Offside Trap Read online

  “Did Jake take any medications, vitamins, that sort of thing?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t know.” She fiddled with her wedding band. Her hands were old, much older than the rest of her. “Well, there were some vitamins, I think. When he came home last Thanksgiving. He said they were for sports. Energy, that’s what he said they were for.”

  “What did they look like, exactly?”

  “What did what look like?” said a voice from the door. It was the guy with the tie and the cell phone. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” He looked from me to Ron and then back. Ron leaned into the wall like he was trying to make himself invisible.

  “You must be Jake’s dad.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Michael, language,” said Jake’s mother. Michael shot her a stinging look, and she retreated back into her shell.

  “Sir, my name is Miami Jones. I am assisting inquiries into your son’s incident.”

  “Miami Jones? What the hell kind of name is that?” Jake’s mother gave him a look but said nothing. He glared at me.

  “Outside.” He barreled out of the room. I followed him. Ron didn’t. Michael strode to the waiting area. The kid in the hoodie was gone.

  “Who do you work for?” he spat.

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

  “It’s the college isn’t it? That weasel, Millet. You tell him I’m going to sue him to kingdom come.”

  “I can assure you, nothing would please me more. I’m not working for Dr. Millet, Mr. Turner. The people I represent want the truth to come out.” I wasn’t completely sure about that, but I hoped it was the case.

  “My son was not a drug addict.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s suggesting he was. But was he happy at school?”

  “He played games and did a few hours of classes. What’s not to be happy?”

  “It is college. You went to college.”

  “I went to a real college. We were too busy for games.”

  “Which college?”

  “Brown,” he said. He puffed out his chest when he said it, like the word gave him superpowers. “Then my MBA at Harvard.”

  “You live in Massachusetts?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you wanted Jake to go to school in Massachusetts?”

  “I didn’t care. Massachusetts, Rhode Island.”

  “You wanted him to go to Brown?”

  “Of course. But Harvard would’ve done. Hell, he got an offer from UMass Amherst. He could’ve lived at home.”

  “But he chose to come here.”

  “He said they had a great lacrosse program. Harvard has a good lacrosse program. And he wanted to major in construction management. Whatever the blazes that is.”

  “But he was offered a scholarship here.”

  “Half. Half a scholarship.”

  “And you pay for the rest?”

  “He had savings and a college fund. I believe in people paying their own way.”

  “Was there any unusual expenditure?”

  Michael Turner frowned. He was maybe two inches shorter than me, but he stood tall. “What the hell are you getting at, pal?”

  “I’m not getting at anything, sir. Just trying to piece things together to find out who was responsible.”

  “You are a dirtbag. There was no unusual expenditure, you maggot. You’re trying to make my son look like a drug addict.” The words were fierce but the voice measured.

  “Have you considered the fact that people who are not drug addicts rarely overdose under bleachers?” I realized the lack of tact a split second too late.

  “Get out,” he said. He didn’t yell, he just pointed toward the elevators and a vein in his neck bulged some. He was a cool customer. But I didn’t need a scene, so I put my palms in the air and walked away. I winked at the nurse at the desk as I wandered by, and she returned the favor with a look that would have killed the Ebola virus. When I got to the elevator I smashed my butt against the wall and waited. Ron was only a minute behind. Evidently Mr. Turner had gone straight back into Jake’s room and evicted Ron. He wore a cheesy grin.

  “Making friends again?” he said.

  “I might have made one marginally tactless remark.” I hit the down button to the elevator. “Who knew the guy would be so touchy.”

  “Everyone but you?”

  “Fair call.” The elevator dinged. We got in with a striking blonde in a lab coat. She looked like a doctor if Michael Bay were doing the casting. Ron and I stood either side of her, which was a little creepy but she didn’t give anything away. We rode down in silence. We’re men, and as such we are only capable of performing one human function with total focus at a time. Our eyes were working overtime so talking was out. As were walking, thinking and eating. Breathing was a chore. The elevator hit our floor, and the woman stepped out and strode in the direction of a big sign that read x-ray. I ambled out and watched her walk away. Ron was glued to the back of the elevator. The door bumped closed and I lunged at the button to open it. The door eased open, revealing Ron’s broad grin. Even in hospital lighting he looked tan and healthy, despite the well-worn face and splotches where a skin guy in Boca had removed a few melanomas.

  “Man cannot live on yeast and malt alone,” he said.

  “You’re old enough to be her father,” I said as we headed across the foot bridge back to the parking structure.

  “There’s plenty of snap and crackle left in this pop.”

  “So how’s Mrs. Turner?”

  “You spoke to her.”

  “After I left with her darling husband, I mean.”

  “You are asking if I charmed a poor woman sitting at her unconscious son’s bedside?”

  I raised an eyebrow as I hit the key fob and unlocked the Mustang. We got in, and I pulled out of the huge structure and headed back toward West Palm.

  “Well, since you asked,” smiled Ron, “I did have a little chat with Elise.”

  “Elise. And?”

  “And I’m not surprised the kid is where he is.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s a little bit Stepford. She’s worried, about her son, I’m sure. But more so about what her neighbors will think about having a drug user son. She’s trying to convince herself it was an accident.”

  “An accident? Under the bleachers?”

  “Never let the facts get in the way of a good story,” said Ron.

  “You should run for office.”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “Oh, what have I done.”

  “At the yacht club.”

  “Commodore Bennett? Save us. You wouldn’t be put in charge of a vessel or anything, would you?”

  “No.” He laughed. “No one starts at Commodore.”

  “First mate?”

  “There you go, that sounds about me.”

  “So what else did you glean from Jake’s mother, First Mate?”

  “She didn’t seem very engaged. Like she was a bystander to the boy’s life. She kept saying Jake’s father takes care of this and Jake’s father takes care of that. As if she deferred to him on everything.”

  “Sounds like New England old money to me.”

  “You’re just bitter because you were New England no money.”

  “There is that. But how does this leave a kid under the bleachers at the ballpark?”

  “You tell me,” said Ron.

  “What does that mean?”

  “The kid grows up in New England, wants to get out, chooses a college in Florida. As far away as he can get. Sound familiar?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Point is you didn’t just choose University of Miami because it had good football and baseball programs. You could’ve gone to Boston College—hell, you could’ve gone to UConn or even Yale. But you chose South Florida. So did Jake Turner. Why?”

  I drove in silence for a while, letting the throb of the engine and the hum of tire on black
top cocoon the Mustang. Why had Jake Turner gone so far from home? Why had I? Ron was right, I could have gone to UConn and stayed in Connecticut, or moved up to Boston. Yale wouldn’t have had me, despite my dad having worked there. They don’t offer athletic scholarships in the Ivy League, and my high school grades weren’t Yale material. Perhaps Harvard wasn’t an option for Jake. His grades might not have been Ivy League material either. Ron sat staring out at the horizon whizzing by, waiting for me to conclude the discussion in my head.

  “The weather,” I said. “The weather was a big part of it. I had enough football in sleet and snow.”

  “No argument from me. Why anyone lives up there is beyond me. But that’s not your reason.”

  “No, it’s not.” I breathed in deeply, through the nose, held it, then out through the mouth. Like Kim Rose. She taught me that, back in college. I’d used it before every single pitch I’d thrown, from sophomore year until the day I hung up my cleats. It calmed me. For Kim it was all about focus. For me, it was about being relaxed, beating back the voices in my head and the shouts of the coaches and the taunts of the fans. People think the pitcher is too far from the crowd, out there on the mound, to hear the taunts and the catcalls. Even the encouragement. At Fenway it’s probably true. But in the minor leagues, you hear everything. If you can’t learn to shut it out, you’re done before you even begin.

  “I wanted to get away. Not because life was so bad. But it was stifling. New England’s as old as this country gets. Its traditions are firm and true and it felt like there was no room to breathe, to explore. To be yourself. In New Hampshire they like to say Live Free or Die. In Connecticut it was more like Conform or Perish. Florida was like a new day. I came for a baseball carnival during high school, in Orlando.”

  “Orlando?” Ron made a face like he’d eaten a bad pickle.

  “Yes, I know. The other Florida. The one for all the tourists. But it was a revelation. The sky was bright and the ballparks were new and the people smiled. I knew from that trip on I’d be coming here again. It was like a new frontier. Like people wanted to be here. To create their own traditions rather than be defined by them.”

  “And so it was for Jake Turner,” said Ron.

  “His father was an old school control freak, and mother was distant. Lots of families like that. But it’s like boiling a frog. You get used to it. It might not be loving and caring and sitcom saccharin, but it’s not bad either. So Jake wasn’t running away. He was running to.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Running somewhere he could be himself. Express himself. Be what he wanted to be. Prove his worth on his terms.”

  Ron nodded. “And what about Jake?”

  I smiled. “Jake. The question is, did getting out of that environment and into this one raise him up or push him down?”

  “Gut?”

  “Star player, according to the coach, good grades according to the president. Doesn’t sound like a hard-core drug user. But evidence suggests otherwise. Gut is confused.”

  “What’s the absolute best way to get a batter out in baseball?” asked Ron.

  “Get in his head.”

  “So.”

  “So I gotta get in this kid’s head. Get into his space.”

  Ron nodded.

  “You are quite the piece of work, Ron Bennett.”

  He smiled. “And you are racking up quite the tab on the couch there, grasshopper.”

  “Can we start a payment plan?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “You accept payment in amber liquid?”

  “Is it cold?”

  “Always.”

  “In a frosty goblet?”

  “Will you take a frosty bottle? Don’t think Mick does goblets.”

  “I will.”

  “Done. Let’s get some lunch.”

  “Drive on, McDuff.”

  Chapter Seven

  RON WAS RIGHT. I needed to get my head in the game. To get into Jake Turner’s world. I bought Ron lunch, turkey on wheat with a Miller Lite, and then spent the afternoon in the office. I didn’t get anything done. Lizzy popped in a few times with things to sign, pouted at me with her vermilion lips, and then left me to my thoughts. There were none. I don’t think well in the office. Usually I like to walk, down along the promenade on Flagler Drive or on the beach. Maybe it’s the negative ions. I heard once that because negative attracts positive, negative ions attract positive thoughts. I heard it from a drunk in a bar, so it might have been complete baloney. Maybe people at the beach weren’t happy because of negative ions; maybe they were happy simply because they weren’t at work. This was the direction my thoughts were taking, so I slipped into my canvas boat shoes and headed out in the Mustang. It seemed I’d only just driven up on I-95, now I headed back. I needed some bleacher time.

  Bleachers would have some tales if they could talk. They see the spectrum of life. The highs and lows of sports, cheering crowds, jeering crowds, silent disappointed crowds. They watch training, vacant and alone, then they fill with tapping feet and hoarse calls and dropped popcorn and hot dog wrappers. And they see the other side. Underneath. In the dark spaces, teens sneaking a cigarette. Forbidden lovers capturing a moment together. Needles and small flames and anguish and release.

  I parked near the college fields and walked in the fading light to the ballpark. No lights were on, the season over. In the distance I could hear the calls and whistles of practice, the dull thud of boot on soccer ball. Empty bleachers eat up the sound like cathedrals. People speak in hushed tones. Perhaps for that reason they are good places to think. I walked up the ramp between the stands and glanced left under the away team bleacher. It was pitch black down there. There was nothing to see anyway. I glanced at home plate in the twilight, and then turned right and headed up the steps. The nearby offices threw enough light to see. I stopped three quarters of the way up and sat down at the end of the row. The home team side, wooden slats. I sat in the bleacher, listening to my breathing, the rhythm of it. Thinking about Jake Turner and me and New England and traditions and freedom. I felt the presence of another person long before I heard them. Not some sixth sense type of feeling. I literally felt them. The bleacher vibrated. I didn’t see anyone come up from below, so the person was above me, and I thought to my right. Further down the baseline. There was probably a ladder or emergency stairs back there. I paid them no mind. It wouldn’t be the first time two people shared a bleacher, separated by their thoughts. I continued my breathing and thinking until I was overcome by the sense of being watched. This one was of the sixth sense variety. I leaned forward, elbows on thighs and rubbed my hands together for a while. Then I leaned back, and as I did, I glanced over my shoulder with as little head movement as possible. Someone in white sat in the very last row, far top corner of the stand. White shirt, white shorts, white socks. Like the apparition I had seen underneath the bleacher the previous day. I resumed looking at the diamond. I couldn’t see second base, shrouded in darkness. I sat for a few more minutes. Then I heard a voice.

  “Mister. Hey mister.” It was a spoken whisper that rippled down to me like a stone dropped in a pond. I glanced up at the white form high in the stand.

  “Mister,” it whispered again. It was a girl’s voice. Not high, but not a post-pubescent boy.

  “Yes,” I said, as if addressing someone in the pew behind me.

  “You the one checking out Jake?”

  “What?”

  “You checking out Jake?” she said slower this time, like it was comprehension, not volume, that was the problem.

  “Yes.”

  She stood and shuffled along between the slats. I turned back toward the diamond. Felt the bleachers creak and moan as the girl scootched along the boards. She came down the steps as quiet as a ballerina, slipped into the row behind me, and sat off my right shoulder.

  “You checking out Jake,” she said again.

  “Yes, I am,” I said. I didn’t take my eyes off the baseball field.

>   “Who you working for?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “President Millet?”

  “No.”

  She sat quietly for a moment. “Not Jake’s parents.”

  “No. But I’m not going to keep saying no until you eliminate everyone.”

  “They’re the only two that matter.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She paused again. Took a deep breath in through her nose, out through her mouth. I wondered if she had learned that in the same place I had.

  “Millet wants us out and Jake’s parents don’t care.”

  “Who says Millet wants you out?”

  “Director Rose. Everybody knows it.”

  “Why don’t Jake’s parents care?”

  “Because he’s an embarrassment.”

  I rotated my butt on the plank and put an arm along the back so I could face her. She was in white athletic wear and was shorter than I thought. I looked at her face. She still had the rounded cheeks of youth.

  “Why is he an embarrassment?”

  “He doesn’t fit their mold. His dad’s Ivy League. You know how that goes.”

  I nodded. “Sounds like you know him pretty well.”

  “More or less.”

  “They call me Miami. Miami Jones.” I didn’t offer a handshake.

  “Miami? Seriously? Were you conceived there or something?”

  It was as good a reason as any. “No.” I smiled. “It’s from college.”

  “UM?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So it’s not very original then.”

  “Not really. You got a name?”

  “Angela. Everybody calls me Angel.”

  “What do you prefer?”

  She grinned out the side of her mouth. “Don’t think anybody ever asked me that before. Angel, I guess.”

  “Then I’m pleased to meet you, Angel.”

  “You too. Have you seen Jake?”

  “Briefly.”

  “His parents won’t let anyone from college in. I sat in the waiting area for a few hours, but they wouldn’t let me see him.”

  I recalled the brooding kid in the hoodie, waiting outside Jake’s room. Perhaps he was a friend too.