by Paul Hina
winces as he grabs the bat. He's starting to think that goon might have actually cracked a rib or two.
He sits the bat on the passenger seat. It won't do him much good against their guns, but it's better than having nothing at all.
He hits the steering wheel hard with the palm of his hand when he thinks about what he's gotten himself into. Why did he come to Milpitas anyway? What good was it going to do him? What did he expect to get out of the trip? Plus, he played right into Ramsey's hands. It was like they knew he was coming. Besides, all he knows now that he didn't know before is that the Crawfords had filed a missing persons report after the accident. Any moderately competent lawman—with even the slightest hint of an investigation—would've at least considered the possibility of putting two and two together. Of course, it's true that the sheriff's department would've been dealing with some less than forthcoming interrogations. Still, it would be nice to think that Sam and his boys at least put in the effort.
The goons are hot on his tail as he enters the heart of Milpitas. He knows he's safe as long as he's driving through town. It's what happens once he's out of town that has him worried. He only hopes Crystal's mom follows through on her promise to call the sheriff, and to pass along his message. That may be his only hope of getting back to San Jose in one piece.
As he drives through Milpitas, he considers stopping at a pay phone to call the sheriff himself. It even occurs to him that he should call Maggie. She's probably starting to worry. He has been gone longer than he thought he would be. But he doesn't even know what he'd say, and he doesn't want to worry her any more than she's worrying already. None of it matters anyway. He knows they're not going to let him make a call. He's reasonably confident that they won't run him off the road within the city limits, but they don't strike him as the types that would be too bothered to drag a guy from a phone booth for a good beating, baseball bat in hands or not.
Leaving Milpitas, Clay pushes his foot heavy against the gas petal, but they're staying close on his tail. He knows what's coming. He's about to get a taste of what Brett got the night they killed him.
Clay squeezes both hands tight against the wheel and focuses on the road, glancing at the rearview mirror every few seconds to monitor their distance.
They zoom right up on his bumper. Clay jerks the wheel to the left to avoid the impact. They narrowly miss him. He swerves a bit, but is able to regain control of the car. He eases his way back onto the right side of the road. They press up on him again. He tries to swerve, but they tag him on the right side of the car, clipping the fender of Maggie's car. The car starts to swerve. Clay can't get it under control. The car starts to spin. He's trying to turn toward the spin, tapping the brakes, careful not to stop too quick out of fear of the car flipping over.
Eventually, the car comes to a stop. He's facing north now, looking back toward Milpitas. He's staring at an empty field, and he's off the road by about twenty feet or so. The dust he's kicked up from going off-road is still hovering all around the car. He looks around and sees their car parked on the shoulder on the other side of the road.
He decides his only choice is to wait them out. He leans his head against the steering wheel and closes his eyes. Once the dust settles, he opens his eyes just enough to peek out the window. They're still sitting in their car, waiting for him to do something. But he's not going anywhere. As long as he's safe in the car, he'll happily wait awhile longer if it means they get bored and drive away.
But that's probably not the way this is going to play out. These aren't the kinds of guys that get bored and drive away. They aren't about to let Clay off the hook that easily.
A few minutes pass, and they still haven't budged. As far as Clay is concerned, there's no way for them to know if he's even conscious or not. He's had his head on the wheel with his eyes deceptively closed the whole time. Still, they haven't made a move.
At some point, though, a car is going to drive by, and, if Clay is lucky, they'll stop to see what's going on. Then, maybe, he can follow them back to town.
Almost as soon as Clay has the thought, a car does come by—heading north toward Milpitas. The car stops and pulls over onto the shoulder, only about twelve or so feet from Maggie's car. An older guy gets out of the vehicle, starts heading in Clay's direction, but then he turns toward the goons. They've said something to him. He moves back toward their car. He approaches their driver's side window, and they talk for a few seconds. Then, as quick as he showed up, he was back in his car. And, after one last look in Clay's direction—Clay still hasn't moved his head from the steering wheel or fully opened his eyes—the guy gets back in his car and continues down the road.
For a second, Clay considers sitting up and hitting the gas, following the guy back to Milpitas, taking his chances in town. Besides, the goons wouldn't try to run him off the road if there were an innocent bystander in view. At least, he doesn't think they would.
Then, suddenly, Goon #2, the one who was driving, gets out of the car. He stands there for a second staring at Clay. Clay begins to wonder if he's going to come over, but then he walks toward the passenger side of their car, where Goon #1 is sitting. Then he turns, his back to their car, facing the field on the other side of the road.
He's taking a leak.
This is Clay's moment. He sits bolt upright, quickly maneuvers the car back onto the road, and makes a u-turn. The tires on Maggie's car squeal the whole way around, and he almost clips the left fender on the goons' car as he passes by. But once he's got the car straight, he guns it back toward San Jose.
Of course, the whole time he can see Goon #2 trying to shake a leg and get back into the car. It was the first time Clay had seen the guy crack an expression, and it wasn't a happy one.
But #1 has slid over to the driver's seat, and #2 has hopped into the passenger seat, and they're off in his direction again.
Still, at this point, Clay probably has a couple hundred yards on them, and he's really flying. Maggie's Ford Super Deluxe is more powerful than Clay's Fleetmaster, and he's feeling much more confident about his ability to get clear of these guys now.
But his confidence only lasts a second as it becomes increasingly obvious that their car is even more powerful than Maggie's. They're closing in on him fast.
Once they're a couple hundred feet from him, he tries to think of a way out of this mess. Maybe he could go off the road, wait them out again. But the look on Goon #2's face when Clay drove off a minute ago makes him think they won't be as patient with him a second time around.
Then, Clay spots a sheriff's car parked just off the side of the road ahead. It's almost as if the car's been waiting for them. Maybe Crystal's mom actually came through for Clay and called them after all.
Clay starts to slow a bit, and the goons behind him pull back as well. As they pass the sheriff's car, the lights come on, the siren sounds, and the officer starts following the goons.
They pull over, but the sheriff passes them by and continues toward Clay. So, Clay pulls over too. The cop gets out of the car, and it's Sam. Clay takes a nice, clean breath as Sam approaches Maggie's car.
"What took you so long?" Clay asks through the open car window.
"Looks like I got here just in time," Sam says. "You mind waiting here a second. Let me go tell these bums to get lost."
"Sure thing," Clay says, and watches Sam walk back toward the goons' car from his side mirror.
The goons had pulled over a couple hundred feet back, and Sam doesn't look like he's in any hurry to get to them. He just ambles up the street like he's on some lazy afternoon stroll.
By the time he gets to their car, he leans on their door frame, where their driver's side window is rolled down. Sam certainly knows how to look comfortable with these guys, too comfortable from Clay's perspective. He's sure not acting like a guy who's telling a couple of goons to get lost.
But, as Sam stands up and comes back toward Clay, the goons turn around and head north toward Milpitas again.
Clay
watches as Sam ambles back to him through the side mirror. He skips the driver side window this time, walks over to the passenger door, and gets in.
"Why are you driving Maggie's car?"
"Just as a diversion. Got a guy tailing me from San Francisco."
"For the same reason these guys are giving you the business?"
"Yep."
"What have you gotten yourself into here, Clay?"
"Same thing I came to see you about yesterday."
"I figured," Sam says, turning and looking out the passenger side window. "If you want my advice, you should quit while you're ahead."
"I don't remember asking for any advice."
"I'm giving it anyway, and you'd be smart to take it."
"And why's that?"
"Cause I might not be here next time to rescue you."
"Is that so?"
"You can never be sure."
"That almost sounds like a threat."
"Why would I threaten you?" Sam asks, looking directly at Clay.
"I don't know. There just seems to be a lot of people that want me off this case."
"Well, I'm just worried about you, that's all," Sam says. "What were you doing at the Crawford house anyway? What do they have to do with any of this?"
"Crystal Crawford is missing."
"So?"
"Why haven't you done any of the investigative work to put the pieces together?"
"What pieces? Her parents told me they thought she probably ran off to L.A."
"But she's hasn't."
"How do you know?"
"Because she's dead, Sam. She was the one in the car with Brett that night, not Emma."
"Who told you that?"
"I'll be happy to tell you that as soon as I've wrapped this thing up."
"Clay, don't do that. I'll charge you for interfering with an investigation."
"I suppose you could if it was still an open investigation."
"But, if you have new information, I'll reopen the case."
"I don't think you will."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I think you knew something wasn't right about that accident, and—"
"I told you everything I knew about the accident yesterday. It was cut and dry."
"Baloney! It was never cut and dry."
"Well, then, show me something. Tell me what you know."
"In due time."
"Clay, so help me God, I'll take you to the station right now."
"You looked pretty comfortable talking to Ramsey's goons back there."
"Yeah, so?"
"What'd you tell 'em? You tell 'em you'd take care of me?"
"Clay—"
"It was you who called Ramsey, warning him that I was working this case—a case you closed way too soon."
"What are you talking about?"
"You heard me."
"I did no such thing, and I—"
"And I think you knew it wasn't Emma in the car that night."
"That's not true."
"Come on, Sam."
"Honestly, Clay, I believed it was Emma, and I never found any evidence otherwise. I've always thought it was Emma. It was an open-and-shut case from the beginning to me."
"So, why are you protecting Ramsey?"
"I'm not protecting anybody. Where in the world are you—?"
"But you didn't pursue the case the way you should've. You didn't go to the right people. You didn't ask the right questions."
"That's just not true. If you would've seen what I saw that night, it had all the telltale signs of a normal, albeit severe, single-vehicle accident. I've been on this job a long time. I've seen enough car accidents to know one when I see it."
"This wasn't an accident," Clay says. "They cut his brake line and ran him off the road. They even started the fire."
"Who?"
"Same guys who just tried to run me off the road. The same guys you just sent home."
"How do you know that?"
"I did the work."
"I don't know what you're insinuating, but—"
"I'm saying you didn't do the work. I'm saying that you decided the outcome of the case before you asked the proper questions. The way this whole thing has been handled is an absolute mess, and it looks bad."
"I did do the work. No sheriff in California would look at that file and find a problem with how I handled things. You don't know how hard it was to get that site cleared out and cleaned up. I was on that road all night, and had several of my guys with me too. Not one person questioned the way I was handling things. Not one. And I could've closed the case that night, after I finished the paperwork. But I decided to keep digging. I did ask questions. I did the legwork. I conducted interviews. Not to mention the days I spent trying to figure out how best to identify the bodies. I even called the state in to help. If I were trying to cover anything up, I sure had a lousy way of showing it."
"Okay, fine. Let's say you did the work. Let's say that any sheriff would've decided the case the same way you did. I still have a question."
"What?"
"Why'd you call Ramsey to warn him about me?"
"Have you lost your mind? I have no earthly idea what you're talking about."
"Well, let's simplify things a bit," Clay says. "How long have you known Ramsey?"
"I've known of him for years, but I've never met the guy."
"Never?"
"I've never even seen him," Sam says. "I have played cards at his tables before, though."
"You know about his clubs?"
"Sure I do. I play cards at his tables every now and again."
"In Fremont?"
"That's right."
"What in the world are you doing going there?"
"Like I said, I play cards. I have a good time. Same thing everyone else does there."
"But, if the feds ever raided that place, which is not outside the realm of possibility, you'd be forced to resign."
"It's outside my jurisdiction, but, yeah, I suppose it wouldn't look good."
"Were you there recently?"
"Yeah, I was there late last week."
"You see anybody interesting there?"
"I saw Jack."
"Jack? Jack Clayborne?"
"Yeah."
"What was he doing in Fremont?"
"I don't know. I suppose he was doing some work for Ramsey."
"Was he playing cards?"
"I don't know. He was leaving as I was coming in."
"You talk to him?"
"Sure I did."
"About the accident?"
"Among other things."
"What'd you tell him?"
"Not much," Sam says. "I told him that I was about to wrap it up."
"And you never stopped to wonder why he was asking you about the investigation?
"No. Everyone had been asking me about the accident. People were curious."
"What'd exactly did he say to you?"
"He told me that he'd looked into it. Ramsey had been worried that, since Brett was a fixture at his clubs, people would start asking questions about his business, and he didn't want anybody sniffing around. He told me what I already thought I knew, that nothing fishy was going on, that it was just an accident. I told him that I had pretty much come to that conclusion myself. Then he started telling me about a group of investors who were preparing to make a move to bring the Giants to San Francisco."
"The New York Giants?"
"That's right," Sam says. "Jack said that it would look bad if a guy like Brett, a young, hot prospect, were to be implicated with gambling in any way. He said that the longer the case was open, the more likely it would be for the story to lead to…"
"To Ramsey?"
"Uh huh."
"And that didn't raise a red flag in your mind."
"Nope. It sounded logical to me. You know how baseball is about gambling. If the area looks friendly to gamblers, then the big boys will never come west."
"So, he asked you to clo
se the case?"
"Not explicitly, no."
"Sounds that way to me."
"It might sound that way, but I'm telling you I was ready to close the case anyway."
"And how long after you had this conversation with Jack did you officially close the case."
"Clay, this is—"
"Just tell me."
"It was the next day, but—"
"Christ, Sam."
"But I'm telling you—"
"After your conversation with Jack, did you play cards?"
"I did."
"And did the guys at the club do anything for you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did they give you any money? A girl?"
"They comped me some chips, but nothing out of the ordinary."
"Out of the ordinary or not, it looks like you took a bribe."
"I did no such thing."
"It won't matter how you saw it. In a courtroom, perception always trumps reality."
"In court? What's gotten into you? You're taking this whole thing awful serious."
"It is serious."
"Are you trying to implicate me in a cover-up?"
"Christ, Sam, I'm not a prosecutor. I'm just trying to make my way through the weeds on this thing."
"You have to believe me, I closed that case with a clear conscience. I thought all the Ramsey stuff was, if you'll excuse the expression, just inside baseball. I believed what Jack told me, that his concerns were mostly political. You know how it is with this stuff. One reporter gets ahold of information that Brett was a gambling man, and, all of a sudden, we never get big league baseball in San Francisco. Then, of course, the law, pushed by angry, powerful interests upset that their plans for baseball fell through, would take it out on people like Ramsey. So, I wasn't surprised that Ramsey was curious about the case. But his interest never made me suspect that he was involved in the accident."
"Well, he is."
"And you're sure about that?"
"I think so."
"So, that's why you're in so much trouble."
"No question about that."
"Then let me get involved. Give me what you have on this case, and I'll do what I can to protect you."
"Give me until tomorrow, and I'll give you everything I've got."
"I'll do that, but if I don't hear from you by tomorrow evening…"
"You will," Clay says. "And Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"If, in the future, someone asks you the same questions I just asked you, you might want to have some different answers handy."
"He still out there?" Clay asks, walking into Maggie's office.
"I think so," Maggie says, standing up from her desk and walking over to the window. "He came up to the box office an hour or so ago."
"What'd he say?"
"He asked for you."
"By name?"
"Yep."
"No kidding?"
"No kidding."
"What'd you tell him?"
"I told him you were in the locker room," Maggie says, looking at Clay. "I asked if he wanted me to get you."
"You did?"
"I did," she says. "He didn't call my bluff."
"Lucky for you."
"I would've figured something out."
"I'll bet you would've," Clay says, and sits on the edge of her desk. Maggie walks up to him, drapes her arms over his shoulders.
"How's your lip?"
"It only hurts when I think about it."
"Or when I kiss it?" she asks, leaning in to kiss him.
"That too. But I'm not complaining," he says, kissing her back.
"Where'd you go? You've been gone awhile."
"Couple different places," he says. "I do have some bad news, though."
"What's that?"
"A couple of guys dinged up the back of your car."
"What do you mean? How'd that happen?" Maggie asks, taking a step back from Clay.
"They were trying to run me off the road, and they clipped your rear fender.