by Alan Mindell
“You’re a man.”
Her reply startled him. What did gender have to do with it? Then, after reflecting a moment, he thought he understood. At least enough to hazard a guess.
“His father,” he said, also trying to take advantage of what seemed a good opportunity to initiate that subject now too.
“Yes.”
“They were close.”
“Yes.”
“His death…” he said carefully. “Was he sick?”
“No. Car accident. He was killed instantly.”
He shook his head.
“And I’m afraid,” she went on, “that Billy’s afraid you’ll disappear suddenly too.”
“How long ago did it happen?”
“Two years. Billy was traumatized…and as you can see, to some extent, still is. All it takes is a connection to his father.”
“And he connects me with his father?”
“Sure,” she sounded definite. “You’re male. About the same age…baseball…”
“Baseball?”
“The usual father-son stuff. Playing catch. Going to games. Watching on television. Listening over the radio. Discussing players and teams.”
“What about the girls?” he asked. “Trauma too?”
“Not as bad for them. Tammy was very young. But they have their moments also.”
“And for you…?” he asked carefully. “Must’ve been horrible…”
“I’m like Billy…I don’t want to talk about it much either.”
He could only shake his head again. He’d asked enough questions. And she’d answered them. Besides, he needed to let everything sink in. Plus, it was getting late; he’d had a long day and still faced the drive home.
And yet, sitting beside her, gazing at her again, he really didn’t want to leave. Even in her sadness, she looked very pretty. He reached for her and pulled her gently toward him. Briefly, she nestled against his shoulder. Abruptly, she pulled away.
“Let’s not,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“There are some more things you don’t know.”
“Oh,” he said. “Want to tell me now?”
“No," she sighed. “Not now. I think we’ve had enough serious talk for one evening…don’t you?”
He had to agree. He got up and she walked him to the door. Virtually at the same time, they both discovered that he’d left the green wrapped package on her coffee table. She went over, picked it up and gave it to him again.
He didn’t wait until he got home to open it. In fact he hardly waited until he got to his car. Inside the green wrapping, he found a thick knitted woolen scarf, green and gold, of course Oakland team colors. In the dim street light, he was barely able to make out his name and baseball uniform Number 20 stitched into one corner.
Before driving off, he took one final glance at the little white house.
Chapter Thirteen
“You said you wanted to help,” Murdoch declared.
Once Terry determined whose voice was coming through the phone in his hotel room, he was surprised. Not only because the hour was late, well past midnight, and he’d already gone to bed. No, after he and Rick were caught red handed by Murdoch a week and a half ago, he was sure Murdoch would never speak to him again. And, if he ever did, certainly not this soon.
Oakland was in Los Angeles for their initial interleague series. They’d played earlier that night, a 5-2 loss, their only runs coming on a pair of Murdoch homers. Extending his consecutive game hitting streak to forty-one.
“Well,” Murdoch said, his tone clearly impatient. “You want to help? Or were you and Rick Gonzalez just blowin’ smoke?”
“I’ll help,” Terry answered groggily. “What you want me to do?”
“Take a ride with me.”
“Where to?”
“To Hollywood,” Murdoch replied.
An hour later, riding through some much deteriorated territory, Terry had distinct feelings of déjà vu. Except this time Rick wasn’t here. And he, Terry, wasn’t tailing Murdoch; he was sitting beside him, as his passenger. Plus instead of Boston, they were in Los Angeles.
There was another difference. Though Murdoch was in disguise, it wasn’t the same one. Tonight he was a chauffeur—at least from the waist up. He wore an elegant black sports coat, black tie, white embroidered dress shirt and black chauffeur’s cap. Terry might have teased him about the outfit, except Murdoch looked so serious.
“Where we going?” he offered instead.
“Told you. To Hollywood. Where we are now.”
“Why we here?”
“You’ll see,” Murdoch answered. “Maybe.”
Since this line of questioning appeared futile, Terry tried a different approach.
“Hope you’re not still mad at me.”
“For what?” Murdoch responded, seemingly without interest.
“For that night in Boston. Rick and me following you.”
“Was that Boston?”
Terry nodded.
“It wasn’t your idea,” Murdoch said.
“Not exactly.”
“Then why should I be mad at you?”
“It wasn’t exactly Rick’s idea either.”
“Whose was it then?”
Terry didn’t answer.
“I know,” Murdoch said. “Who else? Team brass…”
Terry remained silent. Not because of any sense of loyalty, but because of growing discomfort. Here he was in a desolate area, riding with a man he hardly knew. A man who definitely attracted trouble. A very large powerful man whom he suspected had a terrible temper.
“There,” Murdoch suddenly said loudly.
Terry edged against the car door, trying to extend the space between them.
“There,” Murdoch repeated, even louder, slowing the car.
“What?” Terry asked reflexively, barely aware that Murdoch had changed the subject.
“There. There she is…”
“Who?”
“Got a tip she was here,” Murdoch said excitedly, disregarding Terry’s question. “For once it’s no wild goose.”
Terry still had no idea what Murdoch was talking about. In the scant light, however, he did see a woman standing on the sidewalk, next to a tree, as Murdoch slowly drove past.
“This is where you come in,” Murdoch stated as he pulled to a stop near the next intersection.
“Where?” Terry asked, still clueless.
“You go up to her,” Murdoch explained, steering the car into a parking spot.
“Why me?”
“Cause if she recognizes me, she’ll prob’ly just run. Raise a big commotion.”
“What about your disguise?”
“Might not work.”
Murdoch handed Terry the keys and instructed him to approach the woman and lead her back to the car. Meanwhile he, Murdoch, would walk up the street in the opposite direction. He would return once Terry had her inside the car. Then Terry would drive off.
“Isn’t that kidnapping?” Terry asked nervously.
“I don’t think anyone ‘round here’ll press charges, do you?” Murdoch replied, looking in his rearview mirror, apparently at the woman. “Now go ahead, before she goes away…and stop worrying.”
But Terry wasn’t at all reassured. Cast into this forsaken territory, he was about to participate in, even initiate, what was essentially a crime. For the second time in Murdoch’s company. He glanced anxiously at Murdoch, who edged toward him, opened the passenger door and practically shoved him outside.
As he trudged away from the car, he looked back and saw Murdoch get out on the driver’s side and begin walking the other way. Terry hoped the woman had gone by now. Then he could simply turn around, head back to the car, drive it to Murdoch and pick him up. All without doing anything illegal.
No such luck. The woman was still there, by the tree. As he drew closer, he saw she was tall, slim, black, casually dressed. And, a surprise, very young—perhaps only fifteen or sixteen.
“
Hi,” he greeted cautiously.
She looked at him, and then turned away.
“I know you don’t know me,” he continued.
“You alone?” she inquired curtly, turning back to him.
“Yes,” he responded tensely, aware that his answer was less than truthful.
“You a cop?” she asked, again curtly.
“Hardly,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Prove it.”
“Come to the car and I will.”
Evidently she believed him because she began walking with him. He knew he was at a crossroads. The only way he could excuse himself for allowing this situation to reach this stage was that Murdoch had awakened him from an intense sleep and he was still groggy. But now he was clearly leading this girl into a trap. A trap set by a potentially very dangerous man. Plus, they were apparently about to commit a crime, one that he was unmistakably participating in.
And yet, for some strange reason, he believed in Murdoch. That he wasn’t about to harm this girl. That at some very deep level he could be trusted.
Nearing the car, he looked around for Murdoch. He didn’t see him. Astonishingly, he found himself feeling warmly toward the girl beside him. Even in the minimal light, he could tell she was quite pretty, with smooth dark skin and pleasant eyes that seemed unusually bright.
From the passenger side, using the keys Murdoch had given him, he unlocked all four car doors and she got into the front. Walking around to the driver’s side, he spotted Murdoch, still in disguise, coming toward them. As Terry entered the front, Murdoch slipped into the back.
“You said you were alone,” the girl told Terry, accusingly.
Before he could reply, he noticed Murdoch take off his chauffeur’s cap.
“Dad!” the girl exclaimed.
Before the following night’s game in Los Angeles, Murdoch announced, through the team’s Media Relations Director, that he would be declining the league’s invitation to be Oakland’s sole representative in this year’s All Star Classic, less than two weeks away.
Media reaction was swift and intense. They claimed this was just one more example of Murdoch’s arrogance and selfishness, his utter and complete disregard for the sport which supported him so handsomely. They pointed out that Murdoch hadn’t missed a regular season game in over two years. For him to reject the All Star Classic could only be interpreted as a slap in the face to everyone involved in baseball, fans and players alike. Some even mentioned Murdoch’s pursuit of Joe DiMaggio’s record and how deleterious to the sport it would be if he broke it.
Murdoch, as he had done without exception in recent years, ignored all requests for interviews or a media conference.
“I think Murdoch found what he was looking for,” Terry said to Rick.
“What?”
As the two of them sat off by themselves in the Los Angeles airport, waiting to board the team’s flight back to Oakland, Terry told him about the events two nights ago. How he and Murdoch had driven to Hollywood. How they’d found Murdoch’s daughter, Carly. How he’d then driven them to a different hotel than the team’s. How he’d helped rent them a two bedroom suite there, for the duration of the series. How he’d gotten them reservations on a flight to Oakland, separate from the team’s.
“That why he’s not playing in the All Star Classic?” Rick inquired.
Terry looked at him questioningly.
“His daughter,” Rick clarified.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“Brass isn’t happy about his declining the Classic.”
Terry didn’t reply.
“So,” Rick went on, not looking too happy himself, “he finishes one big drama, then creates another.”
Chapter Fourteen
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Carly told Murdoch as they sat on the couch in the living room of her new apartment, just down the hall from his.
“For sure,” he responded.
“I won’t be a prisoner, either.”
“For sure,” he repeated.
“You standing over me like I’m a little child.”
“I’m not standing over you. Why you think I got you your own place?”
When she didn’t answer right away, Murdoch glanced around the room. He was satisfied with the job management of the apartment complex had done. Furnishing it in soft pinks and yellows, rather than the dark colors dominating his place. They had even provided her a replica of the large yellowish-orange stuffed toy tiger that had been her constant companion when she was very young.
They’d accomplished this all on short notice. He had called them from Los Angeles yesterday morning and Carly moved in last night. All he had to do was sign the rental agreement and, of course, hand over his check, both of which he’d done earlier this evening.
“I think we need to face facts,” she said sharply.
“What facts?”
“I got a little problem.”
“What?”
“I think you know what.”
“Drugs?”
Though she didn’t reply, her expression confirmed his supposition. Not that he hadn’t suspected while they were still in Los Angeles, because when he returned to their hotel suite after baseball, she’d either been asleep or acted very strange. Of course none of this made him happy. Nor did the way she looked—much thinner than when he last saw her before the other night, a little over a year ago. Plus, she had large dark circles under her eyes.
“No big surprise,” he said. “Not with your mother’s history.”
“Don’t think for a minute I’m going to detox,” she responded, looking angry.
“No one’s asking you to…. Unless you want to.”
“I don’t want to.”
He didn’t answer.
“I need my stuff,” she declared.
“I don’t want you on the streets, Carly.”
“How you think it’s going to get to me,” she retorted, raising her voice. “Carrier pigeon?”
“You don’t get what you need,” he replied, raising his voice also, “you’ll just run away again…right?”
“Right!”
“Then I don’t have much choice,” he said resignedly, in a lower tone. “I’ll get it for you.”
“You mean you’re going to hit the streets!”
“No. I know some guys…they deliver. Anyway, the streets would be nothing new. Where you think I been all this time looking for you?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her expression changed, becoming less severe. And when she did speak, her voice was much softer.
“Very expensive, Dad. All this.”
He shrugged.
“New apartment. My shit…”
He shrugged again.
“I think you’re asking for trouble,” she said, her tone softer yet. “Having me around…”
“For me to decide,” he answered firmly.
“You going to let Mama know?”
“Don’t think so. Not right away.”
This time it was Carly who shrugged.
“Unless you want me to,” he added.
“I don’t want you to…she’ll just make more trouble for you.”
“You haven’t talked with her lately, have you…?”
“No,” she said, practically whispering. “She has her own problems. Can’t help me with mine.”
“Where were you all this time?”
“Where you found me…the streets.”
“Hollywood…? L.A…?”
“All over California, but mostly Texas.”
“Texas?” he said grimacing. “What were you doing there?”
“Nothing you’d want to know,” she replied, almost under her breath.
Heading down the hall to his own apartment later that night, Murdoch knew he’d done the right thing declining to play in the All Star Classic. With homestands coming up on both sides of the Classic, his next road trip wouldn’t be for two weeks. Giving him time he needed right here.
; During recent seasons, Murdoch received about a dozen letters a month, most of which could be categorized “hate mail.” Many of these attacked his racial origin. Some accused him of abusing women, the specific evidence being—as reported by the media—his treatment of his ex-wife. Others, a very few now, came from Cleveland fans blaming him for their team’s failure to achieve a World Series title.
The week before the All Star Classic, though, Murdoch’s mail drastically increased, and not solely because of his refusal to play in the game. Or the perception that he was arrogant. Or overpaid. No, in the last game before the Classic, his ninth inning game-winning single raised his hitting streak to fifty, just six games short of DiMaggio’s record.
Joe DiMaggio was an American hero, his death earlier that year getting front page headlines. Murdoch was his antithesis. If DiMaggio portrayed class, dignity, and pride, Murdoch was perceived as selfish, immature, and disrespectful.
The notion of Murdoch’s name in the record books seemed universally distasteful. All the more if he replaced the great Joe DiMaggio.
“No way you guys stay in the pennant race.”
This declaration, uttered by the elderly man sitting beside him on the airplane, caused Rick to laugh. He was in a good mood as they descended into San Diego. Taking advantage of the All Star break, he would be spending the next three days at the family home, visiting his two daughters who had time off themselves, from graduate school.
Like Rick, the elderly man possessed dark Hispanic features. Also like Rick, Rick later ascertained, the man had been involved with baseball many years—as a fan. Consequently, once he recognized Rick, as the Oakland manager, conversation was inevitable.
“You guys’ll fade soon,” the man continued.
“Thanks for the confidence.” Rick grinned. “Maybe we should just cancel the rest of our season.”
“Might as well, all the chance you got. Small market team…”
Rick didn’t answer.
“Baseball’s no longer a sport,” the man went on. “It’s a business. With only two sides, the haves, who can afford the best players, and the have nots, who can’t.”
Again, Rick didn’t answer—though he did at least partly concur. Without doubt, economics were important. Teams with abundant finances could attract and keep player talent. And, no question, talented players were vital to success.