Trial and Error

Forty-three

There are many ways to get to a Sunday school league baseball game at Sunniland Park in Kendall. Easiest is to drive down Dixie Highway. Metrorail works, too, if you bring a bicycle along for the last leg of the trip.

But today, Bobby, Steve, and Victoria took an FBI helicopter. The chopper ferried them from Key Biscayne, across the Bay, to Coconut Grove, Bobby silently watching the still, turquoise water in the morning sun. His eyes were distant, baseball surely not on his mind.

“They’re gonna be okay, kiddo,” Steve said.

“I know.”

“We’ll go down to Key Largo a lot. When the kids from the hospital come by, you’ll introduce them to Spunky and Misty.”

“Can I teach the kids to talk dolphinese?”

“You bet.”

The water below them was shallow and clear, brown sea grasses waving below the surface.

“I’m sorry about all that stuff that happened before, Uncle Steve.”

“What stuff?”

Bobby shrugged, and the helicopter passed over the shoreline of Coconut Grove, following the path of banyan trees along Main Highway.

“You know. All the mean things I said about you not caring about Spunky and Misty.”

“Not a problem, kiddo. You were upset.”

“Yeah. But that’s not an excuse. It was extremely…” He paused to dig up a word. “…immature of me.”

“You’re a Solomon. Immaturity is expected from time to time. Now, are you ready to take the mound?”

“Coach Kreindler won’t let me pitch in a real game.”

“We’ll see.”

The helicopter landed at the neighborhood park on Morningside Drive, where a police car met them and drove Bobby the few blocks to the house on Kumquat. He changed into his Beth Am Bobcats uniform, grabbed his glove and spikes, and the cops brought him back to the helicopter. They took off again, and seven minutes later, the chopper with the FBI logo was settling into the outfield, where the Bobcats and the Bashers were finishing warm-ups.

Now, that’s what I call making an entrance, Steve thought.

Bobby, Steve, and Victoria hopped out.

“Go warm up that throwing arm,” Steve told Bobby, who raced off to join his teammates.

Coach Ira Kreindler waddled out of dugout, waving his arms.

“What’s the meaning of this!” Kreindler huffed to a stop near second base.

“We’re delivering your starting pitcher.” Steve gave the pilot the thumbs-up, and the FBI chopper lifted off.

Kreindler hung onto his yarmulke in the wind from the rotors. “Forget it, Solomon. I’ve got enough problems today.”

He thrust a lineup card into Steve’s hand. Penciled in as the leadoff hitter for the First Baptist Bashers was “R. Schactman.”

“Richie on the Bashers?” Steve said. “I don’t get it.”

“That spoiled momzer switched teams. He said the scouts from Gulliver and Ransom would see him play more on a better team.”

“What a bastard,” Steve agreed.

“So forget about Robert pitching. The ball Shactman hit off him in practice hasn’t come down yet. Besides, Robert missed warm-ups, and you know my rules. If you’re late, you don’t play.”

Victoria intervened in her customary, polite way. “Mr. Kreindler, couldn’t you make an exception? Bobby’s had an incredibly hard night.”

“Yeah, Kreindler,” Steve said. “While you were making chopped liver, he caught a murderer and two thugs and rescued two endangered dolphins.”

Kreindler gave them a dubious look that made Steve want to punch him in the throat. “I’m sure he did, but rules are rules.”

“Like the kosher rules?” Victoria asked. “What are they called?”

“The kashruth, Ms. Lord. That happens to be my business. Kreindler’s Kosher Meats.”

“My business is enforcing the law, at least until I turn in my badge tomorrow. Are you aware it’s consumer fraud to sell nonkosher food as kosher?”

“How dare you!”

“One word from me, and the State Attorney’s Office will launch an investigation.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’ve never sold a milligram of trayf in my life.”

“Then an investigation will clear you. In two or three months.”

Steve laughed. “That’s a lot of rotting brisket.”

“Ms. Lord, I never expected this from you.”

“Me, either,” Steve said. “Vic, you’re terrific. You’re outstanding. You’re-”

“An extortionist!” Kreindler fumed.

“Just let Bobby pitch two innings,” she suggested.

“That’s all anyone can pitch! League rules.”

“Good. It’s settled, then. And, of course, I’ll be so busy tomorrow, I won’t have time to open any new investigations.”

Kreindler’s face turned the color of borscht. “You’ve got some chutzpah, lady.” He sighed so heavily, his throat wattles waffled.

Bobby took his warm-up pitches while Rich Shactman, the traitor, glared at him from the on-deck circle.

Concentrate, Bobby told himself. Keep the ball under control. Remember everything Uncle Steve taught you.

“Imagine a circle where you want to put the pitch, and paint everything else black. You won’t see the batter. You won’t see anything but that circle.”

Rich Shactman stepped into the batter’s box and crowded the plate, daring Bobby to pitch inside. He pointed his bat at the pitcher’s mound and squeezed one eye shut as if sighting a rifle. “Right back at you, Word Boy.”

Bobby turned toward the bleachers where Uncle Steve and Victoria were nestled together, their shoulders touching. Bobby nodded to indicate he was okay. He wasn’t going to pee his pants just because Rich the Shit Shactman was twirling a Louisville Slugger at him.

Behind the plate, catcher Miguel Juarez signaled for a fast ball inside. Bobby focused his mind, painting the circle right under Shactman’s hands, trying to move the prick off the plate.

Bobby wound up, kicked high, and whipped his arm forward. A blazing fastball six inches inside hit Miguel’s mitt with a thud that echoed across the field. Shactman staggered backward, stunned at the speed of the pitch.

“Ball one,” the umpire called.

“You hit me, I’ll kill you!” Shactman snarled.

Bobby shrugged like it was no big deal.

In his catcher’s crouch, Miguel showed two fingers-curveball. Coach Kreindler didn’t want the boys throwing curves, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

Bobby held the ball with his index and middle fingers and snapped his wrist at the moment of release. The pitch seemed to sail inside, and again Shactman stepped back, his knees buckling. But this time, the ball broke over the plate.

“Strike one!” the umpire yelled.

Shactman looked embarrassed. He’d bailed out like a sissy.

Bobby worked quickly now. Another fastball. Right over the plate. The ball had already popped into Miguel’s glove by the time Shactman started his swing.

“Strike two!”

Shactman seemed bewildered. He moved deeper into the batter’s box, dug his back foot into the dirt. Miguel signaled for a curve, on the outside corner. Bobby shook his head. He wanted strength against strength. Fastball against power hitter. Mano a mano. He wasn’t afraid.

“Right back at you, Shactman,” Bobby called out.

“Huh?” Shactman stared at him.

“Fastball down the pipe.”

Calling his pitch, letting the prick know, challenging his manhood.

Bobby worked two fingers across the seams, resting his thumb under the ball. He wound up, lifting both elbows shoulder high. He took the drop step and rotated his hips, his arm whipping forward.

A bullet, waist high, over the dead center of the plate.

Shactman’s swing was hard, but late, and it threw him off balance. Legs tangled, he collapsed in a heap.

Miguel yelled “Ouch” when the ball pounded into his mitt.

“Strike three!” The umpire punched his fist. “You’re outta here.”

Shactman got to his feet, dusted off his pants, and stalked toward the dugout, never returning Bobby’s stare.

Bobby picked up the resin bag, squeezed it, tossed it back to the ground. He hitched up his pants, pulled at his crotch, spat on the ground. He wished he had some chewing tobacco, or at least a wad of bubble gum.

I’m a pitcher. A real pitcher.

He turned toward Uncle Steve and Victoria and winked at them. Both smiled back without doing anything embarrassing like leaping up and screaming. Bobby’s mind drifted for just a moment, wondering if they’d all go to Whip ’N Dip for mint chocolate chip after the game. Then the second batter nervously approached the plate, and Bobby turned to Miguel to get the sign.

In the bleachers, Steve and Victoria held hands, squeezing tightly.

“Is that a tear in the corner of your eye?” Victoria asked.

“The wind.”

“It’s eighty-two degrees and humid as a wet towel. Not a breath of wind.”

Steve had forced himself to remain calm when Bobby struck out Rich Shactman. He’d told Bobby how to keep his poise, and Steve intended to follow his own advice.

“When you strike somebody out, kiddo, stay cool. Act like you’ve done it before. Like you’ll strike him out every time he comes up.”

Steve struggled to keep his emotions in check. He thought of the long path Bobby had traveled. The terrified, emaciated boy in the dog cage had conquered his fears. He now stood on center stage, confident and determined. Hell, he might become the star of his team. High-fives all around, root beer and pizza for everyone after the game. The feelings welled up inside, and Steve bit down hard on his lower lip, figuring the pain would keep him from blubbering.

“You knew Bobby could do this, didn’t you?” Victoria said

“I knew he had potential. He just needed some guidance.”

Victoria rubbed the back of Steve’s neck. “You’re a wonderful teacher.”

“Bobby’s a quick learner. And so are you.”

“Me?”

“The way you bluffed Kreindler. You’re stealing my game plan.”

“Am I, now?”

“It’s a compliment. You’ve learned to wing it, to shoot from the hip.”

On the pitcher’s mound, Bobby had one ball and two strikes on the second batter.

“I didn’t shoot from the hip,” Victoria corrected Steve.

“What?”

“Kosher food violations are on file in Miami Beach City Hall. Six years ago, Kreindler was cited. Something about not draining all the blood from the meat.”

“You researched him?”

She gave him the faintest hint of a smile.

“Aw, I should have known,” Steve said.

“Are you disappointed? That I’m not as spontaneous as you.”

“No way. It’s better that we’re different. Makes us an unbeatable team.”

Victoria leaned over and kissed him.

They watched as Bobby threw heat, a scorching fastball, for a called strike three. Victoria applauded, as did several others in the bleachers.

“You’re terrific with Bobby,” Steve said.

“I love him. You know that.”

“You’re gonna be a terrific mother.”

“When?”

“When what?”

“When will I be a terrific mother?”

“When you’re married.”

“When I’m married?”

“You know what I mean. When we’re…” He stumbled and fumbled. “C’mon, Vic. When it’s time and we’re ready, then obviously, we should, you know…”

“No. Tell me.”

“Aw, jeez.”

“Just say it.”

“Someday we should get…”

He seemed fundamentally unable to say the word that rhymes with “harried.”

“Get married?” she helped out.

“What’s this all about? You pushing me for a formal proposal? Something you can file at city hall with the kosher meat violations?”

“It doesn’t have to be formal. Nothing in writing and you don’t have to ask my mother for permission. A simple, ‘Will you marry me, Vic?’ would do.”

Kreindler was right. Victoria had ample quantities of chutzpah. Or whatever Episcopalians call it. Moxie, maybe. She could demand a jury give her client a million bucks or her boyfriend take their relationship to the next level. All without blinking or blushing.

Steve needed to reply quickly. Any delay would be interpreted as indecisive. At the same time, he wanted to yell at the umpire who had just called a ball on a pitch that had clearly caught the outside corner of the plate, knee high.

At one time, B.V., Before Victoria, Steve had been commitment phobic. But that had changed. Not only did he deeply love Victoria, Steve considered himself the world’s luckiest shyster because she loved him, too. In his mind, he could easily say the words:

“Sure, Vic, I want to spend my life with you, have children with you, knock off big verdicts with you.”

What would be the harm saying it aloud?

No harm.

Didn’t she yearn for the same things he did? And wouldn’t it be great to hear her say so?

“Will you marry me, Vic?”

She gave him a coy little smile. “I’ll think about it.”

SOLOMON’S LAWS

1. Try not to piss off a cop unless you have a damn good reason…or a damn good lawyer.

2. The best way to hustle a case is to pretend you don’t want the work.

3. When arguing with a woman who is strong, intelligent, and forthright, consider using trickery, artifice, and deceit.

4. A prosecutor’s job is to build a brick wall around her case. A defense lawyer’s job is to tear down the wall, or at least to paint graffiti on the damn thing.

5. Listen to bus drivers, bailiffs, and twelve-year-old boys. Some days, they all know more than you do.

6. When the testimony is too damn good, when there are no contradictions and all the potholes are filled with smooth asphalt, chances are the witness is lying.

7. A shark who can’t bite is nothing but a mermaid.

8. When the woman you love is angry, it’s best to give her space, time, and copious quantities of wine.

9. Be confident, but not cocky. Smile, but don’t snicker. And no matter how desperate your case, never let the jurors see your fear.

10. Never sleep with a medical examiner, unless you’re dead.

11. If you can’t keep a promise to a loved one, you probably aren’t going to keep the loved one, either.

12. Life may be a marathon, but sometimes you have to sprint to save a life.