Die Like an Eagle (27 page)

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem,” I said. “Mind if I keep the you-know-what for a little while? I want to show it to someone who might have a chance to pick Biff's pocket.”

“Be my guest,” she said.

Back at the bleachers, Caroline and I took a seat in what had been the Nats bleachers. I wasn't sure which team we'd be rooting for next—the Flatworms were playing the Wombats at three thirty, but I couldn't tell from the gear in the dugouts which team was which. Not a problem. The boys had friends on both teams. If we wanted to be nonpartisan, we could play musical bleachers halfway through the game.

But meanwhile, we were relaxing. Family members were catching up on news while watching the Flatworms and Wombats warm up. Even Grandfather was here, though he didn't exactly look all that interested. More likely he was just trying to make sure Cordelia didn't monopolize too much of the boys' time.

“Mommy, can I have some gum?” Josh asked.

“I'll buy you some gum,” Grandfather said. “On two conditions.”

“O-kay.” Josh sounded slightly dubious.

“First, you have to get a pack for your brother as well,” Grandfather said.

“Okay,” Josh said, more cheerfully.

“And second, you have to bring me a hamburger and a Coke.” Grandfather pulled out his wallet and handed Josh a bill.

“We're all going to have a picnic right after the game,” I said. “Mother and Rose Noire are on their way with the food.”

“And if they bring anything more substantial than cucumber sandwiches, I'll join you,” Grandfather said. “But I'm in the mood for a burger, and I want it now. Ketchup and onions,” he added to Josh.

Josh scurried off. Jamie was watching a Grasshoppers pitcher warming up in the bullpen—their game wasn't till six, but the bullpen wasn't needed for the coach-pitch Flatworm/Wombat game. Jamie was drinking it all in, and making little arm movements as if mimicking the Grasshopper. Grandfather's eyes were flicking back and forth between the two. I suspected that by dinner time he'd have some new observations on the similarity between what Josh and Jamie had been doing all day and the learning behaviors of other immature primates, but as long as he didn't make any comments too insulting to the boys, he was welcome to observe them all he liked.

I surreptitiously fished the little tracking device out of my jacket pocket and studied it, with my fingers carefully curled so no one else could see it. Yes, it did look like a random bit of mechanical junk. I tucked it back in my pocket again. I pondered the notion that if Biff actually did find it in his pocket, he might not recognize what it was. And if he did find it, who was to say that he hadn't accidentally picked it up out at our house? In fact, what if I started showing the little device to everyone who'd been at our picnic and asking them if they'd picked up one just like it by mistake? I could say that Caroline had brought me two to try out with Spike and the llamas, and we'd dropped one somewhere.

I turned the idea over in my mind. I liked it. But maybe I should run it by Michael to see what he thought.

“Back by game time,” I said to Caroline. I stood up and looked around for Michael, spotted him over in the parking lot, and headed that way. I wasn't making much progress, thanks to the vast number of friends and relatives who kept accosting me, but then I wasn't in any particular hurry. In fact, I was feeling relaxed and downright cheerful.

Until I heard a distant cry of “Mommy!”

Distant, but all too clear to me. I glanced over my shoulder to see that Jamie was still sitting on the bleachers beside Grandfather, completely focused on baseball. But his brother—

“Where's Josh?” I snapped.

I held up my hand for quiet and the two cousins I'd been talking to stopped in mid-sentence. I stood on tiptoes and whirled about, scanning everywhere until I spotted it.

Biff Brown was holding Josh by his shoulders, almost lifting him off the ground, yelling at him and shaking him.

I think I knocked down one of the cousins on my way there.

“You no good, miserable little thief!” Biff was yelling. “I'll show you what happens to—”

“Mommy! Mommy!” Josh was wailing.

“Get your hands off my son,” I shouted as I drew near.

Biff ignored me.

“Lying, thieving juvenile delinquents,” he was screeching.

“I said get your hands off my son.” I grabbed his elbow, and instead of paying any attention to me, he jabbed back. I wasn't sure whether he was merely trying to dislodge my hand or if he was actually trying to whack me with the point of his elbow. Josh had stopped uttering coherent sounds and was simply wailing in terror and possibly even pain and Biff showed no signs of letting go—

I punched Biff in the nose.

 

Chapter 21

Biff keeled over. As he fell, I managed to retrieve Josh, who latched onto me like a small, snot-smeared limpet.

“Mommy's here,” I said, wrapping him tightly in my left arm. I kept my right free, in case Biff showed signs of retaliating. He had landed hard on his rear, and stared up at me in astonishment for a few seconds. Then his face flushed with blood and he began gathering himself as if to get up.

“Stay down,” I said. “If you come one inch closer to us, I'll really hurt you.”

Biff scowled, and seemed to be trying to struggle to his feet.

I drew back my right foot and was ready to kick him in the crotch. He turned pale, clutched himself protectively, and stayed down.

By now, some of the other parents nearby recovered enough from their astonishment to take action and hurried over to help. Vince Wong, Evan Thornton, and Luis Espinoza hovered behind me as if ready to intervene if Biff tried to retaliate.

“Are you okay?” Vince asked me.

“Did he hurt the kid?” Luis asked.

“The lady told you to stay down,” Evan was telling Biff. “I think you should follow orders.”

“What's going on here?”

Chief Burke.

“She attacked me,” Biff bellowed.

“He was abusing my son,” I said. “I intervened.”

“She punched me in the nose!”

“Mommy, he hurted me,” Josh wailed.

“Hurt, not hurted,” I said. “Show me where it hurts.”

Josh held up one arm and pointed to several angry red marks on his forearm. They looked like finger impressions.

“I had to stop him,” Biff said. “The kid stole two packs of gum from the Snack Shack.”

He pointed to the ground, where you could just barely make out the end of a pack of gum that had been ground into the mud during our struggles.

“The hell he did,” came a voice from behind me.

We looked up to see Anisha, the younger Mrs. Patel.

“I saw him walk up to the Snack Shack and take two packs,” Biff said.

“The boy came up and paid for a hamburger, a Coke, and two packages of gum—one for himself and one for his brother.” Anisha's low, musical voice sounded perfectly calm, but the hint of a British accent had grown stronger. “He couldn't carry it all, so he asked if he could take the hamburger and the soda to his grandfather and come back for the gum. I told him it was fine. And that's what he was doing what you came up and manhandled him—collecting two packs of gum that were already bought and paid for.”

“That's true,” said another mother. “I was there, too.”

“Well, I thought he was stealing,” Biff said. “How was I supposed to know?”

“You could have asked,” Anisha said.

“She still punched me in the nose.” Biff turned to the chief. “I want to press charges. Assault and battery.”

“I'll see your assault and battery and raise you child endangerment,” I said. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to shake a child—”

“Child endangerment!” Biff bellowed. “If your little—”

“Enough!” Chief Burke wasn't all that loud, but somehow even Biff got the idea that shutting up was advisable. The chief studied Biff for a few moments, then lifted his eyes to examine the circle of people around us. He ended up with me. No, actually with Josh. His jaw clenched slightly. Then he looked over his shoulder, where Deputy Sammy Wendell was standing.

“I am still rather busy with the murder investigation,” he said. “To say nothing of this morning's attempted murder in the Snack Shack. So Deputy Wendell will be taking statements from Mr. Brown, Mrs. Langslow, and anyone who was a witness to their altercation.”

“Oh, great, so all her buddies can lie for her,” Biff said.

Many of the onlookers gasped or murmured at his words, then fell silent when the chief said nothing. He just stared at Biff who, after a few moments, began to squirm slightly.

Then someone stepped forward out of the crowd. Mr. Witherington.

“I beg your pardon, but since I'm a relative stranger to town—and to both of the participants in the altercation—I wanted to make sure Deputy Wendell knows how to reach me for my statement. James Witherington, Regional Vice President of Summerball. My cell number is on the card.”

He handed a business card to Sammy.

Restless murmurs from the crowd, who were, perhaps, aware that Witherington was here at Biff's invitation, and might not realize how much progress Randall and I were making in winning him over from the dark side.

“I was originally only supposed to be here for the Opening Day,” Witherington went on. “But given the unfortunate events that occurred yesterday, I'm staying on to resolve a few issues I've found in our local league.”

A few murmurs at that.

“Assuming I can find a hotel that actually provides at least a token amount of hot water,” Witherington continued. “Meanwhile, may I suggest that someone photograph the young gentleman's bruises while they are still fresh? I would hate for there to be any uncertainty later about when and how he received them.”

As he spoke he looked at Biff with an expression so fierce that I felt a sudden surge of optimism about the future of the Caerphilly Summerball league. And from the approving murmurs coming from the crowd, I wasn't the only one.

“Here.” Vince Wong handed Mr. Witherington a card. “I'm the assistant manager of the Caerphilly Inn. We would be happy to accommodate you for as long as you choose to stay.”

“Thank you,” Mr Witherington began. “Is there—”

“The league can't afford the Caerphilly Inn!” Biff bellowed.

“Please tell me you didn't actually stick him in the Whispering Pines!” I exclaimed. Although the Pines was no longer technically a hot sheets motel, it still seemed to exude the noxious atmosphere of its unseemly past.

“The Clay County Motor Lodge,” Biff said.

“Oh, like that's soooo much better,” muttered someone in the crowd.

“We're on a budget,” Biff growled.

“The Inn will be happy to offer Summerball a competitive rate,” Vince said. “Would you like me to drive you over now to collect your luggage? Or if you're very busy, I could send over a staff member to do it for you.”

“Whatever's easiest for you,” Mr. Witherington said. “Is there any chance the Inn has a large conference room I could rent for a general league meeting?”

“Rent a room?” Biff exclaimed. “I never waste money on renting rooms—several of my board members have free spaces that they make available for my meetings.”

“How very kind of them,” Mr. Witherington said. “But this is
my
meeting.”

No one said anything for what seemed like a really long time as Witherington and Biff glared at each other. Then Vince spoke up.

“I'm sure I can arrange for the hotel to provide a suitable room at no charge, as a gesture of goodwill to the community,” he said.

“Thank you,” Mr. Witherington said. “We can discuss the financial arrangements later. The important thing is that we can have a large room. Now why don't we all get back to the reason we're all here? We have a ball game to play!” He glanced around the crowd with a tight little smile on his lips and then slowly walked off.

The crowd began breaking up. Biff stormed off in the opposite direction from that Mr. Witherington had taken.

“A meeting about what, do you suppose?” Vince asked.

“Whatever it is, we need to pack it with sane people,” Evan said. “Because you know Biff's crew will turn out.”

“Maybe it's wishful thinking on my part,” I said. “But from my reading of the Summerball rule book, the main thing you do at a general membership meeting is elect officers.”

“I thought election time was before the season started.”

“It is,” I said. “But any time is impeachment time.”

They all looked startled and maybe even a little anxious for a few moments. Then big grins began to spread over their faces.

“But Biff won't take it lying down,” I said. “We have to pack the house with NAFOBs.”

“NAFOBs?” Evan echoed.

“Not a Friend of Biff,” Vince explained. “We're on it.”

“Come on, Josh,” I said. “I bet you're hungry by now.”

“I'm too upset to eat,” he announced.

“Not even ice cream?”

He thought about that for a few moments.

“I'm not really in the mood for ice cream.” His tone was an uncanny imitation of the languid tone in which his Uncle Rob often declared himself not in the mood for something—although I couldn't ever remember Rob refusing ice cream. “But if it would make you feel better, I could probably eat some.”

It did, indeed, make me feel much better to watch him eat his ice cream. Also two hot dogs, two chocolate milks, a handful of hot potato samosas from Mrs. Patel, some organic raspberries from Rose Noire, and a chocolate milk shake that Rob brought back from town. And although Jamie had not undergone any particularly traumatic experiences during the day, he valiantly did his share of comfort eating.