Forced Out (31 page)

"Goddamn it! What the hell?"

MJ's eyes flashed toward the voice. Reggie McDaniel, the Tarpon first baseman, was furious. His street clothes and a few personal items lay strewn in front of his locker--

now empty after he'd rooted through it violently.

"My wallet's gone!" McDaniel roared. He was a big man, almost as big as Clemant, with a fiery temper. He'd been ejected from four games this season, three more than anyone else on the team, including Lefty Hodges, the Tarpon manager. "I want it back, and I want it back
now
!" He glared around the room, his broad, bare chest heaving. All he had on were his uniform pants and game socks. "If I gotta go through every locker in here and shake everybody upside down by the ankles, I will. And when I find it, I'll kill the bastard who has it." McDaniel was only slightly more popular in the clubhouse than Clemant. "But if you give it to me now, there won't be any questions." The room had gone deathly still; no one was even moving. "Just toss it in the middle of the floor then walk straight outta here," he ordered. "But don't come back. I ain't puttin' up with no thief on my team."

MJ glanced at Zack Whitney, the guy he'd seen going in McDaniel's locker before the game. Whitney had been hurling some of the loudest insults at Clemant. Well, he sure had a hell of a poker face. If he hadn't seen Whitney take the wallet himself, he never would have guessed the guy was the thief.

"I had three hundred bucks in there," McDaniel muttered angrily, moving around his chair toward the middle of the large room so everyone could see how pissed he was.

"And I'm gonna find it."

"He took it, Reggie!" Whitney shouted suddenly, pointing at Clemant. "Me and Hector saw him going through your locker right before the game. After everybody else was gone." Whitney jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at Hector Rodriguez, the third baseman, who was standing a few feet away from MJ. "We forgot a bag of practice balls, and we came back to get it. Everybody else was out on the field. At least we thought they were. When we looked in here through the door window, Clemant was closing your locker, Reggie. We didn't actually see him take anything because he was standing in front of your locker. So there wasn't anything we could say. But it sure as hell looked like he was going through your stuff. Right, Hector?"

"Right," Rodriguez agreed, nodding at McDaniel. "He didn't see us. We didn't want any trouble. Sorry. We shoulda--"

"You son of a bitch!" McDaniel yelled, rushing Clemant.

Clemant was out of his chair instantly and easily sidestepped the lumbering McDaniel, who slammed into the locker behind Clemant, bashing a huge dent in it. Several teammates tried restraining McDaniel, who was a raging bull, but he shook them off easily and made a second charge. This time he managed to grab Clemant's left arm on the way by, but Clemant countered with a lightning-fast right cross to the chin that sent McDaniel crashing to the carpet.

"He didn't take your wallet!" MJ yelled at McDaniel, who was staggering to his feet.

"He didn't have anything to do with it." The locker room went still for a second time, and MJ felt every pair of eyes in the room race to him. "Whitney's lying his ass off."

"Keep your mouth shut, boy!" Whitney shouted across the room. "This has nothing to do with you."

"I'll say what I have to say," MJ retorted evenly. "And don't ever call me 'boy' again."

"I'll call you whatever the hell I wanna--"

"He stole your wallet, Reggie," MJ interrupted calmly, pointing at Whitney. "I was coming out of the bathroom, and I saw him do it."

"Stay out of this," Whitney yelled, veins in his neck bulging. "Or I'll kick your ass."

"You stole it. It was you."

"You got no proof," Whitney said with a hiss. "But I do. I got another witness. Right, Hector?"

Rodriguez nodded hesitantly, his eyes quickly moving from Whitney to McDaniel to Clemant.

"See," Whitney said confidently, folding his arms across his chest. He broke into a thin smile. "Maybe you were in on it, too, MJ. Maybe that's why you're sticking up for Mikey. We all saw you take his stuff out to him last night for the top of the ninth, you little ass-kisser. He has one good game," Whitney sneered, "and you decide to be his slave."

"I didn't take the wallet, Reggie," Clemant said loudly. "I may not be the best teammate in here, but I've never stolen anything in my life."

"Liar!" Whitney yelled. "You're a goddamn liar, Clemant. We saw you in front of his locker."

"Check his pocket, Reggie!" MJ yelled to McDaniel, stabbing in the air at Whitney. "The right front one."

"This guy's insane," Whitney retorted, pulling the stretch-tight game pants around his right thigh. "No wallet. See?"

"I'm not talking about his wallet," MJ said. "There's a piece of paper in his pocket with the combination to your lock on it, Reggie." MJ knew he was taking an awful chance. Whitney could easily have thrown the paper away. If McDaniel checked and there wasn't a piece of paper with a lock combination on it, this could get very ugly very fast. "Go on, Reggie."

Whitney eyes widened as McDaniel made a move at him. So he made his own move--at MJ. "You little shit!" he yelled, dashing across the locker room. "I'm gonna kill--" But Clemant caught Whitney before he'd gone three steps and hurled the smaller man over a chair and into the lockers, splitting open a deep cut on his forehead. Then Rodriguez and another player jumped Clemant just as McDaniel made it to Whitney. McDaniel clamped one huge hand around Whitney's neck and pinned him to the floor while he stuck the other into Whitney's right front pocket, searching for the telltale piece of paper.

Clemant was almost free of his attackers when two more guys piled on. Then everything went crazy, and it turned into an all-out brawl. Half the guys in the room were throwing punches.

"What the hell's going on here?"
Lefty Hodges shouted from the doorway. The Tarpon manager was a stubby, potbellied, white-haired Irishman. Fifty-eight, he was still feisty. Still not afraid to mix it up with the young guys if that was what the situation called for. And a lot of times in Single-A, it did. "Everybody stand down!" he yelled as his four assistant coaches waded into the melee, pulling combatants apart. "The next guy I see throw a punch is gone.
I mean it!
" Within a few seconds order had been restored. The players didn't like Lefty much, but they respected him. "That's better. Now somebody tell me what's going on."

No one said a thing.

Lefty spat chaw on the carpet and cursed under his breath, then pointed at Whitney.

"You got the most blood on you, Zack." The right side of Whitney's face was wet with blood from the cut on his forehead. "Means you probably got the most to say." Lefty motioned inward with one hand. "Come on. Out with it."

Whitney picked himself up off the floor. He glanced uncertainly at McDaniel, who was holding a small piece of paper. "Clemant stole Reggie's wallet out of his locker," he said, sticking to his lie, "then he tried to pin it on me. He had MJ say I stole it." Whitney pointed at Rodriguez. "But Hector and I saw Clemant take the wallet. Clemant and MJ

are lying. They're in it together. They probably split the three hundred bucks Reggie says was in it."

MJ spied the paper twitching in McDaniel's fingers, and he gave the big first baseman a what-the-hell look. But McDaniel didn't speak up. Maybe McDaniel hated Clemant more than he hated knowing Whitney was guilty. Maybe McDaniel figured this was a perfect way to finally get Clemant kicked off the team. The Kid didn't have any friends in here. That was more obvious than ever.

"I didn't take anything. These guys are--"

"Shut up, Mikey," Lefty snapped. "Put on some clothes, then get to my office." He gestured at MJ. "You, too. Move it.
Both of you!"

* * *

It was almost seven-thirty, and the evening shadows were getting long. Jack was irritated and disappointed. Irritated because the game had ended more than an hour ago and MJ

still hadn't appeared at the clubhouse door--usually he didn't take more than thirty minutes to shower and dress. Disappointed because Mikey Clemant hadn't copied Mickey Mantle at the plate today.

Before leaving for the stadium, Jack had checked Mantle's box score on the Retrosheet website. On May 31, 1968, Mantle had gone oh-for-two, grounding out in the fourth and striking out in the sixth, sandwiched between two walks. Clemant had gone oh-for-four today, and they'd all been lazy pop-ups to the infield. Nothing like Mantle's May 31 in 1968. On top of that, the Kid had made a horrible fielding error out in center in the top of the ninth that cost the Tarpons the game. He'd jogged apathetically out to the warning track beneath the long fly, then just dropped it. It was one of the easiest plays ever. It was almost like he didn't care about catching the ball, or he was drunk or on drugs. Ooh. He'd never considered that possibility. Maybe the can't-miss-kid was an alcoholic or a druggie. Maybe some days Clemant came to the stadium under the influence. Maybe a lot of days. Able to convince Lefty Hodges he was fine, but unable to play anywhere near the level he was capable of. Some of the older guys like Hodges didn't get the drug thing, or looked the other way if they suspected anything because they didn't want to have to deal with it. Jack cursed under his breath. That could be it, all right. And nine times out of ten you couldn't reach a guy who was into drugs. He'd seen it too many times, especially in the past few years. Guys who thought they'd go right to the Show after only a few weeks in the minors quickly tired of hanging out in bush-league towns like Sarasota when a few weeks turned into a few months. When it did, some of them headed down the path to ruin. To keep from going crazy, they told themselves, they rationalized. When the reality was they were buying themselves a firstclass ticket on the express train out of baseball. Cocaine seemed to be the drug of choice because guys could still play while they were on it--sometimes pretty well even. But it could be anything: liquor, pot, XTC, crystal meth. Eventually cocaine caught up with them, too.

He flipped off the car radio, twisting the dial violently. He'd been listening to the postgame show on the local AM station, but he couldn't take any more. The on-air guys were hacks.

He banged the steering wheel impatiently. "Come on, MJ. Come on!"

* * *

MJ and Clemant had been sitting in Lefty Hodges's office for fifteen minutes, fidgeting, waiting for the old man to show. MJ was wondering if he would, or if this was, in fact, their punishment. To sit in the bowels of Tarpon Stadium like a pair of morons until they finally figured out an hour from now--or whenever it was--that Lefty was not going to appear.

The office was small, just bare bones. Furnished only with a metal desk in front of a beat-up old chair that rolled on three squeaky wheels, the two rickety wooden chairs MJ

and Clemant sat in, a fake plant behind the door set in a large tan-colored pot, and a bookcase next to the plant on which there was a bare-bulb lamp that was even dustier than the fake plant. The desk resembled a battlefield. It was booby-trapped by a platoon of large white Styrofoam cups half full of stale black coffee hidden among wadded-up sports sections, old lineup cards, and a big ashtray overflowing with cigarette and cigar butts. Lefty chain-smoked cigarettes before games--and after if they lost--and smoked one big, fat cigar after a win. All the way down to the nub.

MJ put his hands behind his head and leaned back. He and Clemant hadn't said a word to each other since leaving the locker room. "I wonder if the old guy's gonna show," MJ

finally muttered. Funny how he thought of Lefty Hodges as older than Jack, even though Lefty was actually five years younger. Jack seemed more on the ball, more aware of the bigger picture, more into what was going on around him. All Lefty cared about was the Sarasota Tarpons. There was a rumor he had a wife, but no one had ever seen her. He was a laser-focused man, but it wasn't like all that focus did him much good. In seven seasons Lefty's winning percentage was below 50 percent. He'd probably lasted this long because he made only forty-five grand a year. "Maybe Lefty's just screwing with us."

"He'll show."

Another five minutes passed.

"I'm outta here," MJ said, standing up. He could picture Jack sitting in the Citation out in the parking lot, pounding the steering wheel. Another couple of minutes and there wouldn't be a ride home. "I'm gonna miss my ride if I don't go." He knew Clemant couldn't help with a ride. Clemant rode city buses to the ballpark. A couple of times he'd seen the Kid get out a few blocks from the stadium, like he didn't want anyone to know he didn't have a car. "If he isn't gone already." City buses didn't go anywhere near his house, so that wasn't an option, either.

"Don't worry. Your friend Jack Barrett's not going anywhere." MJ sank slowly back down in his chair. "Huh?"

Clemant snatched an old lineup card off the desk. "Barrett won't leave you here," he said, scanning it. "He'll wait around as long as it takes. Hell, if you walked out there at midnight, he'd still be there. He might not be real happy, but he'd be there. He's too interested in what you might tell him."

"How do you--"

"Same as you know I ride the bus to the stadium," Clemant interrupted. "I've seen you get out of Barrett's car a couple of times. Out of that rusty old bucket of bolts he calls a car."

You always figured you were fooling people, always figured you knew more than they did, MJ thought. But more often than not, what you were really doing was fooling yourself. It was like his father had always said when they were fishing at that little bridge. People know 99 percent more than you think they know. If you accept that, he'd always say, really accept it, you'll do yourself a huge favor. Suddenly he missed his father a lot.

"What does Barrett want anyway?"

"What do you mean?" MJ asked innocently.

Clemant tossed the old lineup card back on the desk. "Come on, pal. Don't pull that crap on me. You and he are working together. It's pretty obvious. At least to me. Look, he came up to me a few days ago in a bar near here," Clemant continued without waiting for confirmation of the partnership. "Claimed he was an old Yankee scout. Told me how he could recognize talent anywhere, and that I was the real deal." The Kid hesitated.