Mitra's Last Hustle, page 9
part #3 of Fastball Series
Forty minutes later, we pulled into the circular drive in front of the Ocean Breeze Tennis and Golf Resort. Pete exited the car and surveyed the grounds. Raising his hands, he grimaced and looked over at me. “Can we afford this place?”
Maggie patted him on the arm. “Yes, it’s our treat. We’re happy you could come with us and see Joe.”
I looked at my watch. “They’re playing a mid-afternoon game down in Chatham. Let’s check in and head down there for the game.”
Pete nodded. “Let’s go. Besides, what’s a guy like me going to do at a place like this?”
Everything was close on the Cape—our nine-mile drive on Route 28 took eighteen minutes. We turned left onto Depot Street and headed east. Soon a baseball field appeared on the south side of the road. The field was sunken, and the right-field foul pole stood only thirty feet from the street. Behind the right-field fence near the pole was the visiting team’s bullpen equipped with two mounds and bleachers for the pitchers to watch the game.
Pete looked to the left and smiled. “Look, there’s a fire station on the other side of the road.”
Maggie smiled. “Too bad they didn’t have a baseball field near Fire Station Thirty-Five in Dallas back in the day. You would have loved it.”
Turning into a parking lot adjacent to the Community Center located behind the field, we immediately found a spot. I looked over to Maggie. “Do you want to get a bite to eat before the game? First pitch is in thirty minutes.”
“Let’s get a quick snack. I don’t want to miss any of the action.”
Pete nodded in agreement and pointed to the left. “Do you want to try the White Knight Bar and Grill over there behind center field? We could just walk over.”
The maître d’ immediately seated us at a table near the bar to the side of the entrance. Soon a waitress appeared and handed us a copy of the menu. “Can I get you a drink?”
We all ordered iced tea and glanced at the menu. In a few minutes the waitress reappeared holding a pen and a pad of paper. “What would you like?”
Maggie looked up. “How is the New England Clam Chowder?”
“It’s one of our signature appetizers.”
“Great, I’ll have a bowl.”
I looked over at Pete. “Do you know what you want?”
Pete glanced at the waitress. “The Stuffed Quahog sounds great.”
“It’s a local favorite.”
“Just how do they cook the pork? On the grill or in the oven?”
The waitress laughed. “The quahog is a clam.”
Pete groaned. “I don’t know about that. I’ll have the Four Alarm Chili.”
Maggie put her hand on my arm. “Well, do you feel adventurous?”
Closing the menu, I said, “Give me three Lobster Rolls.”
Just as we got refills on the iced tea, our appetizers arrived. Pete leaned over his bowl of chili and ate two spoonfuls. “You know, this isn’t half bad.”
Maggie and I exchanged glances and laughed.
Pete surveyed my three lobster rolls. “The lobster salad looks pretty good on those hot-dog buns. That looks like a lot of food. Do you think you can eat all that?”
“Okay, Dad, which one do you want?”
Pointing at my plate, Pete said, “I’ll take that one over there on the right.”
I passed my plate over, and Pete forked the lobster roll onto his bread plate. I shook my head. “Dad, you have no shame.”
Maggie turned to me. “I wouldn’t mind sampling one.”
“Okay, okay, just take one.”
The waitress looked over, and we all started laughing.
Ten minutes later, our plates were empty. Then Pete looked at his watch. “You know the game is going to start in fifteen minutes. Let’s go over now and get some good seats.”
Bleachers ran down both sides of the modest field to just beyond the bases. We took our seats halfway between home plate and the visitors’ dugout located on the first base line. Pregame activities would soon be winding up as the Chatham Sailors warmed up on the field, while the first three West Orleans batters swung their bats on the field near the dugout. Joe wore jersey number three and was closest to home plate.
In a couple of minutes, Joe walked into the batter’s box and settled in. He batted left-handed and liked to pull the ball. Soon the pitcher readied himself, and the game was underway. Pete gritted his teeth. The right-handed pitcher wound up and threw a low fastball that was at least two inches off the outside of the plate. Surprisingly, the home-plate umpire raised his right fist—strike one. Pete hollered, “Terrible call. C’mon, blue, you can do better than that!”
The umpire turned and looked at Pete, while several people seated near us in the bleachers glanced over with disapproving looks. Perhaps yelling at the umpires was not considered to be proper decorum in this league.
Ready on the mound, the pitcher looked in to the catcher for the signal. Then he wound up and threw a fastball on the inner half of the plate. Joe turned on the pitch. Crack. The ball exploded off the bat and headed to right field. We watched as it flew over the fence and Depot Street and landed in the fire department driveway. The ball bounced once and came to rest inside the fire-station garage. Pete immediately jumped to his feet and yelled, “Just like batting practice!”
I looked down to avoid eye contact with the other spectators. Maggie started laughing and tried to cover her mouth. Would we be banned from future games at the Cape? Pete turned and slapped me on the back. “That bomb made this whole trip worthwhile.”
Joe finished the game with a couple more hits before being called out on strikes with three very questionable calls from the home-plate umpire. On the last strike, the umpire patted himself on the butt and then, smiling, turned to look up at Pete.
CHAPTER 29
The sun came up early, and the crisp ocean breeze drifted through our room. Maggie and I soon awoke and walked around the scenic resort grounds while Pete slept in. After inspecting the tennis facility and the first tee of the golf course, we walked into the cozy poolside restaurant for some breakfast.
Maggie glanced through the menu and then looked over at me. “Where are we going today?”
“Joe’s game is in Hyannis Port against the Sharks.”
“Let’s leave early and see the Presidential Compound. It’s right on the harbor. I’ve seen it so many times on television.”
I nodded. “Great idea. There’s a lot of history there. It will be nice to see everything in person.”
Hyannis Port was only twenty-two miles away on the south side of the Cape. But the Mid-Cape Highway was overflowing with bumper-to-bumper weekend traffic, so the trip took over an hour. Maggie looked at the travel app on her phone. “Exit at Yarmouth Road and turn south.”
After a few minutes, Maggie glanced over at me. “Shall we go down to the harbor now?”
“We have plenty of time before the game, let’s go.”
Just as we reached the parking lot north of the harbor, raindrops started to hit the windshield.
Pete looked out the window. “Those look like storm clouds moving in.”
I pulled out a piece of paper from my pocket and looked at the address at the top.
“What are you looking at?” inquired Maggie.
“It’s the address of Cape Econometrics and Program Management—one of the boutique consulting firms that Raj is using on the integration project.”
“Are they here in Hyannis Port?”
“As a matter of fact, they are. We usually just wire payments to their bank account. I’ve never seen any correspondence directly from this location.”
Maggie smiled. “This certainly would be a nice place to work. I guess consultants can put up their shingle anywhere. Do you want to kill some time and take a look at their headquarters?”
“Why not? Raj is pretty protective about the relationship, but just driving by their offices wouldn’t hurt anything. It’s the weekend, nobody would be there anyway.”
Maggie grabbed her cell phone. “What’s the address? I’ll look it up.”
“Five-ten Main Street.”
We arrived in five minutes, but it wasn’t what I expected. A tourist T-shirt store occupied 508 and a tattoo parlor operated at 512. Pete looked over at me. “This can’t be the right address—it’s an Indian restaurant. Maybe you wrote down the wrong number? Maybe they moved?”
I looked at the piece of paper again. “That’s really strange. Let me run in and talk to someone.”
While I waited for the traffic to pass, a fiftyish man with graying hair unlocked the door and walked inside. Quickly, I followed him into the restaurant. The interior was dark except for the bright lights in the kitchen area. The smell of Indian food permeated the air as several people appeared to be in the kitchen preparing today’s dinner. Then the man with graying hair turned to look at me. I could only see his silhouette. “We’re not open yet. If you want to wait fifteen minutes, we can serve you.”
He walked towards me. I couldn’t believe it—he bore more than a passing resemblance to Raj, except he appeared to be five to ten years older and twenty pounds heavier with a pot belly. Unlike Raj, his hair looked like it had been cut by a failing student at a barber college. He gave me a strange look. “Mister, is everything okay?”
I paused for a moment. “How long has this restaurant been located here?”
“We’ve been at this location for ten years. Why do you ask?”
“Have you heard of Cape Econometrics and Program Management? Are they located around here?”
The smile left the man’s face. “Never heard of it. Look, do you want to eat here or not?”
“Not now, maybe later.”
He frowned. “Well, I don’t have any more time to talk to you.”
Then I walked out into the bright sunlight and over to my rental car parked across the street.
Maggie’s eyes were wide open. “Well, what did you find out?”
I glanced at Maggie and shook my head.
“Is everything alright? You don’t look good.”
“Something’s going on, and it’s starting to stink. I think I just talked to Raj’s brother. He blew me off when I asked about Cape Econometrics and Program Management.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “Do you think Cape Econometrics and Program Management really exists or it’s just a scam?”
“When the FBI interviewed me downtown, they asked me a lot of questions about Raj—what he was doing at National and before at McKenzie and Peabody Consulting.”
“What did you say?” asked Pete.
“I told them he pushed the edges and worked the gray areas—just an aggressive businessman.”
Maggie sat straight up in her seat. “Hmmm, is Cape Econometrics and Program Management actively involved in the integration project?”
“They’ve already billed National one million dollars…Raj approved the invoices.”
Maggie turned sideways and stared at me. “Aren’t there any accounting controls?”
“Raj was granted spending authority to speed up the project. As long as he is on schedule, he’s got carte blanche.”
Maggie grimaced.
Then Pete leaned forward from the back seat. “Look, the rain has stopped and the sun is out. I bet you that Joe is going to play today.”
“Dad, you’re probably right. Let’s drive by the field.”
Maggie looked down at the map displayed on her cell phone. “Go down a couple of blocks and turn right on Barnstable Road. The field is pretty close, just a few blocks south of here.”
Barnstable Road soon became Ocean Street.
Maggie looked over. “Okay, turn west on South Street. We’re looking for a high school on the left side of the street.”
Pete looked out of his left window. “Here it is—High School Road. This has got to be it.”
We turned left at the light and headed south. In a couple of minutes, we saw a two-story white building with a large “Our Redeemer Lutheran Preparatory School” sign in blue letters on the side. Maggie looked forward out the window. “Go down a block—there’s the rest of the school.”
We stopped just before we reached a circular drive leading up to the front of the school. Pete rolled down his window and pointed. “Okay, the field is over there to the east of the school.”
The parking lot to the west had many unoccupied spaces, so we pulled in and parked. In a couple of minutes we walked through the entrance to the field. Directly behind home plate stood a two-story press box. A snack bar occupied the bottom floor facing away from the field. We looked out on the field. Trees lined the outfield fence from foul pole to foul pole. Pete studied the field layout. “The right-field fence seems a lot closer than left. What are the dimensions?”
“I’m not sure, but it kind of looks like that.”
Maggie looked around. “Where do you want to sit? There are people sitting on the hill down the left-field line.”
Pete added. “What about those blue bleachers? They’ve got ’em on both sides of home plate. We’ll get to see the balls and strikes.”
I looked over at the seating. “There’re people sitting in lawn chairs at the netting directly in front of the bleachers. We’ll have to sit up high.”
“Okay, that’s fine. Let’s get something to eat at the snack bar before the game gets started,” said Maggie.
Five minutes later, after we studied the lineups posted near the press box, we settled into our seats in the top row of the bleachers as the Hyannis Port Sea Gulls took the field to begin the game. Again, Joe was in right field and batting leadoff. Then the announcer, with a very calm and subdued voice, said, “Batting first and playing right field, Joe Jones from Texas University.”
Pete leaned over. “That guy sounds like he needs a nap. Where is the emotion? Where is the passion? This is baseball!”
I looked over at Pete. “Yeah, maybe he does seem a little dry.”
“A little dry? He sounds like he is presiding at a funeral.”
I chuckled to myself and then turned towards the field.
Joe stood in the batter’s box and took a couple of practice swings as the pitcher looked in for the sign. Then the pitcher gathered himself and threw the first pitch. It sailed high and tight as Joe bailed out at the last minute to avoid getting hit in the face. Pete stood up and yelled towards the field, “That was a Gillette Special. He can’t pitch!”
The spectators in adjacent seats gave us darting glances. Pete exhaled and sat down. Slowly, Joe got to his feet and dusted himself off. Then he readied himself in the batter’s box. The pitcher looked in for the sign and then shook off the signal. After looking over to the dugout, the catcher flashed another series of signals. Then the pitcher rocked back and fired a fastball on the outside corner of the plate. Using an inside-out swing, Joe drove the ball to the left-field corner and slid into second base for a double.
Pete stood up to yell but stopped when he heard a polite golf clap from the other spectators seated nearby. Shaking his head, Pete turned to his right towards Maggie and me. “I just don’t get this place. Do they think this is some kind of opera?”
Maggie smiled and patted Pete on the leg. “Just relax and have a good time.”
In a couple of hours the game ended, and we walked around the school to our rental car in the parking lot. Smiling, Pete said, “Well, my grandson had a great game—two for four with three rbis. That’s not too shabby.”
“Dad, I’m really glad you decided to come on this trip with Maggie and me.”
Pete sighed. “Too bad we’re going home tomorrow.”
I looked over at Pete. “Don’t forget Joe’s team plays at noon tomorrow and we can see it all before we drive to the Boston Airport.”
“I can hardly wait. The team we’re playing has the top two pitchers playing ball on the Cape this summer.”
CHAPTER 30
After a leisurely, late breakfast, we packed and checked out of the Ocean Breeze Tennis and Golf Resort. We were running late—it was eleven-thirty and the game in Breakwater Beach against the Waves started at noon. Fortunately, State Highway 6A wasn’t crowded, and we rolled into Breakwater Beach at the top of the hour. The field, just north of the town center, afforded a panoramic view of the beach and the Atlantic Ocean. We quickly parked one hundred feet from the main gate and started walking towards the field. Joe was three feet in front of Maggie and me. He turned back. “We are going to see two of the best arms in college baseball. Steve Durso and Kenny Bryce led the University of California at Lompoc to the championship in Omaha.”
I nodded. “Yeah, they are two of the most celebrated pitchers in the Cape Collegiate League.”
Pete looked over. “Durso is six feet and two hundred and twenty-five pounds—he can bring it. Bryce is smaller and doesn’t rely as much on the fastball. Supposedly, he has a good mix of off-speed pitches.”
“I read a little bit about Bryce. He uses a nonstandard training program—”
Pete interjected. “He’s supposed to be a flake.”
I glanced toward the Hyannis dugout. “Definitely a left-coast kid who marches to his own drummer. In five years, we’ll look back and Bryce will either be considered an innovative trendsetter or just another kid who didn’t conform and lost his way.”
We walked through the entrance to the field. Pete looked at the posted line-up card. “Guess who is on the hill for Breakwater Beach Waves?”
“Durso?”
“No, Bryce is starting.”
I looked over to the bleachers behind home plate. Not surprisingly, six scouts sat in the first row with their radar guns out. Pete, Maggie and I sat in the bleachers adjacent to the West Orleans dugout. A high-school chorus sang the National Anthem, and we were ready to start. Pete studied Bryce as he warmed up.
“He’s wild. I haven’t seen one pitch go over the plate.”
