Die Like an Eagle (25 page)

“Yuck. Why would anyone ever want to go anywhere near that thing?”

“Precisely,” I said. “We don't have to go all that near, actually—just close enough to be sure we're the only ones within earshot.”

“If you say so.”

Within a couple of minutes I saw Caroline striding toward my fallen log.

“Well, you're right,” she said. “Nobody out here, and every reason for it to stay that way.”

“Unless someone spots us and wants to talk to one of us for some reason,” I said. “So let me cut to the chase. Remember the tracking devices you planted on Biff and his car?”

She nodded.

“Remember how I asked if they were even legal?”

She nodded again.

“Well, they're not.” I outlined the gist of my conversation with Festus.

“So what's the big deal?” she asked. “Why not just pay the five hundred dollars if they catch me?”

“You could do that,” I said. “But what if Biff finds out about them and tries to sue you? The longer they're there, the more you've invaded his privacy and caused him emotional distress and—”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “Good point. I get why we need to retrieve them. We can work on that while he's here at the baseball field. But why not just get them back and shut up about it? It's not as if the data does anything but prove the alibi Vern and Aida gave him.”

“As far as we know,” I said. “And what if the data implicates him in some other crime?”

“There haven't been any other crimes here in the last few days,” Caroline said.

“That we know of.”

“For heaven's sake, this is Caerphilly!”

“Let's just worry about getting the bugs back first,” I said. “And Festus is coming down tonight or tomorrow—talk to him. If he thinks the data is not worth taking to the police, I'll shut up about it.”

“Okay,” she said. “Let me go find that cousin of yours who helped me bug his car. I don't actually know where on the car he put the darned thing.”

“Suggestion,” I said. “May I tell Festus you're his new client?”

“Might as well.” She stomped off, clearly annoyed with me.

“Don't shoot the messenger,” I muttered.

I thought of pulling out my phone to tell Festus. And then I changed my mind and pulled out my notebook instead. I added a to-do item: “Tell Festus who his new client is.” I could tell him when I saw him.

Maybe by that time Caroline would already have retrieved the bugs. Festus would probably be a lot happier if he was representing a client who had repented of her crime, or at least stopped committing it.

And besides—the game was getting started. I scrambled back to the field in time to see as well as hear as some fifty members of the New Life Baptist Choir delivered a rousing rendition of the national anthem.

“Play ball!” the announcer called at the end, though it was a couple of minutes before the maroon-clad choir members could finish their processing back off the field and into the crowd, where most of them shed the maroon robes and settled down in their multicolored t-shirts to watch the game.

And the game went well—for the Eagles, at least. Biff must have recovered from his earlier shock. He charged out of the dugout at every opportunity to contest the umpire's calls. I'd met the umpire in passing before the game—a slender man with thinning sandy hair and a ready smile. But on the field he was impassive, no-nonsense, and apparently unruffled by Biff's antics.

I did see him glance occasionally toward the spot right behind home plate where Mr. Witherington, with admirable impartiality, had set up his bright red folding chair. Maybe the umpire was under orders to ignore Biff's antics as far as possible. If so, was that giving Biff unfair treatment? Or just room to hang himself?

But nothing Biff said or did could change the fact that the Eagles were clearly dominating the Stoats. Most of the crowd had sprawled on the third-base side of the field and were rooting for the Eagles, but it was a generous crowd, cheering almost as loudly for a good play by the Stoats—on the infrequent occasions when they made one. At the end of the fourth inning, with the score at twenty-two to three, the umpire announced that he was invoking the mercy rule and the game was over.

Both sets of coaches collected their teams in the outfield for a postgame team meeting. Michael and Chuck were clearly passing out a lot of praise, to judge by the smiling faces and high fives in left field. In right field, the Stoats slumped in morose silence while Biff paced up and down in front of them. Fortunately the sound system came on and John Fogerty's “Centerfield” drowned out whatever Biff was saying.

I went over to take my turn in the Snack Shack—the real Snack Shack again. After Horace finished processing it, the chief gave us permission to resume operations. We had no shortage of volunteers, thanks to Mother's recruitment efforts, but I wanted to be seen doing my fair share of the scut work. Maybe it was the new impressively clean state of the Snack Shack or maybe Randall was right about the salutary effect of knowing clean porta-potties were at hand, but for whatever reason, business was booming, pouring floods of coffee, soda, Gatorade, bottled water, gum, and snack chips into the milling crowd. And I could tell they were eyeing the still-cold grills with interest. At this rate, maybe we'd manage to raise the funds for those permanent lights and flush toilets by the end of the season.

The Eagles mobbed the Snack Shack, and from the conversations I overheard, it was clear that most of them were dying to stay to watch the rest of the day's games—and those parents who weren't also planning to stay were making arrangements with those who were.

None of the Stoats had showed up at the counter by the time my half-hour shift ended. Were they still out in right field being lectured? No, but apparently they weren't eager to stay around and watch more baseball. The right-field bleachers were filling up with fans wearing Muckdog t-shirts. No Stoats in sight.

And come to think of it, there hadn't been any Stoat parents on the Snack Shack roster. Was this a minor schedule aberration, or did being in Biff's camp provide immunity from work details?

I took a picture of the Snack Shack duty schedule that hung just inside the door, noticing that there were also no Yankee parents scheduled to work during their 1:00
P.M.
game with the Nats. Interesting.

The Muckdogs beat the River Rats five to four in a lively and good-natured game. The Eagles fans left over from the first game distributed themselves impartially between the two sets of bleachers, and any really good play generally got cheers from both sides of the field.

And then the right-side bleachers mostly emptied out again as the one o'clock start time of the Yankees/Nats game approached and the Yankees parents began claiming their spots.

“I've been wondering,” I asked Michael. “How come all the Pruitts are on Biff's team, and all the Shiffleys on the Flatworms, while your team is mostly children of college staff and faculty? Wasn't there some kind of tryout, or did everyone just pick their friends' kids?”

“According to Chuck, there was a tryout, but then he was supposed to submit his choices to Biff, and a week later Biff told him who he'd gotten. And yeah, you're right about the teams being mostly people who already know each other. We figure Biff stacks the teams that way for some reason.”

“Maybe to keep people from getting to know too many other parents in the league,” I said. “Reduce the chances they'll join forces and rebel.”

Michael frowned and nodded slightly. As we watched, Biff strutted out onto the field, barking orders at his players.

“Maybe we should take a break,” I suggested to Michael over the heads of Josh, Jamie, and the several other Eagles who were staying with us to watch the games.

“No!” “But we want to stay!” “You said we could watch all the games!” the Eagles protested in loud chorus.

“No one wants to go get lunch?” I asked. “There's nothing to eat here but hot dogs and hamburgers from the Snack Shack.”

“But we like hot dogs and hamburgers from the Snack Shack,” Josh protested. Jamie, Mason, Sami, and Adam chimed in their agreement.

“I think it will be all right,” Michael said. “We'll be here to … explain things.”

And we couldn't protect them from the rough edges of life forever, I thought, with a sigh. It started off much like the Eagles/Stoats game, with Biff challenging the umpire at every turn. Although the umpire, spoiled by the tranquil congeniality of the Muckdogs/River Rats game, seemed just a little less patient and impassive.

Or maybe it was Mr. Witherington who had lost patience. I could see the umpire glancing back at him from time to time. Was Mr. Witherington giving him some signal so subtle I couldn't pick up on it? A signal that usually said “patience; just let him hang himself”—and sometimes “go for it!”

The Yankees were doing even worse than their younger siblings on the Stoats. By the top of the third inning, the Nats were winning, seven to two. And the farther behind the Yankees fell, the more Biff demonstrated his dire need for an anger management class. If I were the umpire, I'd have tossed him out at least an inning ago. As it was, the umpire was looking at Mr. Witherington a lot more often.

Intrigued by this phenomenon, I left Michael to wrangle the Eagles and took up a position behind the backstop, closer to Mr. Witherington. Randall was already there.

“One of my nephews,” Randall said, nodding at the current Nats batter. “Good little hitter.”

“Ball three.”

“Good eye!” Randall called out.

“Are you kidding, Blue?” Biff groaned. “Bring your Seeing Eye dog next time.”

The umpire ignored him.

The Yankee pitcher, after a few nervous glances at his dugout, wound up and threw again. This time the ball hit the backstop about four feet to the right of the plate. Surely even Biff couldn't argue with the call on that one.

“Ball four!” The umpire waved the Nats batter toward first base.

Biff came boiling out of the dugout, and I saw the umpire stiffen, until he realized that Biff was heading for the mound, not the plate. The entire ballpark went silent—so silent that we could hear most of what Biff was saying to his pitcher. Not a word of helpful advice about how to correct what he was doing wrong—just verbal abuse.

I felt sorry for the poor kid on the mound. Did Biff really think that yelling at an eleven- or twelve-year-old kid was going to improve his pitching? From where I stood, it looked as if the kid had been doing a pretty good job at the start of the inning, but then he'd walked a batter, and Biff had gone charging out to the mound, red-faced and scowling, and berated the kid for what seemed like an eternity. The poor kid had walked the next batter—probably because he was so shaken from being browbeaten—and Biff had repeated the process. And now the kid had walked a third batter, loading the bases, and there went Biff again. Did he really think the third time was a charm, and yelling at the kid would work this time? Or—

Wait a minute. Third time's a charm.

Biff was stomping back toward the dugout. The pitcher was hunched as if fending off blows. The catcher was standing halfway to the mound, as if he wanted to go out and comfort his teammate but didn't dare for fear of Biff.

“He has to pull the pitcher,” I called out. Everyone was still silent, cringing as they watched Biff in action, so my voice carried even better than usual.

People turned to stare at me in shock. Didn't anyone else read the rule book? Or maybe the question was, didn't anyone else dare to call Biff when he broke the rules? Even the umpire was still staring dumbfounded at Biff. Surely he'd seen bad behavior before.

“Play ball!” Biff bellowed from the dugout.

“Third time to the mound in a single inning.” I turned to face Mr. Witherington, but made sure I was loud enough for the umpire—and Biff—to hear. “He has to pull the pitcher. Rule 5.18 in the Summerball Official Rule Book: ‘A manager or coach may visit the mound twice in one inning, but after the third visit, the player must be removed as pitcher.' Have I got it right?”

Mr. Witherington glanced over at the umpire and nodded almost imperceptibly.

“The lady is correct, sir,” the umpire said to Biff. “Send in your new pitcher so he can start warming up.”

“Play ball,” Biff bellowed.

“We play ball when I say so,” the umpire said. “Either get a new pitcher out to the mound to warm up or forfeit the game.”

Biff swarmed out of the dugout and ran over to the umpire, ending up so close to him that I think their noses bumped. I had to give the umpire credit for not flinching or backing up an inch.

“You idiot!” Biff began, and then he began to berate the umpire, dropping the F-bomb twice in his first sentence.

“Coach,” the umpire broke in. “Take a step back and lose that language.”

Biff paid no attention and continued his tirade.

“Take a hike,” the umpire said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the parking lot.

Biff uttered an incoherent howl and lurched at the umpire, both hands outstretched as if to grab him by the throat.

 

Chapter 20

Apparently Biff's assistant coach had an inkling that something like this could happen, because he was already halfway to the plate when Biff lost it. For that matter, the two Nats coaches were already running in from their base coach spots at first and third. The umpire managed to escape throttling by setting a new world record for the standing backward broad jump, and then the three sane coaches grabbed Biff and kept him from doing any physical damage. The three of them half-led, half-dragged Biff back to the dugout. Several men from the Yankees bleachers raced into the dugout and hustled Biff through it and out into the parking lot.

Mr. Witherington was still standing just behind home plate, fingers twined into the chain-link fence as if he needed to hold onto something. He glanced back and saw me looking at him.