you would serve no purpose. How could it?”
I nodded as Detective Ford leaned back, the legs to his chair squeaking loudly as they scraped against the linoleum floor. If I had to guess, that had been the most uninterrupted string of sentences the guy had put together in a long, long time.
“If killing me would serve no purpose, then what was the purpose of killing Vincent Marcozza?” I asked. “It would seem to be no different—simple revenge.”
I stared at the detective, waiting for him to alleviate my fears, to give me some great and compelling explanation as to why I had nothing to worry about. But that clearly wasn’t his style.
“Look, Mr. Daniels, it’s like this,” he said. “Eddie Pinero isa sick and twisted motherfucker who kills with little provocation and even less remorse. Personally, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Then again, Vincent Marcozza probably thought the same thing. So it’s your call.
Now, are you going to give me the recording or not?
”
Chapter 20
“OH MAN, oh man, oh man.”
Dwayne Robinson sat alone in the darkness of his tiny one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side. The place was barely furnished, almost as empty as the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black tipped over by his feet.
He was mumbling to himself, thinking that he missed his kids so much, it felt as if his heart had been carved out of his chest. For years now their mother had Kisha and Jamal out in California, as far away from him as possible. But even if they lived next door he knew he’d probably be too ashamed to see them. He hadn’t paid child support for over a year. The last time he did, the check bounced, and he was ashamed about that, too.
There was nothing more to hock. His two Cy Young awards were long gone. So were the old Yankee jerseys. OneBay, the highest bid for one of his signed baseballs was $18.50. His rookie baseball card had no bids at all.
Again, the phone rang.
It had been ringing all afternoon and into the night. Not once did he answer or even check the caller ID. He didn’t need to; he knew who it was.
He was sure that writer, Nick Daniels, was a decent guy, and that’s what made it worse. Dwayne pleaded with himself,
Just call him back and tell him you’re okay.
Just lie, like you always do.
But he couldn’t even do that much. He was too scared. The same fearless pitcher who chose to stay here in New York, even after letting the entire city down, was too scared to talk to some writer.
All he could do was close his eyes and let the darkest of dark thoughts creep into his mind like shadows across the outfield and around the monuments at Yankee Stadium.
Never having to open his eyes again. Not ever. That would be good.
“Goddamn it!” he yelled, swinging his huge clenched fist through the darkness. But the invisible demons were always out of reach.
His eyes popped open as he stood, turned on the light, and began pacing the floor. His fear had turned to rage, the alcohol coursing through his blood no longer dulling the pain. Instead, it was greasing the wheels. Every muscle, every nerve ending, fired at once as he lunged for the empty bottle of Johnnie Walker, scooping it up while cocking his arm.
This would be no curveball.
This was a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball aimed right at the bare wall before him.
Smash!
Shards and splinters of jagged glass scattered across the apartment as he fell hopelessly back into his chair, sobbing into both hands.
Dwayne knew one thing for sure.
He couldn’t keep his secret any longer.
He had to talk to that damn reporter, whatshisname—Nick Daniels.
Chapter 21
AFTER RETURNING HOME from the Nineteenth Precinct, where Detective Ford had sweet-talked me into handing over my recording from Lombardo’s under the threat of a subpoena, I spent the rest of my day alternating between calls to Dwayne Robinson and contemplating life on the run from Eddie Pinero.
On the plus side, an extended stint in the Witness
I nodded as Detective Ford leaned back, the legs to his chair squeaking loudly as they scraped against the linoleum floor. If I had to guess, that had been the most uninterrupted string of sentences the guy had put together in a long, long time.
“If killing me would serve no purpose, then what was the purpose of killing Vincent Marcozza?” I asked. “It would seem to be no different—simple revenge.”
I stared at the detective, waiting for him to alleviate my fears, to give me some great and compelling explanation as to why I had nothing to worry about. But that clearly wasn’t his style.
“Look, Mr. Daniels, it’s like this,” he said. “Eddie Pinero isa sick and twisted motherfucker who kills with little provocation and even less remorse. Personally, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Then again, Vincent Marcozza probably thought the same thing. So it’s your call.
Now, are you going to give me the recording or not?
”
Chapter 20
“OH MAN, oh man, oh man.”
Dwayne Robinson sat alone in the darkness of his tiny one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side. The place was barely furnished, almost as empty as the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black tipped over by his feet.
He was mumbling to himself, thinking that he missed his kids so much, it felt as if his heart had been carved out of his chest. For years now their mother had Kisha and Jamal out in California, as far away from him as possible. But even if they lived next door he knew he’d probably be too ashamed to see them. He hadn’t paid child support for over a year. The last time he did, the check bounced, and he was ashamed about that, too.
There was nothing more to hock. His two Cy Young awards were long gone. So were the old Yankee jerseys. OneBay, the highest bid for one of his signed baseballs was $18.50. His rookie baseball card had no bids at all.
Again, the phone rang.
It had been ringing all afternoon and into the night. Not once did he answer or even check the caller ID. He didn’t need to; he knew who it was.
He was sure that writer, Nick Daniels, was a decent guy, and that’s what made it worse. Dwayne pleaded with himself,
Just call him back and tell him you’re okay.
Just lie, like you always do.
But he couldn’t even do that much. He was too scared. The same fearless pitcher who chose to stay here in New York, even after letting the entire city down, was too scared to talk to some writer.
All he could do was close his eyes and let the darkest of dark thoughts creep into his mind like shadows across the outfield and around the monuments at Yankee Stadium.
Never having to open his eyes again. Not ever. That would be good.
“Goddamn it!” he yelled, swinging his huge clenched fist through the darkness. But the invisible demons were always out of reach.
His eyes popped open as he stood, turned on the light, and began pacing the floor. His fear had turned to rage, the alcohol coursing through his blood no longer dulling the pain. Instead, it was greasing the wheels. Every muscle, every nerve ending, fired at once as he lunged for the empty bottle of Johnnie Walker, scooping it up while cocking his arm.
This would be no curveball.
This was a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball aimed right at the bare wall before him.
Smash!
Shards and splinters of jagged glass scattered across the apartment as he fell hopelessly back into his chair, sobbing into both hands.
Dwayne knew one thing for sure.
He couldn’t keep his secret any longer.
He had to talk to that damn reporter, whatshisname—Nick Daniels.
Chapter 21
AFTER RETURNING HOME from the Nineteenth Precinct, where Detective Ford had sweet-talked me into handing over my recording from Lombardo’s under the threat of a subpoena, I spent the rest of my day alternating between calls to Dwayne Robinson and contemplating life on the run from Eddie Pinero.
On the plus side, an extended stint in the Witness
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