the masked man says. “Drop your pants.”

  “My pants?”

  “You heard me. Drop your pants and then we can do our business and you can leave.”

  “My pants? What the fuck, man?”

  “You got five seconds, Billy. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero. Blastoff.”

  A bolt of lightning shoots out of the flashlight and strikes Bledsoe in the chest.

  “Yeow!”

  Bledsoe drops to the ground, thrashing in pain

  The man stands over him, pointing the flashlight at his stomach. “Don’t make me do this again.” And now he points the gun. “Or this. Stand up and drop your pants.”

  Wincing, Bledsoe staggers to his feet. “Man, this is fucked.”

  “Drop your pants, Billy.”

  Bledsoe loosens his belt, unzips his trousers, and lowers them to the ground.

  “What is that down there?”

  Bledsoe looks down. Below his boxer shorts, strapped to his left calf is a hunting knife. He looks up with a shit-eating grin, his face glistening with sweat.

  “Planning on a little hunting tonight, Billy? We seem to have some genuine trust issues here. Take it off. Slowly. That’s it. Now toss it over there. All the way over.

  The knife clanks against the cement.

  “There you go. Good. Now take three steps back from the chair.”

  Bledsoe steps back, his pants gathered at his ankles.

  The man comes forward, steps around the chair, and sits down on the chair facing Bledsoe, the Taser weapon pointed at Bledsoe’s crotch.

  “What are you going to do?” Bledsoe asks.

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “Oh, man. Don’t fuck with me. I brought you the money. It’s right there.”

  “You also brought a gun and knife.”

  “And the money. That’s what you asked me to do. That’s major.”

  “Let us start all over. From the top. You are Billy Bledsoe, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You brought me some money, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “To be precise, you brought twenty-five thousand dollars in cash, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that money is in the briefcase you brought here, correct?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And that money is part of our discussion, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what is our discussion, Billy?”

  “I give you the money and you don’t tell no one.”

  “I don’t tell no one what?”

  “About the motel. About Cherry.”

  “You mean about you killing Cherry?”

  “Whatever.”

  “No, say it, Billy. That was our conversation. You give me the money and I won’t tell anyone what?”

  “About Cherry. About, you know, about me and about her dying and, well, you know.”

  “About you killing her, right?”

  Bledsoe frowns. He stands there with his pants bunched down at his ankles, his boxer shorts fluttering in the chilly wind.

  “Billy?”

  “What?”

  “Let’s make sure we are clear about our deal. You don’t want me to tell anyone what?”

  “About me and Cherry, about killing her.”

  “About you killing her, correct?”

  Bledsoe takes a deep breath and nods.”

  “Out loud, Billy. Say it.”

  “About me killing her.”

  “There. That wasn’t so hard.”

  “Jeez, man, I’m freezing here. It’s cold.”

  “We’re almost done, Billy.”

  “Come on, man. Hurry up.”

  “It wasn’t your idea, was it?”

  Bledsoe frowns. “What wasn’t?”

  “Killing her.”

  “Hey, this is bullshit. I brought the fucking money. That was the fucking deal.”

  “And you also brought the fucking gun and the fucking knife, and that wasn’t the fucking deal.”

  “I don’t get it. What do you want?”

  “Maybe more money.”

  “Oh, come on, man.”

  Now the man raises the gun. “We both know this isn’t your money. Who gave you this money?”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me. Who gave you this money?”

  “You want more money, I can get more. Give me a couple days. I’ll get more.”

  “From who?”

  Clang!

  Clang!

  Clang!

  Bledsoe turns toward the sound. In the distance the red railroad crossing lights are flashing.

  Bledsoe turns back, eyes wide. “What the hell?”

  “Just a train coming, Billy. Back to business here. You said you could get more money. From who?”

  Hal edges a few steps closer, adjusting the earpiece with left hand, resting his finger lightly on the Dial button.

  Bledsoe is maybe sixty feet away, facing Milton, facing Hal. The briefcase is upright on the left side of the chair.

  Over the clanging comes the rumble of a train. This one is moving much faster than the freight train.

  Come on, Hal whispers, his heart racing. We got what we need. Say the code word.

  In a louder voice Milton says, “From who, Billy?”

  “He’ll pay more. I know he will. But first I gotta be able to tell him you’re in t
his alone.”

  “What does that mean?”

  It’s getting harder to hear them as the train approaches.

  “Are you the only one, man?” Bledsoe shouts. “Anyone else in on this?”

  “None of your business, Billy. Your only business is getting me the money. And the only question you have to answer is from who. I know you don’t have that kind of money. So answer that question and you can leave safe and sound. Who?”

  Come on, Bro. Sewage. Say the word.

  The Amtrak locomotive whistle blows as the cars rush by.

  “Who?” Milton shouts.

  “My boss.”

  “Leonard Pitt?”

  Bledsoe nods.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he have you kill his wife?”

  Bledsoe says something, but Hal can’t hear it.

  “What?” Milton shouts.

  There’s a CRACK of gunshot, muffled by the train noise.

  Hal watches in horror as Milton lurches sideways off the chair to the right, the gun and the Taser skittering across the concrete as he grabs his thigh, the blood already seeping between his fingers.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  The train noises fade in the distance as Bledsoe yanks up his pants and fastens his belt.

  Milton is on his side, writhing in pain, his hand clutching his bloody thigh. The cell phone has dropped out of Milton’s jacket. It rests on the concrete just beyond his head. He reaches for it and pulls it toward him.

  Just as Hal starts forward, Bledsoe turns toward the stairway.

  “Who’s there?” Bledsoe calls.

  Hal freezes.

  Out of the darkness steps Leonard Pitt. He’s wearing a dark raincoat. In his gloved right hand he has a long-barreled revolver.

  “Jeez,” says Bledsoe, “nice shooting, Mr. Pitt. You sure nailed that bastard.”

  Pitt doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge Bledsoe. Hal tenses as Pitt pauses to lean over Milton’s body. Pitt straightens and walks over to where the handgun lies on the cement. He puts the long-barreled revolver in his left hand, bends down, picks up the handgun with his right hand, and straightens as he turns back to face Bledsoe.

  “Wow,” Bledsoe says as Pitt approaches. “I about shit my pants when I heard that shot, Mr. Pitt.”

  Pitt is surveying the area.

  Bledsoe glances at the gun in Pitt’s left hand.

  “Hey, I didn’t know you owned a Longhorn, too.”

  “I don’t.” Pitt hands the gun to Bledsoe. “It’s yours.”

  “Yeah, it looked kind of familiar. But…but aren’t you worried they might trace it back to me?”

  “I am not worried, Billy. I assume they will trace the Longhorn back to you and trace this Smith & Wesson”—he pauses and gestures toward Milton with the handgun—“back to this creep.”

  Bledsoe frowns. “I don’t get it.”

  “You never did, Billy.”

  Pitt points the handgun at Bledsoe’s chest and fires. Bledsoe staggers backward, his mouth moving, no words coming out. Pitt shoots him again as Bledsoe stumbles back onto the slanted wall of the culvert, the Longhorn clattering to the ground. He looks up at Pitt with a baffled frown as he slides down into a sitting position. His frown fades, his eyes roll upward, and his head lowers onto his chest. Pitt watches the body list to the side and fall, Bledsoe’s head conking onto the cement.

  Pitt turns back to Milton.

  Hal knows Milton’s time is running out. This is it. He’s got to save him.

  And that’s when he realizes he’s squeezing the baseball. He removes it from his windbreaker pocket just as Pitt reaches Milton.

  Pitt is standing sideways to Hal. Maybe sixty feet away, like a right-handed batter.

  Shit! Maybe.

  Pitt leans over Milton.

  “Can you hear me, asshole?” Pitt says.

  Still leaning over, the gun still in his right hand, Pitt says again, “You hear me?”

  Hal goes into his wind-up, all muscle-memory now. As he pivots and leans back, his left leg rising, he shouts, Hey!!”

  Pitt straightens in surprise, raising the handgun, still standing sideways to Hal.

  Pitt squints into the darkness of the tunnel and fires the gun just as Hal releases the ball.

  Like so many key moments in Hal’s aborted career, what happens next seems to unfold in slow motion.

  —the bullet zinging past Hal’s left ear—

  —the ball spinning toward Pitt—

  —Pitt’s eyes widening as out of the darkness he spots the oncoming ball—

  —Hal finishing the follow-through—

  —Pitt’s head pulling back—

  —the baseball smacking against Pitt’s left temple—

  —Pitt’s legs crumpling—

  —the gun discharging toward the sky—

  —Pitt toppling backwards, his head banging against concrete—

  Silence.

  And then, “Milton!”

  Hal sprints toward his big brother.

  Stage 6: The Follow-Through

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Milton didn’t find out until the day he was released.

  That was Day 3.

  Hal had spent that first night in Milton’s hospital room, sleeping on a cot the orderly had brought in.

  “You’re good, Bro,” Hal told him when Milton awoke on Day 1. “They got the bullet out, sewed you up. No bone damage. Should be going home in a couple days. Surgeon said he’ll be in around noon to check on you. Pakistani, I think. Or maybe Indian. Can never tell the difference. Dr. Khan. Like Genghis. Good dude.”

  “What about Peggy?”

  “Called her an hour ago. She’s flying back today. With the girls. All is good.

  “So what exactly happened?”

  “They arrested Pitt. He shot Bledsoe. Killed him.”

  “What happened to Pitt?”

  Hal chuckled. “He’s two floors up. Cops guarding his room.”

  “But what happened that night?”

  Hal grins. “Good thing you warmed me up. Nailed him with a fastball high and tight. My first beanball. Knocked him out cold. Asshole was still out when the cops arrived. Gave the cops your cell phone. You got everything on tape, even the shooting. Cops took my statement down at the station last night. Didn’t let me go ’til two in the morning. But all is good. Pitt is in some deep shit. Two Murder Ones, according to Moran, plus a bunch of other nasty charges.”

  On Day 2, Milton gave his statement. Moran was there, along with two other homicide detectives and prosecutors from the City and the County.

  After the others left the room, Moran leaned over Milton’s bed, grinned, and shook his head. “You are one crazy motherfucker, Bernstein. Don’t know whether you deserve a Purple Heart or a rubber room in the psycho ward, but you got it done, pal. I’ll give you that much. You nailed that prick to the cross. Even if he lives to a hundred, he’s gonna die behind bars.”

  He gave Milton a fist bump before he left.

  Also on Day 2, the physical therapist had him up and walking. The first time with a walker, down the hall and back. The second time unassisted.

  But he didn’t watch any TV in the hospital. Never been a TV guy, especially with the cable news stations. Couldn’t stomach them.

  Instead, Milton spent most of Day 2 doing what he loved the most: working on court papers. Specifically, drafting a motion to compel in In re Bottles & Cans, the massive antitrust case that his law firm—and dozens of other firms around the nation—had been involved in for more than three decades. He’d called the office from his hospital bed on the afternoon of Day 1, explained the new developments including the anticipated dismissal of all charges against Hal, and arranged for the firm to deliver hi
s laptop to the hospital. On Day 2 alone, he billed 14.3 hours working on those motion papers.

  And thus he didn’t find out until Day 3.

  They were all there that morning—Peggy, the girls, Hal. Though he could walk by then—or, more accurately, he could limp—he had to leave in a wheelchair. Hospital rules.

  Peggy went ahead with the girls to get the car. Hal pushed the wheelchair.

  And that’s when he found out. Or, more accurately, started to find out.

  The craziness erupted the moment they passed through the sliding exit doors.

  Awaiting them was a throng of reporters and photographers and videographers.

  Milton looked around, stunned.

  Was that Anderson Cooper over there? Geraldo Rivera?

  Cameras clicking, reporters shouting, microphones pointing at him, at Hal.

  “Mr. Bernstein! Over here, sir!”

  “Milton! Hey, Milton! How’s it feel? How’s it feel to have a brother like that?”

  “Over here, Milton! Were you scared?”

  “Hey, Hal! You have an agent yet? Talking to any ball clubs?”

  “Hal, Hal! Any movie deals?”

  Peggy inches the car through the media mob, tapping on the horn as she drives forward, the hospital security guard clearing the path.

  “Stand back! Let our patient through! Stand back!”

  The guard helps Milton into the front seat. Hal hops in back with the girls. The cameras flash in the car windows, the reporters lean over the windshield and knock on windows even as Peggy pulls forward, a few of them jogging alongside the car, shouting unintelligible questions.

  For a few moments after leaving the hospital grounds, they drive in silence.

  “Good grief,” Milton finally says. “Is this a slow news day?”

  Peggy looks over at him “I wish. Wait ’til we get home.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see. They’ve been camped out on our front lawn. CNN. Fox News. MSNBC. All the local news channels, TV vans up and down the block.”

  “Uncle Hal is famous, Daddy,” Sara says.