Strike Three You're Dead by R. D. Rosen

of his named Valerie Carty?”
    “No. What is this, Professor? You some kind of cop now?”
    “No, Wags, I just—there’s—I don’t know.”
    “Look, the guy probably had something going on the side, and he got burned.”
    “Yeah,” Harvey said. “Maybe that’s it.”
    Bobby got his warm-up jacket off the bench and put it on, mumbling, “A year’s car insurance. Christ almighty.”
    Harvey picked up a leaded bat and was swinging it over his head in an arc when Cleavon Battle, the Jewels’ mountainous first baseman, came up and said, “Let me ask you something.”
    Cleavon was the only player on the team about whom it was generally felt that you spoke to him only when spoken to—and Cleavon rarely spoke to you. After ten years in the majors with a healthy .289 career batting average, he was playing out the string in Providence.
    “Ask,” Harvey said.
    Cleavon reached out and grabbed the end of Harvey’s leaded bat. His fingers were the size of egg rolls. “You know it was my stick killed Rudy,” he said.
    “Yeah.” Their hands were holding different ends of the bat. “I know about that.”
    “You know I didn’t have nothing to do with it.”
    “I know that, too,” Harvey said. Cleavon went six-three, about 220 pounds, and Harvey wasn’t going to stand there and tell him he didn’t like the way he wore his batting glove, much less accuse him of murder.
    “I believe you when you say that.”
    “That’s good, Cleavon.”
    The first baseman pursed his lips and nodded slowly, like a man dozing off. “Because I’ve got one bad-ass reputation around here.”
    “I don’t know who killed Rudy,” Harvey said, “but I know it had nothing to do with you.”
    “That’s right,” Cleavon said and let go of the leaded bat.
    Harvey waited until he was out of earshot before releasing a sigh.
    Andy Potter-Lawn, a young left-hander and the only major leaguer born in England, pitched for the Jewels that afternoon, but not with any great distinction. Behind Sammy Arguelles, Milwaukee coasted to a 7-1 win. Harvey was blow-drying his hair when Bob Lassiter came up to his locker after the game with a fried chicken wing in one hand and a reporter’s notebook in the other. He waited for Harvey to snap off his Conair Pro 1000.
    “Bob, you know I don’t like to talk with wet hair.”
    “Just talk with your mouth, then.” Lassiter laughed until he saw that Harvey wasn’t going to join him. “Now look, don’t chew my head again. I’ve just got one question, and I’ll make it quick. You guys have played two miserable games in a row.” He looked at Harvey.
    “I think that charge would stand up in court, Bob,” Harvey said.
    “Do you think it has anything to do with Rudy’s death?”
    “Now, how did I know that question was coming?”
    Lassiter tossed his chicken wing into a wastebasket behind him. “What I mean is,” he said, poised to write, “it’s got to affect your play in some way.”
    “No, I don’t see why a team that’s hiding a murderer shouldn’t go out there every day and give it everything it’s got.”
    Lassiter looked at him for a moment. “Wait. What you’re saying is that—is that you think the guy who killed Rudy is on the team?”
    Harvey realized immediately it was one of the dumbest things he’d ever said. The players who always talked to the press rarely said anything more provocative than “I really think the team’s jelling now.” It was the players who rarely talked who said too much when they did.
    “That was a stupid thing to say,” Harvey said. “Forget I said it.” He pointed his hair dryer at Lassiter’s face. “Keep that one out of the papers, all right? Look, I have no idea who killed Rudy. For all I know, it was the mob.”

H ARVEY DROVE DOWN HOPE Street toward Pawtucket early that evening. Each block was like the one before, only slightly worse: an endless march of clapboard three-deckers with peeling bays and little half-balconies and chipped