Three Strikes and You're Dead (3 page)
Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
“No, no,” he said. “Wait for me. I’ll only be here a little longer. I want to stop home to see the judge.”
“He called us on my cell phone right after the game,” Meg said, tearing up. “He’s just bursting with happiness. You make him so proud.”
Ty turned a pink bright, enough to be discernible against his naturally dusky complexion. “I like making the judge proud,” he said. “You stay right here, okay? Don’t leave without me.”
“We’ll be here,” I assured him.
Rattlers manager Buddy Washington was soaked from the top of his bald head to the bottom of his cleats. He wiped away rivulets of moisture from his face with his hand as a female reporter in a bright red suit with dark wet patches, testifying that she hadn’t escaped the celebration, shoved a microphone at his mouth. Behind her, a cameraman flicked on a light and aimed his lens at the manager.
“Buddy Washington, manager of the Mesa Rattlers, that was quite a nail-biter in the ninth inning, but your guys came through. You’ve been around a long time, but this is your first championship. Did you ever think this day would come?”
“We’ve got a great team, Karen. These kids are great. I’ve known we had a winning team ever since spring training. I had confidence in them.”
“And you kept it through that seven-game losing streak in July?”
Washington winced at the reminder. “Sure I did. Every team has its ups and downs. That was just a temporary hitch. You’ve got to play through it. And we did. We’ve got the basic talent here to be champs in any league, any league at all.”
Meg and I watched the interview and laughed along with Washington as Ty, egged on by another teammate, poured bottled water over his manager’s head.
The reporter turned to Ty.
“Ty Ramos hit a homer to win the game and seal the league championship. You’re the game’s most valuable player, Ty, and there’s talk you’ll be named MVP of the season. Tell the people how it feels to be the hero of the day.”
Ty pulled over another player and wrapped his arm around his teammate’s neck. “Carter here got three hits today,” he shouted into the microphone. “And our pitchers kept the Texons to only three runs. We got a great manager in Buddy Washington, who had faith in us even when we sucked. Can I say ‘sucked’ on TV?”
“You just did,” Carter said, laughing and taking a slug from a bottle of beer.
“Then I guess it’s okay,” Ty said.
“I can edit it out later, if the station objects,” Karen said. “Keep talking.”
“Where was I? Oh, yeah, like Buddy says, this is a great team, with great team spirit.”
Someone shouted from behind him, “Rattlers forever!” and let out a loud war cry that left my ears ringing.
“See what I mean?” Ty said, looking over his shoulder. “When you got a great team, everyone contributes. It isn’t one guy or two. It’s all of us.”
“You tell him, captain,” Carter said, grinning.
“That’s a her, not a him,” Ty said, pointing his empty bottle at Karen, whose figure beneath the suit said loud and clear that she was indeed a “her.”
Carter guffawed and covered his mouth with his hand.
“Even Junior Bennett?” Karen said. There was a skeptical note in her voice.
“She’s baiting him,” I said to Meg.
“He can handle it,” she replied.
“Junior’s a great player,” Ty said. “Where is he? I haven’t congratulated him yet.” Ty craned his neck, peering around the chaotic locker room, then caught Meg’s eye and winked at her before turning back to the microphone. “Right now,” he said, raising his empty water bottle, “we’re the best team in baseball.”
Another reporter with a pad and pen stepped in front of Ty and Carter. “Can I get a comment from you for the
Gazette
?” he asked.
Gazette
?” he asked.
“Sure, Franco,” Carter said. “What would you like us to say?”
“Tedeschi, you stepped right into my shot,” Karen said, a frown marring her pretty face. She moved sideways to get the unrepentant newspaperman out of the picture. “We’ll have to edit. Keep rolling.” She adjusted her expression and continued. “This is Karen Locke in the Mesa Rattlers locker room, where good fellowship prevails—for now—and the celebration continues. Back to you in the studio.”
The cameraman flicked off his light and looked to Karen for guidance. “You want more?” he asked.
“Yes. I need some B-roll for tonight’s wrap-up,” she said, popping a piece of chewing gum into her mouth. She looked past the
Gazette
reporter and the two ballplayers and cocked her head at her cameraman. “I see team owner Harrison Bennett, Sr., coming in,” she told him. She lifted a foot off the wet, sticky floor and shook drops of moisture off her shoes. “Let’s get a comment from him and then get out of here before we’re all electrocuted.”
Gazette
reporter and the two ballplayers and cocked her head at her cameraman. “I see team owner Harrison Bennett, Sr., coming in,” she told him. She lifted a foot off the wet, sticky floor and shook drops of moisture off her shoes. “Let’s get a comment from him and then get out of here before we’re all electrocuted.”
Ty spotted Junior Bennett and broke away from Carter and Franco Tedeschi to approach him. “Hey, buddy,” he said, grinning and raising his hand for a high five.
Junior ignored the gesture and pushed past Ty, shouldering him aside.
“Junior, Junior. We’re the champs,” Ty said to his teammate’s back. “Doesn’t that make you happy?”
Junior swung around, his expression furious, his hands fisted by his side. “You just love to be in the limelight, don’t you?”
“Sure, especially when we win,” Ty said, working to keep the grin on his face.
“You think you’re such a big shot. Anyone could’ve got a hit off that pitcher. He was slowing down.”
“Maybe he was. So what? The thing is we won.”
“So that was my hit. I should’ve been the one at bat.”
Ty held his hands up, palms out. “Hey, buddy. Not my call. Can’t you just be grateful we’re on top?”
“Don’t preach to me, you dirty sp—”
Buddy Washington grabbed Junior’s elbow and stepped between him and Ty. “Back off,” he growled. “I don’t want to hear that stuff. Grow up, Junior. He did what I wanted. He got the job done.”
“I could’ve done the same.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But I make the decisions around here, not you.”
“We’ll see about that,” Junior said. “You were supposed to leave me in. You’re not long for this job.”
Several team members nearby turned to listen in on the conversation.
Junior looked around sheepishly.
Washington stroked his chin and peered at Junior from under bushy eyebrows. “I’m not? Really? You got some inside knowledge, Junior? Your father consulting you now about his plans for the team?”
Junior had the grace to blush. “No, um—I just think—” he stammered and fell silent.
“Yeah, well. Confine your thinking to how you’re going to work on improving your batting average in the off-season. And in the meantime”—he glanced at Ty, then back to Junior—“keep your disagreements private. The press is swarming all over the place. I don’t want to read any negative comments tomorrow or see anything but smiles on the news tonight. Understand?”
Junior gave a quick nod and hurried away.
“Don’t look at me,” Ty said to his manager, his hands in the air. “I was just tryin’ to congratulate him.” The grin was back on his face.
Washington scowled at him. “I got no patience for grandstanding,” he said, pointing his finger at his star player. Then his expression softened. He gave Ty a soft punch in the arm. “Good job today, son.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Yes, congratulations, Ramos,” a deep voice said from behind Ty.
I saw concern flash in Washington’s eyes and just as quickly disappear as the manager gave the owner a hearty smile, and said, “Congratulations to you, H.B. I told you we had a winning team.”
Bennett rested a hand on Ty’s shoulder. “Leave us alone, boy.”
“Sure thing, sir,” Ty said, looking to Washington, who waved him away.
“I don’t like it when my orders are ignored,” Bennett said.
“Shouldn’t we discuss this in your office?” Washington said softly, his eyes on the television reporter across the room. “We don’t want to be overheard.”
“Don’t tell me where I can talk. This is my team and my locker room. You’re my employee, and don’t forget it.”
Washington shrugged, but even from a distance away I could see a vein beating in his temple, a sign of the tension he felt. “Suit yourself,” he said, feigning nonchalance.
“I do suit myself. And so should you if you know what’s good for you. Didn’t I tell you to leave him in?”
I noticed that with all the Gatorade, beer, and soda flowing, no one in the locker room had dared pour a drop over Harrison Bennett, Sr. He was immaculately dressed in a gray sharkskin suit, a white shirt, and a tie patterned with little baseball caps of red, white, and blue. He was a tall man, broadly built, with a receding hairline camouflaged by a buzz cut that gave him the appearance of someone in the military.
Washington plucked at his damp jersey and weighed his words. “Junior hadn’t connected all day,” he said slowly. “The Texons had a leftie on the mound. We needed a good bat against a left-handed pitcher. Ramos was that bat.” He locked eyes with Bennett, his lips a tight line.
“I don’t pay you to second-guess my instructions.”
“But you do pay me to win,” Washington said. “And that’s what we did.”
The
Gazette
reporter, pretending not to listen, was inching toward the two men, and across the room Karen Locke strode in their direction and beckoned to her cameraman, who switched on the light on top of the camera.
Gazette
reporter, pretending not to listen, was inching toward the two men, and across the room Karen Locke strode in their direction and beckoned to her cameraman, who switched on the light on top of the camera.
Bennett squinted in the glare. “Turn that off, and get it out of here if you want to keep your locker room privileges.”
“But, H.B.,” Karen said, smiling sweetly, “the people in Mesa are always interested in what you have to say.”
“I already gave you a quote. I said turn it off.”
Karen gestured to the cameraman, who extinguished the light.
“Now get out of here,” H.B. said. “And that goes for you, too, Tedeschi. Put that notebook away. You print anything I didn’t tell you directly, the
Gazette
will never get another interview with a Rattler. Do I make myself clear?”
Gazette
will never get another interview with a Rattler. Do I make myself clear?”
The locker room had fallen silent, all signs of celebration suspended. Meg gripped my hand again.
I watched, fascinated, as the reporters retreated from H.B. Obviously, freedom of the press was not honored here. It was more important to maintain access to the team than to challenge its owner in public. But I wondered why in the midst of a celebration of his team’s victory its owner would reprimand the man responsible. It obviously had to do with the manager’s decision to use Ty as a pinch hitter for the owner’s son. I’m not a big baseball fan, although I do enjoy following the trials and tribulations of the Boston Red Sox, and I’m certainly not knowledgeable enough to second-guess a manager’s decision to use a pinch hitter. But it seemed to me that, personal considerations aside, what should have mattered at that moment was winning, regardless of who got the winning hit.
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