Change-up (6 page)

Stevie was hoping she would say something like, “Come on, Stevie, you know you’ve got nothing to be jealous about.”

She didn’t say that, though. She didn’t say anything. He decided to drop it. He was sorry he had brought it up. Instead he took out his cell phone and called Kelleher.

“How’d it go with the old man?” Kelleher said. “He fill your notebook with stories about Amarillo, Texas?”

“He did,” Stevie said. “He also filled my notebook with a story about the fact that he’s starting tonight.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. “He’s
what
?” Kelleher said. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Ross Detwiler did something to his knee getting out of bed—” Stevie said.

“Getting out of bed?”

“Yeah, apparently. Anyway, none of the other starters are on schedule to pitch tonight, and they used the other two long guys in the bullpen last night—”

“So he’s it,” Kelleher broke in. “Wow. You better get back here and write this right away so we can get it up on the Web before anyone else finds out.”

The Internet had changed the newspaper business. There was no such thing as a first-edition deadline for the next day’s newspaper anymore. The writers were on twenty-four-hour call. If something happened that was newsworthy, they were expected to write it instantly to get it up on the Web. This was a perfect example.

“We’ll be back in a few minutes and I’ll start writing,” Stevie said.

“Good. Why don’t you come to my room with your computer? You can tell me about the Doyle kid gawking at Susan Carol while you write.”

Stevie almost gagged when he heard that. He looked at Susan Carol, who he knew would pick up on anything
he said in response. “Sounds good,” he said, keeping his voice as even in tone as he could. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

He snapped the phone shut. He and Susan Carol walked the rest of the way to the hotel in silence.

IT DIDN’T TAKE STEVIE VERY LONG TO WRITE
the story about Norbert Doyle replacing Ross Detwiler on the mound for game two of the World Series. Kelleher was delighted with the details of Acta walking up during breakfast to give Doyle the news while he was sitting with his kids.

“You two really have a knack for walking into stories,” Kelleher said. “And this one doesn’t even involve getting yourselves into trouble, the way you guys usually do. You can write the profile on Doyle later and plug in details on how he pitches tonight for the late editions. Good job breaking this, though—no one else will have it, that’s for sure.”

Stevie laughed weakly. “Better to be lucky than good,” he said.

“Best to be both,” Kelleher said. “Tell me about the Doyle kids. Were they nice? Was David completely tongue-tied meeting Susan Carol?”

Stevie shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said. “If anything, it was the other way around.”

Kelleher looked up in surprise. “What? Susan Carol? I’ve never seen
her
tongue-tied.”

“Me neither,” Stevie said. “David is really tall and really good-looking.”

Kelleher waved a hand. “She’s been around good-looking guys before. I wouldn’t worry about it. You were jealous of Jamie Whitsitt, and there wasn’t anything to that, was there?”

“No, there wasn’t,” Stevie said. “But Jamie was four years older than she was and not too bright. David is our age and smart. She went all Southern belle as soon as she laid eyes on him.”

Kelleher shrugged. “Be honest, Stevie. Are there girls at school you think are good-looking? Of course there are. It doesn’t change the way you feel about Susan Carol. She was probably caught a little by surprise. It’s human nature, nothing more.”

Stevie knew he was probably right. Still, he couldn’t shake the queasy feeling in his stomach.

Once Stevie had filed his story, Kelleher suggested they take a walk through Faneuil Hall. “Where’s Tamara?” Stevie asked.

“She went to tape something for TV,” he said. “ESPN keeps asking her to come on because they want to hire her.
She knows it’s a really bad idea, but they’re throwing a lot of money around, and it doesn’t hurt to let the newspaper know they’re interested in her. And given what’s going on in the newspaper business, she has to give it some thought.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t blackball her just for being married to you,” Stevie said.

“Maybe they think I’d be less critical of them,” Kelleher answered, laughing.

“I doubt that.”

“Me too,” Kelleher replied. “Come on, let’s go.”

Stevie tried to call Susan Carol, first in her room and then on her cell, to see if she wanted to go with them. There was no answer, which surprised him a little.

“Maybe she turned her cell off to take a nap,” Kelleher said. “We’ll find her when we get back.”

Given the coolness between them on the walk back, Stevie thought some time apart might not be a bad idea. So they headed out the door of the hotel for what Kelleher said was a short walk to Faneuil Hall.

“That’s the great thing about Boston,” he said. “When the weather’s good, you can walk just about anyplace. It’s a major city but a small town—at least geographically.”

While they walked, Kelleher explained some of the history of the place. The original Faneuil Hall had existed during the Revolutionary War. It was a thriving marketplace for years, which led the city to build the even bigger Quincy Market next door. It had all fallen into disrepair, but then the city came up with the idea to turn the area into a place with shops and restaurants, and now it was thriving again.

“We’ll go to Regina’s for pizza,” Kelleher said. “It’s as good as any in the country. But first I want to show you Red.”

“Red?”

“You’ll see,” Kelleher said.

They walked under an archway into what looked like a small town. There were cobblestone walkways and, on either side, long brick buildings that housed stores and restaurants. The smell of food drew Stevie toward an open doorway, but Kelleher headed straight down the cobblestones until he came to a bench.

“Red,” he said.

He was pointing at a statue of a man sitting on the bench with a cigar in his hands. The statue was life-size and looked almost real.

“Red Auerbach,” Stevie said.

“Very good, Stevie,” Kelleher said. “You pass today’s history test.”

Stevie was reading the plaque next to the statue. It said that Arnold “Red” Auerbach had led the Boston Celtics to fifteen NBA titles as coach and general manager of the team.

“Fifteen titles, that’s amazing,” Stevie said.

“Actually, it was sixteen,” Kelleher said. “Look at the date on the plaque—1985. The Celtics won another one in 1986. Just before Red died, I was in town, and I called him from right here to tell him I was sitting next to his statue.

“First thing he said to me was, ‘Did they fix that damn plaque yet to make it sixteen championships?’”

“How did you know him?” Stevie asked.

“Believe it or not, he lived in Washington,” Kelleher said. “He had a group of buddies that went to lunch every Tuesday, and I used to go. There were some basketball people, but there were also a couple of lawyers, a couple of Secret Service agents, some of Red’s doctors—a very eclectic group. Red knew everyone. Might have been the most fun I ever had.”

“I guess the group broke up after he died,” Stevie said.

“Actually, no,” Kelleher said. “We still get together every Tuesday. It’s not the same without Red, it can’t be. But we all know Red would have wanted it that way. At the end of lunch we open a fortune cookie for Red and read it to him.”

“Sounds like you really miss him,” Stevie said.

“Oh yeah,” Kelleher said. “You don’t get to meet too many guys who are truly larger than life. Red was one of them. He had this incredible feel for people—no matter what they did. He was always asking questions, trying to learn, to be smarter, even though he was
really
smart. And he was the most competitive person I ever met. He wanted to win at everything all the time.”

He put his hand on top of Red’s head and held it there for a moment. “Come on, let’s go get some pizza,” he said.

Stevie followed Kelleher down the cobblestoned walkway and into the most delicious-smelling building he had ever been in. There were places to get lobster and shrimp, crab cakes and chowder, hamburgers and hot dogs, Chinese
food, ice cream, apple pie, fried dough, Italian sausages—just about any food Stevie could think of or imagine. Kelleher stopped in front of a place that said Pizzeria Regina. It didn’t look like anything special to Stevie, but he had learned to trust Kelleher on the subject of food.

“Couple slices?” Kelleher asked. “Or should we just split a pie?”

“I think a couple of slices will be plenty for me,” Stevie said.

“We’ll see about that,” Kelleher said.

He ordered four slices and a couple of Cokes. Balancing the pizza on paper plates, drinks in their other hands, they continued down the hallway.

“There’s tables and chairs in the middle of the building,” Kelleher said. “If we’re lucky, we’ll find a place to sit.”

The dining area had a vaulted ceiling and was gigantic, with tables and chairs in the middle, and tall tables around the edges where people could stand and eat.

“Over there to the right,” Kelleher said, pointing. They began walking in that direction. Stevie was a step behind Kelleher when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar figure seated at a small table.

It was Susan Carol. He’d know that ponytail anywhere.

And sitting across from her was David Doyle. He was leaning forward in his chair and appeared to be talking with great feeling. Stevie stopped dead in his tracks, staring. Fortunately, David Doyle was so intent on his conversation with Susan Carol that he didn’t see Stevie. Stevie was pretty convinced that he could burst into flames and
David wouldn’t notice because his eyes were so completely locked in on Susan Carol.

Kelleher had apparently reached the table, put his food down, and then noticed that Stevie wasn’t behind him. He walked back to where Stevie was standing.

“Stevie,” he said. “What’s up? Something wrong?”

Unable to find his voice, Stevie simply gestured with his Coke hand in the direction of the table where Susan Carol and David were sitting.

Kelleher looked. “Oh, it’s Susan Carol,” he said. “Who’s that she’s with?”

“David Doyle,” Stevie said through clenched teeth.

For a split second Kelleher didn’t respond. Then, apparently, he got it. “Okay,” he said calmly. “Come with me and let’s sit down before he notices you shooting daggers at him.”

Stevie went. He wanted to do two things: find out what the hell was going on at that table and eat his pizza. For the moment, he would have to settle for the pizza.

Stevie sat so he could see Susan Carol and managed to eat his pizza without ever taking his eyes off the two of them. They were both leaning forward as they talked, and although Stevie couldn’t be sure, he was convinced they were holding hands.

“Let’s not overreact here,” Kelleher counseled. “There may be a perfectly simple explanation.”

“Really?” Stevie said. “They just met this morning and
last saw each other all of two hours ago. What could possibly have happened to get them together here now, looking as if someone’s life was at stake.”

Kelleher semi-laughed. “Given your history, isn’t it at least a possibility that someone’s life
is
at stake?” he said.

Stevie had to concede Kelleher had a point. But he didn’t think it was likely. He had seen the way the two of them had looked at one another back at the Ritz.

“I’m going over there,” he said, starting to stand up.

“Oh, no you’re not,” Kelleher said, pulling him back down. “You’re going to sit here and eat your pizza and wait until later to see if Susan Carol tells you what happened on her own. If she doesn’t, then—and
only
then—do you consider asking her about it.”

“But look at her!” Stevie said, exasperated.

Kelleher glanced over his shoulder. Stevie might have told him not to look, except that there was no way either one of them was going to notice.

“I will grant you,” Kelleher said, “that it doesn’t look great. But you have to admit that there have been many times when things were not what they appeared to be.”

“Yeah, but … look at how he’s looking at her.”

Kelleher smiled. “I know how you feel,” he said. “But you don’t know how
she’s
looking at him. Or why. So you’ve got to be patient.”

He pointed at Stevie’s empty plate. Stevie had completely devoured the two slices of pizza without even noticing.

“You want more?” Kelleher said.

“Absolutely,” Stevie said, starved, hurt, and angry all at once.

“Come on,” Kelleher said. “We’ll get some more and then go eat outside.”

Stevie started to argue, then stopped. This wasn’t the time for a confrontation. And as much as he wanted to know what was going on, he was fairly convinced that he wouldn’t like the answer.

KELLEHER WAS SMART ENOUGH
not to try to engage Stevie in further conversation. They walked outside with their fresh pizza slices, while happy throngs of Bostonians enjoyed the brisk October sunshine all around them.

“Just try not to jump to any conclusions until Susan Carol has a chance to explain what was going on,” Kelleher said as they rode the escalator back up to the hotel lobby. “I know that’s hard, but there’s no sense making yourself crazy over something that may turn out to be nothing.”

Stevie nodded. “I know you’re right,” he said. “But I’ve already jumped to about a million conclusions—none of them very appealing—and it’s pretty hard to unjump.”

Kelleher put his arm around Stevie. “Let’s just wait and see what we see,” he said.

Stevie went back to his room and turned on the TV. He sat watching some talking heads analyzing game one for the fiftieth time and then noticed a crawl on the bottom of the screen that said, “A published report claims that Norbert Doyle will start game two of the World Series tonight in place of Ross Detwiler. ESPN’s Peter Gammons reports that Nationals manager Manny Acta is refusing comment.”