Double Play

DOUBLE PLAY

by Nikki Duvall

Copyright 2013 by
Nikki Duvall

This is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and
incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

“Put
that thing away, would ya, Nina? I need a night off.”

J.D.
Shaw blocked the flash of the photographer’s camera with his good arm, keeping
the other tucked close to his side. Beads of sweat were forming along his
forehead and they had nothing to do with Nina. At the end of another ninety
five degree day, the Midwestern summer night still steamed in the aftermath of
evening thunderstorms, jacking the heat in the Field Museum’s main hall to
unbearable. Just a few more hours and he’d be able to shrug out of this monkey
suit and into a cold shower.

Nina
pushed his big hand away and flipped her long black hair behind one shoulder.
“A girl has to make a living.” She snapped another photo.

“Plenty
of other targets in the room,” J.D. mumbled.

“You
sell papers, Sweetheart,” she said, leaning in for a close-up. “Even women who
don’t like sports read the sports page when your picture’s in it.”

“Then
say something nice about me this time.”

“That’s
up to you. Give me something nice to say.”

“We’ve
been through this, Honey,” said J.D. with a smirk. “You ain’t my type.”

Nina
lowered her camera and squinted her steel blue eyes. “Don’t knock the product
until you’ve given it a trial run.”

“That’s
blackmail, that’s what it is,” J.D. grumbled.

“What’s
the Titan’s centerfielder doing at a literacy fundraiser, anyway?” asked Nina.
“Trying to improve your image?”

“Like
I said,” said J.D. with a twist of his lips, “that’s up to you.”

“Well,
you smell nice anyway,” she said, walking away with an exaggerated swing to her
hips. “Choke up a little on that swing, J.D. You could have hit that last slider
out of the park.” She waved over her shoulder. “Catch you later.”

J.D.
leaned against the bar and winced against the throb pulsing from his neck to
his groin. Even with the legal limit of pills and whiskey flowing through his
blood, he could still feel the strain of an overworked shoulder. Overworked. He
hoped that's all it was. He slipped one finger between his starched Armani
collar and the silk tie gripping his throat, allowing a fraction of heat to
escape. He’d skipped dinner, opting for pain pills and booze, high on a hard
fought win against the best minor league baseball team in the conference. Now
on an empty stomach, the amplified voices of a thousand trust funders bouncing
off the Field Museum’s marble staircases rumbled like a freight train in his
head. Cigar smoke and French perfume thickened the already stagnant city air,
offering his nauseous stomach one more reason to complain.

From
this balcony bar, J.D. could pick out every millionaire at this charity event,
every pale faced soft gripped bastard anxious to be seen sipping champagne with
celebrities. They were the same suits who shouted their contempt toward him
from their air conditioned stadium seats if he struck out, then bragged they’d
met him once when he hit a home run. In ten years they’d forget his name.
Tonight they wanted his autograph.

He’d
give anything right now to be sitting at Fat Jimmy’s in a tee shirt and jeans,
watching the Sooners kick the Longhorns’ butts on the big screen.

He
belted back his third double shot of Jim Beam Black and watched through
bloodshot eyes as his agent approached from the far side of Stanley Hall.  After
a full afternoon of catching fly balls in the scorching Chicago sun, the last
thing J.D. wanted to do was nurse Tony King’s ego at a black tie affair. By the
looks of King’s fake tan and slicked back spaghetti hair, he was already enough
of a pretentious prick. Trouble was, J.D. needed a ruthless sonofabitch like King
just a little while longer. Just long enough to seal a major league deal with
the New York Federals.

The
cameras were back. Flash, flash. “Look pretty, J.D.,” a buxom blonde said,
adjusting her lens for a close up.

“How
you doin’, Crystal?” J.D. asked with his best celebrity smile.

“Better
now that you’re here. What’s up with the solo gig? Last time I took your
picture you were surrounded by the full flight crew fresh from Stockholm. I
don’t think Chicago has ever seen so many natural blondes in one room.”

“Takin’
a rest.”

“Why
don’t you stop by the Drake tonight? Carrie’s throwing a party and I,” she said
with a wicked smile, “booked a room for the night.”

“Ain’t
feelin’ too social.”

“I
have a cure for that,” she said, snapping another picture.

J.D.
chuckled. “What paper you working for now?”

“Any
that’ll buy these from me.” She lowered her camera and leaned in for a whisper.
“I keep a few for myself, too.”

“That’s
kinda creepy,” J.D. whispered back with a devilish grin. He caught sight of Tony
King climbing the steps to the balcony bar and grimaced.  On a typical night,
King would arrive with a purchased date and a planned entrance, the kind of
publicity stunt every self-promoter dreams about. Tonight he was arriving sober
and alone. Something wasn’t right.

He
sidled up next to J.D. for a group photo.

“All
done here,” said Crystal, heading off into the crowd without taking another shot.
“We’ll be in the Drake’s main bar if you change your mind, J.D.!” she called
behind her.

“I
don’t think she likes me,” said Tony, momentarily confused.  He hiked himself
up on the leather stool next to J.D., helping himself to a tray of assorted
appetizers while checking his own image in the plated mirror behind the bar.  He
took a moment to size up J.D.’s foul mood before engaging. “Jonathan Dillon
Shaw,” he said, as if trying on the name for size. “Let me guess,” he said,
spitting bits of crab and crackers. “Jacked up, strung out, and apologizing to
no one.”

J.D.
stroked his coal black five o’clock shadow, drumming up the patience to hold a
five minute conversation with someone he cared nothing about. “Federals ain’t
complaining,” he said, keeping his dark eyes on his drink.

“They’re
complaining to me. Here’s a little advice,” said King in an authoritative tone
that made J.D.’s spine go stiff. “Prodigies get to be dicks. Your performance
tonight had benchwarmer written all over it.”

“I
told you I wrecked my shoulder,” J.D. snarled. “And the throw got to Bellamy in
time to tag the runner at home plate, which, by the way, saved the game. So you
can kiss my benchwarmer ass.”

King
spent the next minute staring at J.D.’s shoulder as if he could see through the
layers of expensive fabric to the fiery ligaments pulsing in the middle. He leaned
a little closer. J.D. nearly choked on his overpowering aftershave. “Tell Darby
you need an injection,” he said in a tone of confidence. “Federals don’t buy
damaged goods.”

“We
had this conversation, King. I ain’t usin' no steroids. ”

 “Don’t
blow this chance, John. You’re not going to make it without a little help.”

“Yeah,
well, we’ll see about that. Hey, Mitch!” J.D. shouted, tossing a fifty on the
bar. “Pour one of them candy ass drinks for my agent here, would ya?”

“Vodka
Martini,” King corrected. “No ice.”

 A
brawny Italian looking guy with a few too many miles on him hurried their way. He
looked uncomfortable in a tight fitting tuxedo and bow tie. “I heard the Federals
are scouting you, J.D.,” he said. He leaned toward them with the bright eyed
look of someone who made his living collecting secrets. “You two out
celebrating?”

 “Ain’t
my shindig,” grumbled J.D. with a crooked Harrison Ford grin. “If it were mine,
I’da ordered up some dancin' girls and cheap whiskey, none of this foofoo
shit.”

Mitch
laughed. “Sign my cocktail napkin?”

“Glad
to.” J.D. scrawled his name and jersey number along the square and handed it
back to a smiling Mitch who slipped the napkin into his lapel pocket.

“Be
right back.”

 King
frowned. “Time to get serious, Superstar. The bartender might think you’re
amusing, but the Feds don’t like your reputation for bar fights and call girls.”

“I’m
an Okie, King. I could drink a fifth and you wouldn’t know it.”

 “Oh,
I’d know it, alright. Last time we had this conversation, a couple of guys woke
up with broken noses and I had to bail you out of the drunk tank. Reporters
loved that.”

 “Well,
my left hook ain’t no good and my right is out of commission, so I guess you
hit a double,” said J.D. “Besides, the boss man don’t care what kind of press
he gets, as long as he gets plenty of it.” He reached over the bar for an empty
glass and pushed it forward. “Fill er up, Mitch.”

Mitch
glanced down at J.D.’s clenched right fist. “Sore shoulder, J.D.?”

“Comes
with the territory.”

“I
used to play ice hockey myself. Nearly made the Hawks. A shoulder injury sidelined
me for good,” said Mitch. “It still hurts like a sonofabitch in winter.”

“What
do you do for it?”

“Leggy
blondes and pill bottles.” His dark eyes drifted toward a woman on the far
terrace. “I wouldn’t mind that between my thighs.”

J.D.
followed Mitch’s gaze and set his jaw. Halee McCarthy wore jade silk and
pearls, the very dress he’d bought for her the year before, then helped her out
of the same memorable evening. Endless road trips and countless bottles of
whiskey hadn’t been enough to erase the memory of their two weeks together. The
taste of her still haunted him.

Too
bad his shoulder was out of commission. He had the urge to introduce himself to
Halee’s date with his fists.

 “Know
her?”

“Yeah,
I know her. She’s out of your league.” J.D. stirred his drink and watched the
ice cubes float and sink, matching his volatile mood. “Out of mine, too,” he
mumbled.

His
eyes strayed back toward Halee just as a middle aged man in a tweed jacket
pulled her in the opposite direction. He took the opportunity to size up the
back of her. Same curvy hips, same shapely legs. Her dress dipped down,
revealing the little mole on her left shoulder blade he’d loved to tease. He
watched the man slide his arm around her delicate waist and guzzled down the
remainder of his drink. A camera flashed in his face.

J.D.
pushed the camera away. “Get rid of that thing, would ya?” he said, getting up
to go.

“Just
one more, J.D.”

J.D.
sighed and smiled for the camera for several shots, then signed an autograph
for the photographer. “Print the good ones,” he said with a wink. “I’ll see you
in the morning,” he said to King. He took one step forward and tried to
remember which entrance he’d come through. Was it Lake Shore Drive or Soldier
Field? Between the alcohol and the massive chandeliers bouncing beams of light
off a sea of sequined dresses, his brain was fast approaching overload. His
eyes sought her out one more time, against his will. Their gazes connected. He
nodded. She cocked her head and sent him a puzzled look.

 “It’s
no surprise she dumped you,” said King from behind. “You’re a terrible liar.”

 “That’s
where you and I differ, King. The only game I play is baseball.”

“The
object of any game is to gain and maintain control. I smell trouble,” King said
in a hushed voice. He nodded toward a circle of high rollers gathered under the
shadow of the museum’s towering mastodon.  “Victoria Pryor has been at Halee’s
side all night.”

“The
Federals owner’s…”

“Wife.
His fourth. Looks more like his daughter.”

J.D.
managed to focus a blurred gaze on his new boss and grimaced. Victoria Pryor
displayed the same fierceness that permeated all of high society, a repressed
anger mixed with unsettling indifference, the kind of distracted nonchalance
that left J.D. cold.  

“Victoria’s
taken a liking to Halee,” Tony continued. “She’s joined the board of Halee’s
foundation. That’s bad news for you.”

J.D.
grunted. “Says who?”

“Beware
a woman scorned.”

 “I
can handle it.”

“Get
in the game, Shaw.” King glanced sideways as if sharing counterintelligence. “No
one handles Victoria Pryor. Her evil is practiced. What you see before you is
the finest plastic surgery money can buy. Arthur Pryor didn’t marry youth this
time, he married money and power. She was ruthless when you were playing little
league. Now that she’s menopausal, her enemies are dropping like flies. You
disappoint Halee, you disappoint Victoria and suddenly you’re warming the
bench, or worse, you’re back in the minor leagues.”

 “Bull,”
J.D. scoffed. “I’ve already disappointed Halee McCarthy and I’ve still got a Federals
jersey with my name on it. I don’t need any woman to get what I want. I’m a
lone wolf and I intend to stay that way.”

“Let
the Federals hear you say that and they’ll cancel your contract.”

J.D.’s
eyes darkened. King cleared his throat and changed tactics.

 “Look,
John,” he said, “the Feds don’t take to scandal. They want you married and
settled.”

J.D.
spit out an ice cube. “What did you say?”

“Married,
Superstar. Married with children.”

J.D.
slapped his glass on the bar. Tony didn’t flinch. “Just when were you going to
tell me that?”

“It’s
no one’s fault but yours.” King pulled a newspaper clipping from his lapel
pocket and tossed it on the bar. “Explain this.”

J.D.
peered at the black and white picture of himself flanked by two unidentified
blondes and curled his lip at the caption.
Playboy Titan centerfielder J.D.
Shaw turns up the heat at Shoshone’s with auto show models
. He shoved the
clipping back at his agent. “That don’t mean nothin’.”

“I
admire your penchant for catting around, J.D., I really do.  I don’t even mind
that you break every rule you come up against. But I lose my enthusiasm for bad
behavior when it spoils major league contracts. You lose, I lose. And I’m in it
to win. If you’re not, let me know now.”