Due Diligence (31 page)

They faxed us that first front page directly from the printing plant in Chicago. I remember staring in amazement at the huge bold headline that covered the top third of the page:

U. S. SENATOR ARMSTRONG TIED
TO ILLEGAL
DRUG TESTS,
CRIMINAL CONSPIRACY, AND MURDER

Chapter Thirty-four

Benny looked grim. “We got big trouble here.”

I glanced around. “Not necessarily.”

“Rachel, these fuckers want to kill us.”

I gave him a plucky smile. “We're still alive.”

The umpire stepped out from behind home plate and yanked off his mask. “Come on!”

That was all the encouragement the testosterone-crazed runner on first base needed. “Yeah, let's move it, you wussies!”

Benny looked over at him with disgust and turned back to me. “I can't stand that obnoxious turd.”

I banged the softball into my glove. “We're up by a run. All we need is one more out.” I gestured toward first base. “Go on back there.”

As Benny walked back to first base, the batter called time and stepped out of the box. He signaled to the guy on first, who trotted halfway back to the plate for a strategy huddle.

I looked around the infield and outfield to check everyone's positions. I felt a slight pang as I looked at our right fielder. The last time we had played these macho maniacs from Crowley & Gillan, David Marcus had been out there in right field.

It was hard to believe that so much had happened during the two months between that game and this one, which was the first round of the league play-offs.

Flo's articles on the Armstrong conspiracy—a scandal which quickly, and predictably, got labeled “PrimaxGate”—astounded the nation and triggered a massive criminal investigation. The FBI moved in fast, and within days the lower-downs started fingering higher-ups. To paraphrase William Butler Yeats, the center of the conspiracy could not hold. Things fell apart, and they fell apart quickly. Eventually, someone implicated Armstrong's long-time attorney and confidant, Sherman Ross. By then, to borrow again from Yeats, the falcon could no longer hear the falconer. Darkness dropped.

Douglas Armstrong resigned from office. Lee Fowler was found dead in his garage from a self-inflicted gun shot wound. His suicide note admitted his role in the original coverup of the nursing home deaths and implicated others. Last week, Sherman Ross and four other men had been indicted for numerous criminal acts including three counts of first-degree murder for the deaths of Bruce Rosenthal, David Marcus, and Karen Harmon. The Douglas Armstrong investigation continues. In Vegas (according to a front-page PrimaxGate graphic in
USA Today
), the odds are 6–5 on whether he'll do hard time.

Meanwhile, Flo has become the front runner for a Pulitzer Prize, and her series may finally eclipse the
Chicago Tribune
's other moment in the center ring of twentieth-century journalism, namely, its banner headline proclaiming Thomas E. Dewey's decisive victory over Truman in the 1948 presidential election. Not surprisingly, Flo herself became the celebrity of the moment. The feature story in
People
magazine (“Say It's So, Flo”) included pictures of her in a Georgetown bistro, at the
Trib
's office, and jogging past the Jefferson Memorial with her big St. Bernard, Max. “The
Tribune
has given us Woodward and Bernstein combined,” commented a dour Ted Koppel on
Nightline
. But when Hollywood agents starting calling with proposals and packages for the next
All the President's Men
, Flo changed her phone number, bought two plane tickets to Bermuda, called Benny Goldberg long distance, and made him an offer he couldn't refuse. They weren't in love yet, Benny confided to me when they returned, “but we're definitely in lust.”

While they were down in Bermuda, I flew out to Arizona to visit David's grave and say kaddish for him. I met his parents at the cemetery, and they invited me back to their house for dinner. We looked through old photo albums and scrapbooks until after midnight. I saw more of David in his mother than his father, but I liked them both. The trip was good for me. It helped finally close that chapter of my life. When I returned from Arizona, I was ready to move on.

“Play ball!” the umpire shouted.

I glanced over at the runner on first base, who represented the tying run. A stocky redhead, he stared at me defiantly.

I looked at Jacki, who was crouched behind the plate. She hadn't had much luck at bat today, but she was a superb catcher—a position she had played for years on one of the steel mill teams during her days as a Granite City man. Although she had on too much makeup and lipstick for a softball game, she had wisely elected to add a pair of baggy Umbro shorts to her tight Spandex outfit in order to conceal certain decidedly unfeminine bulges that would have otherwise been quite visible in her turquoise bicycle shorts and leotard.

The batter was digging in at the plate and wagging his bat. His teammates were shouting. Behind me I heard my infielders start the chatter: “Hey, batter, hey, batter, hey, batter.” Jacki gave me a target and I lofted the first pitch toward her.

“Ball one!”

The other team started whistling and chanting.

“Ball two!”

More noise from the other side.

Then a pop foul back and over the backstop.

Then a line drive foul down the first base line.

The count was two balls and two strikes. Two outs. Bottom of the last inning.

“Hang in there, Rachel,” Jacki shouted from behind the plate. “Just one more.”

I glanced over at first base. The runner glared back. I looked around the infield and then back to the batter. Jacki was giving me a target. I took an underhand windup and arced the ball toward home. The batter swung hard.

Crack
.

It was a whistling line drive down the third base line. From the pitcher's mound I watched as the play seemed to unfold in slow motion. I saw Diane CorreValdes dive to her right. She was able to knock the ball down with her glove. As she scrambled to her feet and picked up the ball, I glanced back to see the batter sprinting down the line toward first. Jacki was lumbering behind him in foul territory to be in position in case of an overthrow. I turned toward third as Diane released the ball.

“No,” she cried.

Benny jumped up at first base, but Diane's throw was way too high. The ball sailed over his outstretched glove and went bouncing into foul territory. The rightfielder and Jacki gave chase. I turned to see the lead runner rounding second and digging hard toward third. I spun toward home. No one was covering.

I ran from the pitcher's mound toward home, turning my head to track the ball. Our rightfielder had picked it up deep in foul territory. He straightened and heaved the ball toward Benny, who was standing on the edge of the outfield about ten feet behind first base. As Benny reached for the throw, I took up position on the left side of the plate. I glanced quickly toward third and saw the runner round the base. I looked back toward Benny, who had just caught the relay throw and was pivoting to throw home.

I could hear the approaching footsteps as I followed the arc of the ball. Wincing, I caught the ball and turned toward third base. The runner was three strides away. I saw him lower his shoulder and put his elbows up like an offensive tackle. Flinching, I pressed the ball into my glove with the other hand, held the glove in front of me, and closed my eyes.

The impact knocked me back and literally head over heels. There was a moment of silence. Dazed, I opened my eyes. I was flat on my back. The umpire was leaning over me, staring at my glove, which I was hugging against my chest. I opened the glove. The ball was still there. He gave a quick, solemn nod and turned to the runner with his thumb in the air.

“You're out!” he hollered.

“Shit!” the runner shouted, kicking up a cloud of dirt.

Cheers erupted from my team.

Benny pushed past the umpire and kneeled next to me. “My God, Rachel, are you okay?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

As Benny helped me into a sitting position, Jacki came charging in from the outfield. She ran right up to the guy who had knocked me over.

“That was totally uncalled for,” she said to him, her voice shaking with anger. “You should apologize.”

He looked at her with contempt. “Huh?”

Jacki pointed at me. “I said you should apologize to her.”

He snorted. “Right. Fuck you, bitch.”

Incensed, Jacki put her hands on her hips. “Excuse me?”

He thrust his chin toward her belligerently. “You heard me. I said ‘Fuck you, bitch.'”

Jacki's expression changed from outrage to something far more menacing. “That is not nice,” she said, her voice now a full octave lower.

He didn't seem to pick up the ominous change in expression or voice. “Is that so?” he said with a smirk. “What are you going to do about it?”

By now they were less than two feet apart. They stared at one another. Jacki towered over him. With a quick movement of her left hand, she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and, to his obvious astonishment, lifted him off the ground. Before he could react, she slapped him in the face with her right hand. Not a dainty, prissy, ladylike slap. No, sir. This was a solid, open-handed, head-ringing, vision-blurring, jaw-rattling slap. She did it four times—deliberately, forcefully.

Forehand, backhand, forehand, backhand.

Whack
!…
Whack!…Whack!…Whack
!

The umpire and all the players stood motionless, mesmerized by the scene.

Jacki lowered him to the ground. Still grasping his shirtfront in her left hand, she yanked him around to where I was still seated on the ground. She took two steps toward me, dragging him with her. She faced him toward me and let go of his shirt. His legs were a little wobbly, his eyes a tad unfocused. He glanced back. She was standing right there, glaring down at him, her powerful arms crossed over her chest. He turned back to me, his eyes averted.

“Sorry, lady,” he mumbled.

“Her name is Rachel Gold,” Jacki said.

He stood there for a long moment. Slowly, he lifted his eyes until he was looking into mine. “I'm sorry, Ms. Gold.” He spoke softly but clearly.

“That's better,” Jacki said. “Now get out of my sight, punk.” She shoved him aside.

As the other team quietly packed their stuff and left, we celebrated our victory. I was a little stiff, but nothing was broken.

“Jacki,” Benny said as the three of us walked back to our cars, “you are totally awesome.”

She giggled. “Oh, Benny.”

“Hey, babe, I mean it,” he said.

We had reached our cars. I'd given Benny a ride to the game. Jacki's car was parked right behind mine. I opened the trunk of my car and heaved the bag of equipment inside.

“Listen,” Benny called to her, “when's your sex-change operation?”

Jacki paused, her hand on the door handle. She looked at Benny and blushed. “Next March.”

“Well, when you're all healed and open for business, you just give me a buzz. You are going to be one awesome broad.”

“Oh, Benny,” she said with tears in her eyes. “That's sweet.”

I waited until Jacki had driven off before putting the key in the ignition. I turned toward Benny and shook my head.

“What?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes incredulously. “‘Open for business'?”

He shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”

“‘One awesome broad'?”

“Hey, you think I was blowing smoke up her ass? Well, I wasn't. That stuff I told her—that was from the heart, Rachel. I meant every goddam word, and she knows it. The woman was touched.”

I started the engine.

“Am I right?” he asked.

I looked over at him.

“Well?” he asked. “Was the woman touched?”

I sighed and nodded. “I don't get it.”

Benny grinned triumphantly. “See?”

I shifted gears and pulled away from the curb. “I swear, Benny, you are living proof of that line from Hamlet.”

“Which line?”

I paused to get the quote right. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio—'”

“‘—than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' Yeah, ain't that the fucking truth? Hey, you hungry, Rachel?”

“A little.”

“Excellent. I'm buying. What do you say we head for Steak 'N Shake and put on the feedbag? Maybe a couple of double cheeseburgers with extra onions and Thousand Island dressing. Goddam, I'm getting a woody just thinking about it.”

We drove out of the park and got onto the highway.

“One more thing,” Benny said.

I looked over at him. “What?” I asked suspiciously.

“Jacki may be one awesome broad, but don't worry. In my book, Rachel, you'll always be the awesomest broad of them all.”

I tried staring at the traffic. I even tried frowning. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't keep from smiling.

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