Forced Out (9 page)

"Exactly." Truth was, Jack hadn't told Cheryl he was coming back tonight. He'd made up a story about going to dinner with some old codgers he'd met at Publix--which she seemed excited about. Probably because she figured he was finally starting to find a circle of friends, and she'd have more time to herself. "Hey, got a favor to ask you." He moved to where the usher stood and put his arm around the old man's bony shoulders.

"Shoot."

"You know any of the groundskeepers?"

The thing about groundskeepers was they always knew the players pretty well. They had to because they shaped the field for them. High grass if the team had speed so grounders took longer to make it to the defensive players; ridged first-and third-base lines if the leadoff guys could bunt so what they laid down was more likely to stay in play; fences moved in a bit if the team had power. Little things that over the course of a long season might win a few games--and make the difference between winning a pennant and finishing second. Groundskeepers talked to the players and the coaches all the time about what they were doing to the field, to make certain they got the changes exactly right. So meeting a groundskeeper might help him meet Mikey Clemant.

"Well, sure," the usher said. "Blaine Wilson is the head groundskeeper. Heck of a nice guy, too. Why do you ask?"

Jack glanced toward the outfield. Only fifteen minutes to game time, but Clemant was still out in center running wind sprints, long, dark hair flowing behind him like a lion's mane. Everyone else was back in the dugout sitting on their asses, but the kid was still out there working, still fighting to get better. "Just want to talk to him. Think you could arrange it?"

The usher gestured at two men leaning against the fence beside the Tarpon dugout.

"That's Blaine down there on the left. Come on," he called, waving for Jack to follow him down the aisle.

Jack held his hand out when he was still five steps away, putting on his friendliest smile.

"Hi, Blaine. Name's Jack Barrett. Nice to meet you."

"Uh-huh. What do you want?"

The man who'd been standing next to Blaine disappeared into the Tarpon dugout without so much as a wave, and the old usher headed back up the steps to his post outside the tunnel. Which was good. Jack didn't want anyone else in on this conversation. "I'll be straight with you, Blaine. I was here for the game last night, and I saw him play." Jack pointed out to right, where the kid had ended up after his last sprint. "Mikey Clemant. Saw the catch he made in the first and his walk-off homer in the ninth."

"Yeah...so?"

Blaine was sweating profusely. He was overweight, and when you were fat in Florida, you sweated while you swam. "I liked what I saw."

"That's great. Who are you?"

Blaine wasn't pleasant at all. He was one of those guys who needed to be impressed. "I used to be a scout for the Yankees."

Blaine straightened up. "Really?"

Amazing, Jack thought, watching Blaine's demeanor change before his eyes. Now he was showing respect. In the baseball world, working for the Yankees was like working for the pope if you were Catholic. It didn't get any better. "Yeah, thirty-four years." Jack raised his left hand so Blaine could see the World Series ring he'd worn tonight. He'd earned four of them--he'd been too junior to get them for the '77 and '78 wins against the Dodgers--but this was the only one left. It was from the win against the Mets in the 2000 Series--the most valuable of the four. Cheryl had reluctantly sold the other three on eBay to raise the down payment for the house. He hated showing off--hated people who did--so he rarely wore the thing. But tonight he needed what the ring brought with it: instant respect and credibility.

Blaine's eyes bugged out. "Wow."

Now Jack would get answers. "Tell me about the kid."

"Mikey's got all the talent in the world," Blaine said wistfully, still admiring the ring.

"But he's got a screw loose."

"Seems like his teammates don't care much for him," Jack observed. "They didn't bother coming out of the dugout after he hit that walk-off dinger last night. Hell, even the guy he batted in didn't wait around."

Blaine nodded sadly, finally managing to pry his eyes off Jack's finger. "He's pissed 'em off, all right. Royally." He chuckled wryly, like the whole thing was a mystery nobody was going to solve. "But Mikey doesn't seem to care. It doesn't seem to bother him. And he's not a bad guy," Blaine added. "Just misunderstood. I know people think I'm crazy, but I really think he has a good heart under all that anger." Jack took the last bite of the foot-long. "I want to talk to him," he said as he chewed.

"What's the best way to do that?"

Blaine thought for a few moments. "Not here at the park, that's for sure. He might think you're press. Then you'd never get a word with him. He hates the press with a passion." Jack didn't blame Clemant for that. He'd been raked over the coals himself by the New York press four years ago, when everything had gone down. Had his character assassinated by guys he thought were his friends. By guys he'd given inside scoops to for years so they could look good to their editors. They'd rushed to judgment in the name of a story, and that was one part of the bitterness he'd never get past. He had this gnawing suspicion that one of those guys might even be responsible for what had happened. At least had a hand in it. "Any ideas?"

Blaine nodded. "He goes to this bar down the street from here some nights after home games. They got the best cheeseburgers around."

From the looks of Blaine's belly, he was speaking from experience. "What's it called?" Jack asked.

"The Dugout."

* * *

"When's your father gonna be home?" Bobby leaned back, pulled the curtains to one side, and peered nervously out the window. He and Cheryl were sitting on the couch in the living room. "I don't want him coming in here and finding me like this. Christ, he'd be so pissed off if he caught me in the house alone with you."

"Oh, stop. It's not like I'm fifteen."

Bobby raised one eyebrow. "More like thirteen. At least in his eyes." Cheryl waved. "Don't worry. Daddy won't be home for a while. A couple of hours at least."

"Yeah? How do you know?"

"He told me he was going out to dinner with some friends."

"That's impossible."

"Why?"

Bobby stole another suspicious glance out the window. "Nobody could possibly like him enough to want to spend a whole dinner with him."

Cheryl laughed. "You might be right about that." She put her hand on Bobby's knee, then slid her fingers up his thigh a little. Usually he made the first move. "I don't think he went out to dinner with anybody. I think he went to another Tarpon game. He wanted to watch that kid he was all into last night again."

Bobby turned away from the window. "Really? That's kind of weird, don't you think?" She got on her knees on the couch beside Bobby and put both hands on his shoulders. "I would if it was anybody but my dad." She hesitated, uncertain of how much to say. Daddy had asked her not to tell the neighbors, but he'd never said anything about anyone else. "He was with the New York Yankees until a few years ago. A real important guy in the scouting group."

Suddenly Bobby wasn't at all interested in what was outside. "Really? Hey, that's pretty cool. What did he do exactly?"

"During the season he was usually a city ahead of the Yankees, checking out the next team they were playing. During the off-season, he'd go all over the country looking for talent. Down into Central America, too." She was sure she was never going to see him again when he made those trips. "Once he snuck into Cuba to watch this guy play and almost got caught by the secret police. He hitched a ride off a beach near Havana with some guys in a rowboat late at night and finally got picked up by the coast guard."

"Jesus." Bobby shook his head in disbelief. "He snuck into Cuba? That
was
crazy. Well, what happened? Did he retire?"

Cheryl nodded hesitantly. She wasn't going to tell Bobby about that. "Yeah, but I guess he can't get baseball out of his system. It was his life for so long. It was everything to him," she said, hoping she wasn't sounding bitter. "He's amazing. He can remember games from years ago like it was yesterday."

"No wonder he nailed me on the pitch speeds last night." A distant look drifted to Cheryl's face. "He saw that kid make those great plays last night, and he wants to get him to the Show." Before going to bed she'd followed her father's moves on the Internet and seen that it was the Tarpon home page he'd gone to. And the kid's personal page after that. "I know that's what's going on."

"'The Show'? What's that?"

Cheryl eyed Bobby suspiciously. "You know what that means. Come on."

"No, I really don't. What's 'the Show'? What's that mean?" It had always been tough for her growing up--especially after she'd started dating. She always seemed to know more about baseball than the boys, so she'd learned to hold back and not say anything sometimes, learned to seem like she didn't know. Not say everything anyway, because a couple of times she'd embarrassed boys in front of their friends or dads with how much more she knew than they did. But Bobby didn't seem like the type who'd get worked up about it.

"It's what baseball players call the major leagues," she explained, her eyes narrowing quickly. Bobby was already grinning guiltily. "You jerk," she said, punching him gently.

"You knew."

"Yeah, I was testing you," Bobby admitted, pulling her close and kissing her. "Well, if your dad's so into baseball, why was it so damn tough to get him to the Tarpon game last night?" Bobby asked when they finished their kiss. "I mean, we basically had to put chains on him and drag him out there."

She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe he had a hard time with it because he didn't really want to retire. But they have this mandatory thing," she said, hoping Bobby wouldn't pursue it.

Bobby pulled her close again. "Must have been tough for you growing up."

"What do you mean?"

"He was probably gone a lot."

Suddenly she regretted opening up a crack. Bobby had hit the nail on the head, and now the door was swinging wide open against a torrent of emotion.

Daddy had been gone a lot. A
whole
lot. And when he was home, all he wanted to do was spend time with David, her older brother. David had been a star baseball player in high school, then joined the New York City Fire Department. Now he was a decorated veteran who'd won all kinds of medals for his bravery at the World Trade Center, and many times since. He was the family favorite--at least the way she saw it. She'd spent her whole life trying to get her father's attention, spent her whole life competing with David for it. And rarely won.

She glanced around the tiny house. Maybe that was why she was here. There wasn't any competition. At least not right here, not right in her face.

She'd always figured she was here because she was so disappointed in her mother. Disappointed with the deceit, the sneaking around, the lies. Mom had denied it all, but Cheryl knew the truth. Mom had forced her to choose sides right before the divorce was finalized. Well, she must have wished she hadn't done that now. They hadn't spoken in four years. The calls from up North had finally stopped a year ago. Cheryl had always hoped she was here simply because she loved Daddy that much and couldn't bear to think of him alone without his family or his career. Because she was afraid of what might happen in the early hours of a Florida morning after he'd guzzled a pint of scotch after convincing himself he didn't have anything to live for. She'd never have forgiven herself.

But maybe it really was because the competition wasn't here. Maybe that was the answer after all. She finally had Daddy all to herself.

"Must have been really tough," Bobby repeated, his expression sympathetic.

"Yeah," she murmured, "it was."

Bobby leaned over and kissed her hard.

Too hard. Cheryl had wanted to tell him to be gentler ever since their first kiss, but she didn't want to embarrass him, either. She kissed him back, trying to lead him to tenderness with her technique. But it didn't work; he was still rough. "Daddy thinks you're using me," she said, giving up for now. "He doesn't think you want a real relationship with me."

"What?
That's ridiculous. You know how much I care about you."

"
How
much?"

He put one of his big palms on her soft cheek. "I love you, baby," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss her again. "I really do."

And for the first time his lips seemed soft, really soft, and she could tell he was serious. It felt so good. Daddy was wrong. That felt good, too. "Come on," she murmured, standing up and taking his hand. "Let's go to my bedroom."

"You sure?" Bobby asked, wide-eyed.

They'd been dating for a few months, but she hadn't made love to him yet. She'd given him other things to keep him satisfied, to keep him coming back, but she hadn't let him have her entire body. Now she wanted to. "Very sure."

* * *

The Dugout was a hole-in-the-wall wedged between a dry cleaner and a dive Chinese restaurant on a deserted side street a few blocks from the stadium. Just ten bar stools and ten Formica-top tables with baseball memorabilia everywhere. Covering the walls were signed photographs of famous players who'd spent time in Sarasota before going on to the majors. And there were autographed bats, balls, and gloves hanging from the ceiling. Beneath the clear cover of the bar were tons of baseball cards, some that were valuable, Jack noticed.

Jack signaled to the lone bartender. "Another one." There were only a few people in the place, and they were all at tables. He was the only one at the bar. He was about to lift his glass and down the CD-thin sip of scotch remaining when the front door opened and Clemant sauntered in. The kid sat at the far end of the bar on a stool that let him rest his back against the wall--and keep an eye on the door. Up close he was bigger than Jack had anticipated. At least six four and 230 pounds. He wore a gray sleeveless T-shirt, white nylon shorts that hung to his knees, flip-flops, and a plain blue logoless cap with the bill pulled way down. Muscles rippled all over him as he moved, like a big cat. He was a walking advertisement for the perfect physique. Jack was careful not to make eye contact, just nursed what was left of his drink and took sidelong glances every once in a while. He wanted to make sure the kid had time to relax, time to settle in. The bartender said the kid usually drank a couple of beers with dinner, so Jack waited, hoping the alcohol might loosen him up. Waited until the kid had almost finished off two big cheeseburgers, a whole plate of fries, and three Miller Lites before casually walking over and sitting down on the bar stool beside him. He hesitated a few moments, laying his left palm flat on the bar, giving Clemant a widescreen view of the World Series ring. Finally he turned toward the kid. "Name's Jack Barrett," he said smoothly, holding out his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you." The kid took his time responding. Slowly finished the last French fry before wiping his palms thoroughly with a napkin and shaking hands. "Mikey Clemant," he said with a friendly smile.