Double Play (24 page)

“You
didn’t need to do that,” said Smothers to the team. “She’s already doing everything
she can not to pay any of you. This will just make it worse.”

“We
ain’t here for the money, Coach,” said J.D. “We’re here for the team.” He
turned to face the anxious faces scattered around the locker room. “Now I don’t
know about you, but I’ve been waitin’ for this game my whole life. I say we go
out there and play like Federals, Pryor be damned!”

A
cheer went up. “Son, I’d say you’re in a league all your own,” Smothers said
with a chuckle.

“We’re
about to face some serious odds, Doc,” said J.D. “This shoulder can’t take much
more. I’m gonna need your best medicine to pull me through.”

Smothers
grinned. “I’m here for you, J.D.,” he said, slapping his back. Then he turned
back to the team. “Let’s play ball!”

Halee
shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic box seat directly behind home plate. Carla
had scored five seats in prime territory normally reserved for high rollers through
some shady deal back in New York, and Halee knew she should be grateful, but on
this blustery October Midwestern afternoon, she couldn’t help but wonder when
she’d be entitled to watching J.D.’s games from the heated comfort of the
owners’ box. If, that is, J.D. had any games ahead of him at all.

He’d
started the game just as he’d requested- in centerfield- and for the first
seven innings, all the action had either been in the infield or easy pop-out
flies to right or left field positions. With every crack of the bat Halee winced,
knowing that a hit to centerfield could be the breaking point in a game that
decided their future. Now she watched as J.D. took his place on deck and waited
for his turn to give the Federals an edge in a tied game.

“How
can you be so calm?” asked Rita, pulling Ty a little closer under her wool
blanket. “It’s like you’re a million miles away.”

Halee
pulled her hands out of her mittens and held them up. “No nails,” she said
matter-of-factly. “Satisfied?”

Rita
raised her ring finger to her teeth and commenced to chew in solidarity. “Who’s
this guy ahead of J.D.?”

“Carstens.”

“Can
he hit?”

“His
average is 400,” said Halee. “He can hit.”

Carstens
connected on a fastball and tagged second on a stand up double. The sea of
black and gold jerseys in the upper deck roared their approval. J.D. approached
the batter’s box and peered down the line at the third base coach for
instructions. He nodded, tapped home plate with his bat, and sunk down into a
fiercely determined stance. Halee held her breath.

“Strike!”

“I
can’t look,” said Rita, hunkering down lower in her seat. Ty leaned toward
Halee and proceeded to crawl into her lap. He slapped her face playfully with
his chubby hands, blocking her view.

J.D.
touched the brim of his hat and lined himself up over the plate. The second
ball came in low and outside. Halee blew out a relieved sigh and sat a little
taller. “Come on, Baby,” she murmured. “All your friends at Fat Jimmy’s are
watching.”

J.D.
connected on the third pitch, lifting it over the head of the shortstop and
giving Carstens an easy ride over home plate. Rounding first, he hesitated,
then ran full speed ahead toward second. The Hawks’ left fielder blasted the
ball high toward the shortstop who leapt into the air, then crashed down over
J.D.’s body with the full force of a linebacker. Halee screamed as J.D.’s face
met the cleat of the shortstop’s shoe. Within moments, Smothers and another
trainer were racing for second base.

“No!”
Halee shouted. “Not like this!”

Uncle
Gus turned in his seat. “Don’t panic, Honey. It could just be a scratch.”

But
J.D. wasn’t moving.

Halee
stopped breathing. Her heart pounded out of her chest. Gus leaned back and slid
Ty from her lap as she rose from her seat and headed, first controlled, then as
though she were fleeing a theater fire, toward the field.

“Stop
right there, Lady.” A tank in a uniform spread his arms wide and gave her a
look so fierce she should have recoiled in fear. But she didn’t.

“I’m
his girlfriend,” she said. Her eyes strained past the guard’s fat head toward
second base. There was blood, and there was a stretcher, and there were people,
a lot of people, gathered around J.D.

“You
and every girl in this stadium. Go back to your seat before I arrest you.”

“Just
get him off the field, already!” someone yelled from behind her. “Let’s play
ball!”

“Is
he dead?” a woman asked somewhere off to the side.

“Good
reddens!” another Hawks fan screeched. “One less Federal in the world.”

A
satisfied smirk washed over the guard’s puffy purple lips. Halee felt a strange
heat flood her chest. Her hands clenched into fists and slowly, strategically,
she cocked one shoulder back.

Bobby
intercepted her fist in midair. “Officer Merino!” he shouted, an inch from her
lips. “There you are.” His eyes held hers for one long moment with an intensity
that shook her anger free. He flashed his Chicago police badge at the
distracted guard without breaking his connection with Halee’s fearful stare. “NYPD.
Working security for the Federals. We got a call to escort the injured player
to the hospital. Let us pass.”

“Hey,
Federal boy,” called a fan toward Bobby a couple rows down, “start crying. You
just lost your best player.”

The
guard eyeballed Bobby’s Federals hat with suspicion. Bobby grabbed Halee’s
jacket sleeve and forced his way forward.

“Where
are you taking me?” asked Halee glancing back toward the stands.

“Just
walk forward and look tough.”

“Where’s
Ty? I don’t want him in that crowd. They’re like vultures.”

“Relax.
Gus has him and he’s wearing red.” Bobby led her through a gate and down onto
the field and flashed his badge at another cop. The cop nodded. He took a sharp
right and led Halee quickly toward the Federal dugout. She tried to break free.
“You run out on the field, they’ll take you to jail,” he warned, gripping her
arm tightly. “You can see him when we get clearance. Security,” he said to a
line of worried coaches. “What’s happening?”

“Player
landed full force on Shaw’s head. Musta busted his skull. He’s out cold.”

Halee
turned in time to see an ambulance pull up alongside J.D.’s prone body. She let
out a small cry.

“Where
are you taking him?” asked Bobby.

“I
don’t have a clue,” said the coach with a heavy sigh. “All I know is we’re
fucked.”

Halee
caught sight of Tony King climbing the back stairs from the locker room to the
dugout. She left Bobby’s side and met him halfway. “Where are they taking him?”
she demanded.

“St.
Luke’s. You can ride along.”

Halee
turned toward Bobby, still focused on the commotion on the field. “Come with
me?”

“Only
one can ride along,” said King.

“We’ll
meet you there,” Bobby assured her.

King
took her by the elbow and led her onto the field, past the pitcher’s mound, and
toward the waiting ambulance. Stadium speakers blasted out rock and roll
favorites, drowning out the whine of the impatient crowd and rendering
unintelligible the occasional heckler’s vehement slander. A team of twenty-somethings
in Hawks jackets propelled tee shirts into the stands in an attempt to distract
the masses from their boredom. Halee tightened the collar on her jacket against
the damp chill of the October afternoon, then pressed her stiff fingers into
fists inside the fleece lined pockets. She couldn’t tell if it was nerves or
the weather causing her body to shake, and she didn’t much care. She just
wanted to hold J.D. and tell him everything was going to be alright.

By
the time they reached the ambulance, they’d laid J.D. on a backboard and were
sliding him into the back of the truck. She arrived just as the doors were
closing.

“Fiancé,”
Tony explained, helping her climb into the back.

The
attendant glanced over her with an expression of doubt. “Stay out of the way,”
he said with an air of annoyance. “Sit over there and use your seatbelt.”

Halee
narrowed her eyes. “Is there anyone friendly in this town?” she hissed. She
knelt down next to J.D., ignoring the attendant’s instructions. A puffy mass of
red and blue replaced his left eye. A line of puncture wounds from the
shortstop’s cleats patterned his forehead. A neck brace covered his throat. His
chest was bare and she watched the regular rise and fall of his breaths,
mimicking them herself as if to coach him along. Despite the obvious trauma to
his head, his expression remained calm as if he were simply sleeping.

“J.D.,”
she whispered, bringing his hand to her lips. “I’m here, Baby.”

“Ma’am,
we can’t leave until you’re buckled in. He needs to get to the hospital.”

Halee
sat back and snapped her seatbelt into place. The ambulance moved forward
carefully toward paved road, pulled out of the stadium, and sounded its sirens
through the back streets of St. Louis. Halee continued to hold J.D.’s hand
while the attendant attached a cardiac monitor to his chest.

“Why
isn’t he awake?” she asked, trying to mask the panic in her voice.

The
attendant ignored her for a moment, finishing his procedures. He made a mark on
a chart next to J.D.’s head and looked up. “The body’s instinct is to protect
the brain,” he said. “If the brain experiences trauma, it lowers activity,
gives it a rest so it can heal better. It’s not a bad sign,” said the attendant
in a softer tone. He considered her for a moment. “It’s better than it looks.”

Halee
nodded, continuing to stare at J.D.

“You
okay?” asked the attendant.

“Yes…yes,
of course.”

“Don’t
let the blood fool you. The face always bleeds a lot. It also heals quickly-
that’s the good news. He should be good to go in a day or two.”

“Good
to go?”

“On
his feet. Unless there’s internal damage. Then it’s anybody’s guess.”        

Halee
frowned, pushing back a strong sense of dread.  “He’s tough,” she insisted, as
if saying the words would make it so. “Nothing can beat him.”

The
attendant nodded and looked away. They rode the rest of the way in silence, the
attendant focused on J.D.’s vital signs, Halee watching for the moment when
J.D. would open his good eye. A part of her knew he would experience pain if he
were conscious. She just needed one moment to gaze into his warm brown eyes and
convince herself that the sun would rise again tomorrow.

The
ambulance pulled under the overhang of the emergency room entrance several
minutes later. The back doors of the ambulance flew open and someone pulled
Halee out of the back and pushed her gently aside. Several workers in scrubs
hovered around the gurney, asking for any details the attendant could provide.
In another minute J.D. was whisked into the E.R., past a line of grim faces.
Halee made a bee line for Gus and fell into his arms.

“Aw,
Honey, it’ll all work out alright,” said Uncle Gus, holding her close.

Ty
let out a shrill scream and lunged toward Halee. She turned to catch him just
in time.

“He
knows who Mama is, that’s for sure,” said Rita. “How’s J.D. doing?”

“The
attendant said it’s not as bad as it looks,” said Halee. “I guess we’ll know
pretty soon.”

“Did
you talk to him?”

Halee
shook her head. “He was sleeping,” she said, avoiding Rita’s eyes. She looked
past Rita’s shoulder with a worried expression. “What’s Bobby doing?”

Rita
turned, following Halee’s gaze. Bobby stood on the edge of the parking lot,
engaged in heated conversation with two kids who looked like characters from a
Spike Lee movie. He had his fists in his hoodie pocket, and so did they. Halee
wondered what they were holding on to.

“Maybe
we should…”

“I’m
on it.” Rita disappeared into the E.R. in search of security. Halee moved a
little closer, despite her better judgment, hoping to pick up a word or two.
She heard Ty’s name and watched in horror as one of the juveniles pointed toward
her son. Her blood ran cold.

The
other juvenile turned toward her with an icy stare. Even from this distance,
she could read the drug induced haze to his expression, the emptiness behind
his eyes. She pulled Ty closer and backed up one step at a time until she could
feel the warmth of her family behind her. “I need to get inside,” she murmured
to Gus, leaving her eyes focused on the juvenile’s threatening stare. “Take my
phone from the outside flap on my purse,” she instructed. “Go inside and call
911.”

“What
are you talking about? Is something wrong?”

“Please,
Uncle Gus. Just do as I say.”

Gus
followed her gaze. Without another word he strode past her and over to Bobby. “You
fellas got a problem?” he demanded.

“Uncle
Gus!” cried Halee. “Don’t!”

In
an instant, the cagy kid pulled a switchblade from his pocket and took a swipe
toward Gus’ large frame. Halee screamed. Gus nimbly ducked out of harm’s way.
Bobby lunged toward the other kid before he could pull out his weapon and
forced him to the ground.

“Now
that’s where you miscalculated, young fella,” said Gus, a cocky smile forming
on his lips. He circled his assailant, one careful step at a time. “Once a
Marine, always a Marine. I may be old, but I’ve still got some fight left in me,
just waiting for a punk like you.” He curled down in an attack position and
stared at the kid with all the intensity of a soldier in battle. “What about
you? You know how to fight? Or does that knife do all the work for you?”

The
kid glanced sideways at his friend on the ground and began to back up. His face
still held no emotion, as if the drugs had wiped his brain free from any instinct
about what to do next. He began to dance in his oversized basketball shoes and
slashed the air like Zorro. He lifted his chin in defiance. “Still can’t catch
me, old man,” he taunted.

Then,
as if he’d just been bitten, he leaped into the air with a warrior cry and
darted toward the opposite end of the parking lot. Bobby reached out and
grabbed his baggy pant leg just in time. Gus lunged out from behind and pinned
him to the pavement. The switchblade slid across the slippery surface and under
a car.

Rita
came rushing out just as two cop cars pulled into the parking lot.

“Where
are the security guards?” asked Halee, breathless.

“On
break,” said Rita. “What’s going on?”

“I
don’t know. But they knew who Ty was and they knew who I was.”

“Looks
like Demarcus left instructions behind.”