Trial and Error

Thirty-three

“Does this mean I can’t pitch to you today?” Bobby asked.

“No way. We’re gonna work on the circle change-up,” Steve told him. “You’ve got to follow through all the way, make ’em think a fastball’s coming.”

They were in Steve’s Mustang, headed down South Dixie Highway toward Coconut Grove.

“What about finding the FBI agent?” Bobby asked.

“A fastball’s all about power. A change-up is about deception. I like the change-up.”

“Uncle Steve. What about Connie Parsons?”

“Gonna take care of that right now.”

Steve picked up his cell phone. It took a while to work through the automated menu of the local FBI office, but finally he reached a real person, the weekend operator.

“Agent Constance Parsons, please,” Steve said.

“The office is closed today, sir.”

“Do kidnappers and bank robbers know that?”

“Would you like to leave a message, sir?”

“My name’s Steve Solomon. I know you have emergency contact numbers for all the agents. So please contact Agent Parsons immediately. Tell her to meet me for drinks at six o’clock at the Rusty Pelican on the causeway. I’m buying.”

“Are you asking Agent Parsons out on a date, sir?”

“More or less. Please also tell her if she doesn’t show, I’ll subpoena her to testify in open court in the Nash case, and she’ll never work undercover in this town again.”

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“Only that I have her wig and sunglasses.”

Steve clicked the phone off and winked at Bobby.

“Can I come along, Uncle Steve?”

“Nope. After we work out, I want you off your feet. You have a game tomorrow.”

“It doesn’t take much energy to stand in right field.”

“You’re pitching tomorrow, kiddo.”

“Does Coach Kreindler know that?”

“Not yet. But I’ll talk to him.”

“Riii-ght.”

“You gotta trust me, Bobby. On everything. At six o’clock today, I’m gonna solve the Nash case. And tomorrow, when the First Baptist Bashers come to the plate, you’ll be pitching.”