Crack the Bat

06/04/12

On March 24, 1984, Dave Bergman fouled off seven pitches in a row. The Tigers had two men on, two men out and it was the bottom of the eleventh inning. Bergman represented the winning run. Not just the go ahead run, the winning run. Finally, on the thirteenth pitch and after being at the plate for seven fucking minutes, Bergman blasted the ball into the upper deck at the old Tiger Stadium.

Thirteen pitches. Seven foul balls. Seven minutes. Swing the stick that many times in one long at bat and your arms begin to feel like mush.

But swing a bat a half a dozen times at a guy’s head while he’s curled up in a ball on the ground screaming for his mommy and you feel like a fucking giant, not a tiger.

I wasn’t landing the blows. I’m not that kind of guy. I get paid to send a message.

My mark came out of his favorite coffee shop, an oversized paper cup in one hand, his smart-phone in the other. One of those leather saddle bag cases was slung over a shoulder. His trench coat was open, his Martinized, white, work shirt coming untucked because it barely fit over his apple barrel belly. All I had to do was hook the handle end of the bat through his leather shoulder strap and pull him behind me into the alley. I jabbed the bastard in the stomach with the fat end of the bat. Doubled him over. The coffee spilled down his once clean shirt. The stain on his pants I was sure was piss.

“All right, all right, I don’t have all night,” I said. “I’ve got a game to get to.”

“Who are you?” he asked. He was on his back, a turtle with trembling paws facing down a predator.

“Oh, we don’t need to exchange names,” I said. “We’re never going to see each other again unless Leland contacts me and tells me you’re still fucking his wife.”

The turtle stopped moving. He lay there on his back, elbows resting on the hard pavement. His hands were raised and folded at the wrist.

“Leland knows?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“How long has he known?”

“Long enough to call me.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. So unless you want me to use your head like a tee-ball stand, I suggest you end your little affair with the missus right now. No extra inning heroics. You pick yourself up, you catch a cab for home, and that’s it. Game over. Got it?”

He lay there for a moment staring up at the sky.

“She doesn’t love him.”

“Not my concern.”

The turtle held a hand up to me. Some guys. I held the fat end of the bat out to him. He grabbed it and I helped him to his feet.

“She’s going to leave him,” he said.

“I doubt that. The old guy’s got too much cash. Probably has an ironclad pre-nup.”

“She get’s everything if he dies.”

I looked him over. “You gonna kill him? Is she? You’re the first two the cops will look at.”

Turtle man got a curious look on his face. “You a cop?”

I held up the bat.

“Right. You do this for a living. And apparently play baseball in your spare time.”

“It handles some of my aggression.”

“What if we were to make a deal?”

I rabbit punched him in the throat with the bell of the bat. He started to double over, gasping. I held the bat against his throat and pinned him against the wall.

“You’re an idiot,” I told him. I pressed the bat against his neck until he swallowed his Adam’s apple. “All you had to do was walk away. But Leland said you wouldn’t and if you didn’t, well, there you go. You’re riding the pine.”

After Bergman’s homerun, Sparky Anderson said it was the greatest at bat he’d ever seen. A bat in the hands of the right guy can be a powerful weapon.

In mine, it can be downright deadly.

~ fin ~

Two time Derringer nominee Jack Bates writes crime fiction in an old house north of Detroit. He also pens the hipster PI series Harry Landers with Mind Wings Audio Books. Earlier this year his children's book The Santa Spy was named Best Holiday Book by the Literary Classics Award Committee.

*Hate... hate to be repetative... *sigh*
Neospooky
June 07, 2012
As a former Detroiter and devotee of the 84 Tigers, I find this story highly palatable.  I kept reading to see if Rooftop Rupert would get a mention.  I have to be repetative, but "riding the pine" is a great expression and one I could see as an addition to the hard-boiled lexicon.
Neospooky
June 07, 2012
Fantastic stuff. Love the juxtaposition of these two worlds.
Erik Arneson
June 06, 2012
Loved this story Jack! Great visual words! Can't wait to read more!
Diane Kratz
June 05, 2012
always love something with a different flavor- throw the grand old game in and I'm hooked. Good stuff!!
Bill Baber
June 04, 2012
This is why I love Shotgun Honey, for stories like this. Thanks Jack.
Ryan Sayles
June 04, 2012
Loved the absolute shit outta this! "Riding the pine." Faithful to the sport and still crackled with tension. Great story.
Brian Panowich
June 04, 2012
Swallowed his Adam's Apple - such a great image.  Thanks Jack.
nigel
June 04, 2012
Thwack! Goal- oy whatever they say in baseball! Top stuff!
PaulDBrazill
June 04, 2012
Hard as a foul ball in the catcher's cup. And a very nice lesson in  being grateful for what you're given. That was some baseball game too! 
AJ Hayes
June 04, 2012
Some baseball seasons one all year long. Nice one, Jack.
Jim Harrington
June 04, 2012
This two story contains my two favorite things in the world -- baseball and crime.  Brutal and effective.
R.J. Spears
June 04, 2012
Ha! Good one, Jack. Maybe this will get the Tiger bats swinging. 
Patti Abbott
June 04, 2012

Comments are closed for this post.